"Nordsee, Mordsee" (North Sea, Murder Sea) is an expression referring to a small section of the North Sea abutting mainland Germany. A murderous sea, yes! - but not always so. A group of seven kayakers including my husband Chris, and I spent three days on this "Mordsee" experiencing it at its most serene.
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We discovered the excitement and camaraderie of sea kayaking, after our family relocated to Germany three years ago. My husband accepted a 5 year work contract in Kiel and we were thrilled at the opportunity to live in and explore Europe. However, the day to day reality of living in a cool, grey climate, where we still had to learn the language, and all so far from family and friends and things familiar was a quite shock. But, we were the foreigners and if we were going to be happy here, it was up to us to get out and find activities we would enjoy. We learnt about a kayaking club through a work associate of Chris's. Having a love for the outdoors and especially the sea, we adopted the German axiom that there is no such thing as bad weather, just a bad choice of clothes and we started sea kayaking. We learnt so much more than sea kayaking. We learnt that when you are an active participant in life, different languages and customs are no longer barriers.
The Klausdorf Canoe Club is based near Kiel, and although the Kiel fjord and the Baltic Sea were our home waters, we were fascinated by stories of paddling on the North Sea. Stories of strong currents and storms, of mist and mud banks. Even when the conditions are optimal, a 3- meter tide surges between the off-shore islands. Tidal currents can carry a paddler seemingly effortlessly to his destination, or, can sweep him to its own destination. Kayaking in the North Sea needs careful planning after consulting tide tables, current maps and the weather forecast.
"Nordsee, Mordsee" - the expression has a long history. The scattered islands, Halligen and sandbanks that give the German North Sea its appeal, are the resilient remnants of what was once part of mainland Germany. As long ago as the 11th Century, farmers living in the coastal lowlands participated in their own downfall - they mined the peat beds to extract salt. This `white gold', was sent north where it was consumed by a thriving Scandinavian fishing industry. Digging up the peat exposed the lowlying land to the onslaught of the North Sea and a rise in sea-level added to its vulnerability. During legendary storms recorded in the local history and called "Mandranke" (drowning of men), entire farming communities and villages disappeared. People and places were simply washed off the face of the earth. By the 17th century, the sea had swallowed a swath of coast over 20km wide, along a huge extent stretching from the Dutch shores in the south to the Danish shores in the north. Today, the Halligen which are small, low-lying islands which are flooded during winter storms are all that is left of the original coastal lowlands.
Land is slowly being reclaimed in the muddy seas between the islands. But even with modern technology, the gains are not one sided. Big storms still devastate dykes, homes and lives. It is an ongoing battle and is richly reflected in the art, lifestyle and temperament of the area.
Chris and I joined five friends on a 3-day paddle tour between the North Friesland Islands in June 2003. Our tour of 108kms took us past islands, Halligen and seal sandbanks. The area we covered was not large, but the scenery was remarkably varied.
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Our tour started at the coast at Nordstrand. The narrow sea-kayaks swallowed our mountain of food and camping equipment with surprising ease. We were almost packed when Thomas said with quiet disbelief, "I can't go, my splash cover is missing". We were stunned, without Thomas the group would not be the same. But it would be too risky to paddle without a splash cover. "I have an IKEA shopping bag and some shock cord", said Chris thinking aloud. Thomas hesitated at the thought of taking on the "Mordsee" with an outsized shopping bag, but the rest of group started cutting, threading and fitting and soon Thomas was equipped with a dashing blue IKEA splash cover. The huge Swedish home-store, it seems, is not only revolutionizing home furnishing but also kayaking!
Ironically, our first obstacle was getting to the sea, over the dyke. With canoe wagons which can be disassembled and stowed on board, we steered the laden kayaks over the grassy dyke to a small beach. The first thing that struck me was the colour of the North Sea. The colour of mud moving restlessly in and out with each tide - the colour of earth, which is neither land nor sea. Reinhard the group leader and a seasoned North Sea paddler had planned our tour according to the dictates of the tide. We launched into an oily calm sea and the incoming tide nudged us northwards toward our lunch destination, on Hallig Gröde. From across the sea, the low lying Hallig is not visible, but its buildings clustered for protection on a raised earth platform (Warft) in the middle of the island, rise out of the sea like giant rectangular boulders. So typical of German bureaucracy, even Gröde at less that a pimple on the horizon is a municipal area in its own right, albeit the smallest in Germany with a voting population of 15.
Like many Halligen, Gröde has no dyke and is flooded during storms each winter. A sloping stone sea-wall breaks the wave energy and ensures that the Hallig with its Warfts is not washed away. We paddled into a tiny harbour, surrounded by lush meadow. After two hours in the kayaks, it was good to get out, stretch our legs and swim in the refreshing 18ºC water. While enjoying a picnic, a boat flying an array of official pennants chugged into the harbour. The captain, who looked just like an off duty Father Christmas (and probably was), hauled a yellow post box out of the cabin and set off along the path to the cluster of buildings. He returned with a couple of passengers in tow, no longer the postman, now the ferryman!
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Our next leg took us across the extensive Wattenmeer (mudflats) to the island of Amrum. The long, low Hallig of Langeness lay to our right just below the horizon. We could see the evenly spaced Warfts which looked like a series of dashes separating a similarly blue-grey sea and sky. A vision of being able to divide sea and sky here, by tearing-along-the- dotted-line of Warfts prickled my imagination! The vision that the sea and sky could open up and swallow us, was made more vivid by the knowledge we were paddling in a shallow sea which 600 years before, had been land with thriving villages and farms!
The tide had turned and was sucking us seaward. As the whole inner basin drained, we had to keep to the channels or risk getting stuck in the mud. The current churned around the channel bouys, a clear demonstration that we should take heed of its pace and power. Although the current was carrying us toward Amrum, it would not land us there. Its route swept past, out to sea. We could paddle across the current where it swept past Amrum, but it was a beautiful afternoon and as we were feeling mellow, we stopped on a sandbank and waited for dead tide.
On approaching the sandbank, which was growing rapidly with the receding tide, we saw a party of seals basking in the sun. Seals were hunted here until relatively recently and are still extremely shy. At our approach, they charged in an undulating mass into the sea from where they stared at us with huge sad eyes. With head and shoulders thrust far out of the water to maximize their view, they glided past on the current in a most comical parade. Repeatedly during our tour, we were spied on by seal scouts. They trailed our kayaks silently, but as soon as we stopped, they would disappear below the surface without a splash or a ripple - an almost eerie presence, so different from their exuberant Cape cousins.
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Our first night stop was on the beach on the island of Amrum. The entire west-coast of Amrum is sandy with a dune ridge behind a wide beach. It had been a long day. We pulled the kayaks well beyond the tidal range and settled onto the still warm sand to savour our achievement and beers cooled by contact with the sea through the thin walled kayaks. Supper was made and tents pitched, and Chris and I were astounded by the array of equipment that our more experienced fellow paddlers had packed into their kayaks, including fold up chairs and a `roll up' table. Although it was 23:00, the west still held the memory of the setting sun. We crept into our beds and fell asleep beneath the reassuring sweep of light from Amrum lighthouse.
Like the first, the second day dawned sunny and warm. A stiff breeze across the North Sea made for lively paddling. We surfed the swells running parallel to the beach until we reached the sand sprit at the northern point of Amrum. Here for the first time, we met a strong counter current - a river of water jetting past the point. As soon as we entered it, the current spun us off course. Pointless to pit ourselves against such force, we paddled diagonally across the current to its edge, where it was weaker. The sun baked down on us from above. We were seven small shards in a silver sea, not stopping to rest or to drink, not wanting to loose way to the current.
By mid afternoon, we had circumnavigated Amrum and could escape the heat by paddling into Witdun harbour. Foremost on our minds was the need for a long, cold drink. Feeling much refreshed, and once again waiting for the tide, Chris and I walked along the sea promenade, which is at least 10m above the sea. We talked in awe of the forces that send storm waves clear over this promenade in winter.
The second night's stop was on Hallig Hooge, a two hour paddle from Witdun. Magnificent thunderheads masked the sun and filtered out its sparkles so that the seven kayaks were perfectly reflected in a mirror calm sea. The threatening storm filled the air with energy. We made the crossing ahead of schedule, arriving before the tide was high enough to cover the mud apron around Hooge. The days paddling ended with the hardest work of all, hauling our kayaks across 200m of sucking, squelching mud to the stone-reinforced edge of the Hallig. Between the curses and grunts of exertion, someone commented on the health benefits of north-sea mud and the price that some people will pay for a mud-bath. I was only too glad to wash it off under a welcome shower.
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Hooge is chocolate box pretty - behind the tiny harbour where fishing boats and yachts anchor, cart horses and cattle graze in meadow grass sprinkled with flowers. Hooge is a favourite tourist stop and the thatched redbrick buildings reflect the prosperity associated with well paying visitors. We nestled our tents into the thick grass and although we kept a respectable distance, a female oyster-catcher nesting nearby, insisted on giving us a loud lecture on Hallig etiquette. That night, we treated ourselves to a local delicacy, Salzwiesen-Lamm (salt-meadow lamb) in an old homestead turned tiny restaurant.
Sunday dawned grey and blustery. Like a field mouse in a soft, warm nest, I did not want to emerge, but a mug of tea worked its magic. Looking out to sea from the top of the sea-wall, we could see small, white horses tumbling down the waves. It would be a wet ride, but it was warm and the wind on our backs would blow us to home.
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We stopped for lunch on the island of Pellworm, just an hours paddle from the mainland where our cars were parked. Pellworm low and green, is surrounded by a high grassy dyke dotted with sheep. A forest of white windpower generators contrast sharply but not unattractively with the molded green landscape. To get to the fringe of soggy land on the sea side of the dyke, we had to paddle through a maze of brushwood fences sticking out of the water. The fences trap mud and are slowly reclaiming land from the sea. Uli pointed to something glinting in the brushwood.
"Probably Christmas tinsel!" Discarded Christmas trees are collected and brought here as brushwood for the fences. "Some still have decorations attached", he explained. We negotiated our way through the fences and drainage canals to firm ground. This was the Salzwiese (salt meadow) which floods during unusually high tides and gives the local mutton its characteristic flavour. Chris and I queried the logic of spending so much money reclaiming farmland in a country where farmers are paid subsidies not to farm. Our fellow paddlers quickly assured us that the land reclamation is an important cultural-historical practice, which also protects the islands and the mainland from land erosion during major storm events.
Our last picnic on Pellworm was special - not just because we shared the last of our delicacies. It had been a magic tour, near perfect weather, good company and good leadership. We teased Thomas about how well he had done in his IKEA splash cover and threatened to tell all at the annual slide show. Feeling happy, and with a sense of achievement I slid my kayak into the water for the last time that weekend. In spite of a deep sense of oneness with the others, I paddled a little apart. I wanted to savour the slap of the sea against the boat, the salt in my mouth, the racing ride down each swell, and an overwhelming feeling of rejuvenation.
Kim / South Africa
© 2006 Turn- und Sportverein Klausdorf von 1916 e. V. Aubrook 2, 24222 Schwentinental
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