The story is a warning. It shows how quickly you can get yourself into trouble. A moment ago everything was totally funny, but now nothing is funny any more. It's as if you've set off on a hiking tour with cheese sandwiches and a checked shirt and then suddenly you're hanging by your fingertips from the rock in the middle of the north face of the Eiger. That's what happened to us. Of course, bad luck, recklessness and a large dose of naivety also play a role. But our idea is a good one: we want to paddle around western Crete, from Chania to Sfakia on our Naish inflatables. Extending the summer while the autumn storms are already darkening our lives, camping on the beach with red wine and a campfire, snorkelling in turquoise blue water - this programme. So it's all very easy, a soft escape from the daily grind.
"It's winter now!" says the landlady of our guesthouse, a stooped old woman with leathery skin and kind eyes. "Shit," I think and look up at the grey Crete sky; it's only the end of October - we want to start today. My brother Laurin is already pumping up the boards down in the small harbour of Kolampari, I put the carbon paddles together and shoulder the panniers. The wind whistles over the rooftops, ruffles through my hair, rushes offshore across the water and smoothes the sea like a sheet. In front of us lies a tongue of rock. It stretches 20 kilometres to the north. With the strong tailwind, we should make it in no time at all. I'm in charge of our two-man team because I know my way around the sea, wind and waves. The fact that the wind is already blowing at force six irritates me a little, but doesn't worry me. Because the internet had said something about two to three. It'll be fine, there are no alternatives anyway: We want to get going!
As soon as we leave the shore cover, the wind pushes us so hard in the back that we tie nylon lines to our ankles. You never know! The chance of falling off the board is small, but if the wind catches the board, it drifts off faster than we can swim! Paddling is easy, the wind is so strong. I'm right at the back on the stern and the board keeps sliding, so that I cheer loudly and overtake my brother with momentum until the wave slope pushes him and he rushes past me. The boards rush along with foamy bow waves. For hours.
It's an exhilarating feeling when you don't know what's going to happen, but you feel fit to overcome all challenges. The diffuse everyday life fizzles out, now it's just us and the sea. We have everything we need with us. Packed watertight in bags on the decks of our boards. On the road at last!
Only the rocky coast is puzzling. "There's not much going on here with landings!" says Laurin as we sit on the boards, legs dangling in the warm sea, drifting along and washing down power bars with bottled water. The shore does indeed drop vertically into the sea as a massive rock face. A wide bay appears in front of us - we'll cross it, I decide. This forces us away from the shore, but saves time. What I don't realise is that the wind is shifting here. In the middle of the bay, it suddenly blows diagonally from the side. We only realise late on that we can barely hold our course. The wind keeps pushing the nose of the board towards the open sea. What now?
Powerful paddling turns into convulsive paddling. Laurin falls back. "Pull outwards more!" I shout at him. It's no use, he can't understand a word in the howling wind. I tense my muscles, grit my teeth, brace my legs on the edges of the board and paddle. The wind exploits any weakness. Once I slip my paddle, the bow pushes out to sea and valuable metres are lost. Laurin is now lagging dangerously far behind. I can't help. I have to give it everything I've got - and indeed: I catch the last boulder at the end of the bay - behind it lurks the great wide open sea. Phew: lucky me! I wait under a cliff and watch my brother's struggle. At first I fear the worst, but then he makes it here - "Are you crazy! What was that?" he shouts and I just grin stupidly. "Yes, you arse, you're grinning! I thought I was out of the window!" - "Yeah, me too!"
We both laugh hysterically. No wind! We are now on the tip of the headland, to leeward, paddling along smooth rock faces, cliffs jutting 150 metres into the stormy sky next to us. Resting from the shock. If it went well, it's always fun!
IN THE FALL
So now we're over on the other side of the headland. We can see the cape, with wave crests rushing past and trailing veils of spray, because of course the storm is roaring here too and hissing along the cliffs to the north. I dare to try and paddle round the corner. Waves lift me up and tip me to one side. I fall to my knees, cling to the board, stir wildly with the paddle in the water and get back into the shelter of the cliff. There we are, sitting on the rocky tip of the headland, caught in the storm. We are still in a good mood, as we have discovered a small cave a hundred metres away above some boulders. The only place to crawl ashore here. However, getting the boards out of the water with the packsacks is still a real challenge. Sharp rock edges wherever you reach and step. Please, please don't mess up now! I fear for the rubber skin of our boards. A leak here? What a horror! We grin, give ourselves a high five as we sit on the rocks and smoke a relaxing cigarette. That's what we want: To finally drown out the background noise in our heads with the roar of the sea, and to cancel out our doubts and carousel thoughts with a shot of adrenalin. Later, we eat salami sandwiches and drink red wine. Cut off from the outside world - but with style, as we find.
All we can see from our hole in the rock is the sky and the sea. "It's really cool here," says Laurin. "What?!" We have to shout at each other to make ourselves understood. Because the cliffs are focussing the sound. It rumbles, hisses, howls, gurgles, sloshes, bangs and rumbles. It's as if a gravel lorry is dumping its entire load at our feet while a jet takes off over our heads. Yes, it's cool here - if only the wind would stop! But it doesn't do us that favour. It's not until 6 p.m. that dusk creeps over the sea. We retreat into the cave and lie in sleeping bags on the washed-out stone floor. I can't sleep. Instead, I listen into the darkness. Is the surf picking up? It can't actually. What if the wind shifts? Then the swell pushes over the stone reef into the cave. But not that! Weather lightning. Lightning flashes far to the north. Travelling disco light, too fast for the eyes. I shine my head torch at the boards down there between the rocks. Everything seems okay. Relax, stay cool, everything is fine! We're safe and dry here! But what if the storm continues - for days? How could I have believed the internet weather? I only ever had summer in mind. Doubts accompany me to sleep. Mobile phone reception for the emergency call? Of course not! Action: yes, overdose: no, thanks.
Downpour in the middle of the night. Rain pelting down. More noise. Good thing we have the cave! Alarm in the morning hours - the waves are pushing up, tugging at the boards, pressing them against the rocks. We climb out, are immediately soaking wet, recover the boards, re-wedge them and I worry about possible leaks. Laurin is cooler. "It's fat rubber!" The next morning we make our decision: We're breaking out! Then the shock: one board is flat. Trembling, hoping, pumping. How big is the leak? Will the board hold its breath until we get out of this mess? We had hoped for action, but that's too much of a good thing now. One balancing act follows the next. The storm has stirred up the sea, it's bubbling around the rocks. Sometimes the waves rise almost up to us, then they drop so low that we look down into the sea. It has already swallowed Laurin's pants and almost swallowed my water bottles too. There's only one thing to do: throw the boards down and jump in after them!
Am I exaggerating? You should have seen us: We're balancing on razor-sharp rocks in our flimsy flip-flops, only two hands for boards, paddles and packsack - in front of us, the roaring sea as white as milk. I jump. Laurin throws the bags after me. I pull everything onto my board, later we reload and both capsize. A somersault into the Mediterranean. Even more adrenaline. Even more excitement. The all-easy mood is switched off, now the "eyes open and through!" programme is running.
We can see the waves rolling in at the cape. No thought of paddling here standing up. Sitting down, we paddle through the sea and the wind hisses in our faces. But are we making progress? I make a mental note of a crevice in the cliff - slowly we push past. Here too: no chance of landing anywhere. Damn, what kind of coast is this? No beach, no bay, vertical rock as far as the eye can see. Just us and the waves. When the swell drops, Laurin disappears into the blue. Water crashes over the board, plumes of spray hit our faces. We slowly make our way along the coast, from rocky outcrop to rocky outcrop. Dip the paddle in, pull it through, dip it in, pull it through. There are no breaks. On and on we go. We push on, otherwise the storm will blow us out to sea. Laurin is lagging behind again. Is his board losing too much air? I wait and we swap places - during the manoeuvre he falls backwards into the water. I can't help but grin. Nah, the board is hard. Thanks for that, whoever's in charge! Two people on a board here? Not even thinking about it! After hours, the sky darkens - and opens its floodgates. Water above, water below. With the rain comes the cold. Goosebumps, jaws rattling as a bay finally appears in the rocks. A mirage in the rain haze? We've already been travelling for three hours, inspired by the desire: we want solid ground under our feet!
After ages there is finally a pebble beach in front of the bow. Be careful when landing! Because there's nothing here apart from scree slopes. Nevertheless, the tension falls away from me. We've made it. We'll be ashore in a moment, our tent will be up and we'll be in our sleeping bags! Oh, how wonderful it feels: dry inside, rain outside. We've escaped the trap. The humour returns immediately. We joke about Laurin's backwards roll and my shocked face when I realised the leak. But the thought of a broken paddle makes us both shudder. "You're fucked!" We laugh, chug the last bottle of red wine and eat oil sardines while the storm rattles the tent.
HERRINGS FLY THROUGH THE AIR
The storm increases overnight and the sea hisses more menacingly than ever. Will the waves reach the tent? It doesn't seem to be possible without worries. Laurin, his dark hair in wisps around his face, wrapped up in his sleeping bag, shines his head torch outside. Rain is pouring down, the waves are crashing. "12 o'clock, striking rock, still dry," Laurin quips in military jargon and we giggle. The tent canvas rattles and the gusts push the poles against our shoulders. I think of the rock cave. I wonder what it looks like now?
"We can forget our tour!" I shout to Laurin as I look out of the tent in the morning. The wind has turned 180 degrees and is now blowing from the north. "Oh what?! You joker!" We both stare into the surf, which the wind has piled up overnight into a two-metre wave. We lean forwards and before we know it, the wind is blowing up the tent and tearing it loose. Pegs clatter over the pebbles, flying through the air. "Shit!" we swear and storm outside. We have to be quick now, otherwise everything will get wet. We stuff the Ortlieb bags, pump up Laurin's leaky board, gather our courage. The rain pours down and thick breakers push towards the shore, overturn - Krrraaaaaa-Wummmm - and wash over our feet as a spray soup. In some places, rocks emerge from the water as black spikes. We have to go through them, because there is no land route out of this scree desert. So out of the comfort zone again! It's scary, but it feels damn lively. Living in the now! There's an overdose of what esotericists talk about in guidebooks here. Like now: out through the surf!
As a windsurfer, I know that timing is everything in a shorebreak. And there's usually only one chance. I go through the planned Monte Carlo start with Laurin: put the heavily laden board on my hips, paddle in hand. Wait until the sea calms down for a moment. Then: board in the water, push off, jump on and full speed ahead. I give Laurin the go-ahead. My pulse is racing too. If it goes wrong for him, I'm in deep shit too. He drills through black waves with his yellow rubber board. The bow stretches dangerously into the sky a few times, but he makes it through the surf. Now it's my turn. It's all or nothing! I also box my way through the waves and see Laurin capsize in the corner of my eye. The board rolls to the side, the heavy pack sack hangs down. Oh no, there's nothing I can do, I have to fight myself. But he makes it back onto the board. Now we're both paddling against the wind and waves out of the small rocky bay, back into the big bay. The sea is boiling out here. Force seven winds. But the wind is coming from the right direction: from behind. We'll manage the last 15 kilometres! Laurin is soaked to the skin from his capsize; I've stayed dry. That's worth its weight in gold in this storm. It blows us far away from the shore, into the wide bay of Kissamou. The Mediterranean beast, I can't believe it when I look around me: grey mountains of waves, nature unleashed. Now it's time to stay together. The boards start surfing on the wave slopes. It's fun, fast and treacherous. Because if the bow breaks to the side, the long board starts to stumble. Hectic counter-steering, holding course at all costs. At some point, a wave lifts the tail of my board so high and crashes over me as a wave of spray - before I can react, I dive underwater. Capsize. Now I'm soaking wet too and the wind is cold on my skin. But the land is getting closer - our spirits are rising. There's just one more obstacle ahead of us: what does the coast look like? Is it a sandy beach? Is it rocky? Will we even find a small harbour where we can take refuge from the surf?
COUNTRY AHEAD!
All we can see from the water is a light-coloured strip. I'm not really one for drama and at home on the sofa the situation may seem softer, but in the here and now, as a plaything of the wave crests, with the sound of the storm in my ears and a little more than an air mattress under my feet, I'm pretty impressed. Even our final loading happens differently than expected. The plan: paddle out to the wave and surf it to the beach - it's a beach, that much we can already see. However, we only realise at the last moment that the waves here are breaking so high and steep. "That's our wave," I shout to Laurin. He paddles next to me and sure enough, it's pushing hard and we're surfing the same wave. Unfortunately, only for a brief moment, because the wave rears up behind us, getting steeper and steeper. At full speed, the tips of the boards bore into the water. I catapult forwards and disappear into the water. Washing machine. Sometimes up, sometimes down. Laurin's board nose crashes into my ribs, the line cuts into my ankle, a quick gasp for air, then the next breaker rolls in and the washing machine turns again. The sea spits us onto the beach like wet rats. Elegant is different. The surfer's honour is bent, but no matter, we're here! In the last open beach bar, a Greek with an unshaven chin and strong arms listens to our story. "I'm a fisherman," he says, "I know the Cape. There are nasty currents there. If they push outwards, you don't stand a chance - you two, you're completely crazy!" We nod, grin stupidly and order a cappuccino. Happy landing! The storm continues, the mission: failed. Instead of sailing on our own keel, we take the hire car to the south coast. Here we find what we were looking for in vain in the north: summer. We paddle in mirror-smooth water, cruise along the coast, snorkel in turquoise-green bays, lie in the sun - and now find it almost a little boring.
The author Dimitri Lehner (47) wants to do the tour again, but then with careful weather planning and preferably without an overnight stay in the Mausefalle.
