Text: WoSie
The biggest day of the year
I’d already been out and about in Denmark for the past few weeks; it was already my 35th day on the water. At the start of August, it looked as though things would carry on like this. From flat-water sections to choppy water, and everything in between – including ‘bad’ wind, i.e. from the right, fully onshore, side-on or side-off, with small and large waves, and with plenty or very little wind – we experienced it all. After a really poor spring with just five days on the water, the results weren’t half bad.
It was forecast to be the – the biggest – day of the year for this season. With that forecast in mind, I was in northern Denmark; at around 7 o’clock I drove down the coastal road from the top in Hanstholm, pulled over onto the hard shoulder and took a look at the spot from above. It looked really big and clean. The forecast was for a south-westerly wind, but a glance at the wind turbines told me: the wind was too offshore for those massive waves to break out there.
It looked like a proper ‘head-on’ wave through the cover of the harbour and the dunes. Getting out side-off without any pressure in the sail isn’t really ideal, even in normal conditions. It’s not my favourite direction – though I do deal with it often enough – but experience has shown that, with the wave heights forecast for the end of the day, side-off could lead to too many gear failures. At least, that’s how it looked today. So it wasn’t an option for the morning given this forecast. However, the wind was due to veer westwards towards the evening. So off to Klitmøller first.
Klitmøller confirms the forecast
The forecast for the next couple of days had now been confirmed by the view out across Klitmøller Bay. It looked really big and powerful – more intense than usual, even when the swell was big. It was unusually big out there. The swell was brilliant. It was what I’d been waiting for all year. Windguru had revised its forecast upwards to an unusual 7 to 7.8 metres with a 13-second period. The forecast period of 13 seconds was unusual, but it suggested that the 5-metre wave height forecast by the DMI would likely be exceeded. The waves would crash into the bay with tremendous force.
The view over the edge confirmed my hunch: they were huge creatures that wouldn’t be kind to you or your gear if anything went wrong. I was feeling a bit nervous now, but I was confident in what I was doing – I’d been coming to this sacred place for ages. I took the 4.0 out of the van and set it up under the shelter of the fishermen’s cottages.
Alone at the start
Off into the Neo, harness on, and out onto the H2O. No one else around. I waited by the fishing boats for the 2.5-metre-high shorebreak to subside and glided towards the washing machine with moderate pressure. “Really massive, Geilomat!” And a massive amount of water in the super-clean, double-decker railway carriages filled with green water! It looked far better up close than it did from above. You could dodge the waves, glide right through them without getting washed away. That option – getting washed away – was something I definitely wanted to avoid!
The height of the double-decker waves didn’t really decrease after they broke. They rolled on towards Klitrosen Bay at almost the same height, just having broken. There was loads of space between these beautiful waves. Contrary to what some people might think, it didn’t look rubbish – it was simply brilliant, clean, absolutely stunning and absolutely massive. The sight of it was just mind-blowing! I just had to catch at least one of those monsters.
It was serious out there
Every now and then I felt as though I could do with a bit more power in the sail, even though there was plenty of wind. The current sometimes took the pressure out of my sail. That might well become a problem when facing a breaking wave like that. We were now heading straight towards these massive waves, and the way they were breaking, they didn’t look like they’d be much fun. It was serious out here and not to be underestimated!
I slid back into the bay. Behind me, something was building up that I couldn’t just leave as it was. The angle seemed right, so I set about making a bottom turn. I looked down into the trough of the wave from above: a ‘dark red run’, streaked with pale green and white streaks – a mirror-smooth motorway that hadn’t even been broken up yet. Wow, what a sight! I thundered down that highway at full throttle, laid the sail flat and looked over the top of the sail into those green masses of water. What a sight!
Once I’d completed the bottom turn, I shot back up that hill at full speed. The top three metres came crashing down towards me along its entire length. I had to get out of there, otherwise it wouldn’t end well for ‘us’ – that is, me and my kit. There was no other way out. So I had to abort halfway up. I turned my head back before sheeting off. What a sight, what masses of white water! How brilliant was that – absolutely amazing! I had to hurry: sheet off the sail and into the straps, because another red run was coming up next.
I trimmed the sail and managed to get out of there, but lost a hell of a lot of altitude. The wave was pushing me along – I just couldn’t let it catch me! Grit my teeth and go – it worked. Now it was time to focus on regaining altitude. It got really tough with these massive swells sent by Neptune.
A leap forward
On my way out – it was the same spot again – another one of those things loomed up. I glided towards it at full throttle. I realised: I was too late to bear away and get past it. Going straight over it wasn’t an option – that didn’t look good. Bear away? No chance of that either. Bl… I was too late, it was too fierce! A voluntary dip wouldn’t have been a good decision, so the only option was to press on.
I headed full steam towards the section that wasn’t yet hollow but was about to become so, and was on the verge of breaking, but unlike usual, I didn’t steer for the highest point to jibe the sail. Suddenly, there was no margin for error. I knew that if it didn’t work – even though I’d started to jibe at the lowest point – she’d leave nothing intact.
The wave was lightning fast and caught up with me just as it was breaking. All of a sudden, I found myself caught up by the breaking section right at the crest of the wave – it was right on my heels, so to speak. I realised that the breaking part had already caught up with me. The rear of the board was already being washed over and sucked in. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the breaking water, as high as a mast, was trying to catch up with me and swallow me whole. It crashed down on top of me. All I could think was: “Don’t shift yet, don’t shift – otherwise it’ll go really wrong!”
So, with the jib point ahead, I was swept along by the wave in all that water. I realised I was being pulled downwards and backwards – that was absolutely out of the question! So, with the bow pointing forward, applying full pressure to the base of the mast and leaning forwards, I tried to get into a gliding position to get out of there.
I realised I was starting to slip again. I was expecting to fall into the trough of the wave, only to have those masses of water come crashing down on my head. Not a pleasant thought – best not to dwell on it. I was completely engulfed by the churning water and white spray. Everything around me was white. I couldn’t see anything but the white water all around me.
"Don’t change the channel yet – not yet!"
We were about to head down to the second level of the cellar, and that was certainly not going to end well – and not just for the equipment. I’d once taken two sails and two masts apart in an hour under milder conditions, in the same damp atmosphere. These waves here were ‘only’ as high as the mast!
Clear view
I realised, though, that I was regaining my grip, but I still couldn’t make out what it looked like outside. Everything around me was white. Suddenly: paaaff. As if someone had opened the aperture on a lens. A clear view, razor-sharp. I could see the whole bay from above. I realised I was out. Full throttle, gliding with the jib leading. “Don’t swerve!” I wasn’t in the foot straps yet, but I was faster than ‘them’. It was all downhill from there. What a beast!
At last the moment had arrived: I was ready to go – into the foot straps, clip in, and hurtle down this run at full speed. I’d managed to get away from her, but she kept chasing me. What a wild ride! It’d all turned out all right in the end. But I’d lost a lot of altitude again – so it was back out there to make up some height.
Two warnings from Neptune
I hope I’m not overdoing it, as I’d already received two warnings from Neptune in the previous hour and a half. After one wash cycle, I was hooked onto something and swept along – the air was running out, very quickly. During another wash cycle, I’d lost the gear; it was gone.
Although I could see the whole bay whilst swimming, thanks to the waves lifting me up, I couldn’t spot the board. After swimming for about 30 minutes, I saw it: it was floating about 300 metres behind me – I’d overtaken it. It couldn’t possibly have been in one piece – that’s what I’d come to expect. I had to give it another go and managed to retrieve my homemade board. It was all in one piece, not a single scratch!
The break comes out of the blue
So I paddled out again, heading back towards the break. By the time I’d already paddled round or ridden several big, breaking waves and attempted a backloop – which, unfortunately, I didn’t land – a breaking wave was rolling towards me. It was big – about four metres at the break – but didn’t look too tricky. I pressed the board down with my back foot and pulled it up with my front foot so that – just as I’d done thousands of times before – jump onto the wave whilst in full glide, so that I’d be carried back a little by the breaking wave and then continue gliding down the breaking section.
This time, however, things changed abruptly for a fraction of a second: the broken wave slammed against the front footstrap with such brutal force from below that I knew immediately, as the wave washed over me, that something was different. I had to grip the fork with both hands, like a vice, to stop the equipment from slipping away again. It was my life raft! That simply couldn’t happen!
I lifted my left foot out of the water. It flopped limply to the left!”
Meanwhile, I noticed that my front left foot was ‘loose’. I spun round a full circle with all my kit in a vigorous wash cycle, was carried along and churned about for a while longer before ‘calm’ returned. I lifted my left foot out of the water. It flopped loosely to the left! I had only a few seconds – 13 seconds, according to the forecast – then it carried on. And carry on it did! If I were to lose the gear here, I knew that today would be my last.
Body-drag as the only option
The moment had come: Neptune rolled out the carpet once more. I was lifted up, and the view across the whole bay was clear again. I looked down into the trough of the wave. Ooooh… I was in luck! It rolled beneath me without breaking. It didn’t break until shortly afterwards. I knew straight away that I had to do something to get out of there. Straighten out the fabric, try to grab hold of the fork and let the fabric pull me towards Klitrosen by body-dragging – that was the only option! Swimming like that for over an hour was simply out of the question.
Naturally, the fabric wasn’t positioned in such a way that it fitted properly. So it was a case of getting everything aligned and being incredibly careful that the wind, which was blowing full force from the south-west, didn’t rip the fabric away from me. Trimming the sail whilst lying in the water was no easy feat in winds of that strength. If it went wrong, the wind would snatch the material out of the water and carry it off in a high arc. Anyone who’s ever experienced that knows exactly what I mean!
Adjusting the sail was done in a fraction of a second. Now ‘all that remained’ was to align the board and then grab hold of the boom with the two intact clamps – and off we went. My foot was flapping behind me. “What a load of rubbish! How could that have happened? It came out of nowhere, completely out of the blue, whilst I was sailing straight ahead. What on earth have I done? Why this second session? Everything went fine in the first one! Why did you have to go out again?!” A junkie’s a junkie!
Three full wash cycles in 15 minutes
I let the current carry me along for 15 minutes – a distance that would have taken me an hour to swim. There were three full wash cycles, each of which really put the machine through its paces. So that meant, in effect, having to start the whole process of straightening things out from scratch three times over. I’d been through quite a bit in my 35 years in Klitmøller, Hanstholm, Nørre and Agger, but this was on a whole other level. A similarly extreme day was once described by a Danish friend as ‘D-Day’ – that day was in Hanstholm, and it was certainly intense, but it just wasn’t Klitmøller!
The waves rolled over me in such vast masses of water and at such speed – every 13 seconds – as I’d never experienced before. “This was what I’d been waiting for all year” – now I was getting it, and properly! Neptune showed me in no uncertain terms who was in charge here. It was absolutely mind-blowing.
The phase-out poses a worst-case scenario risk
The fear of the worst – having to get out – was still hanging over me. It was the fourth and probably final wash cycle. I didn’t expect anything good from a shorebreak at least 3.5 metres high. Things were getting serious again, because landing on the beach with that foot could result in an open fracture – that would be the absolute worst-case scenario. I was lifted up and saw that the beach, 50 metres up towards the edge, was being washed over by smooth, surging and receding water. A considerable volume of water was being moved there.
Landing on the beach with that foot could result in an open fracture – that would be an absolute worst-case scenario.”
The moment had come: a wave swept beneath me and crashed onto the beach with full force. “Bloody hell!” This was going to end badly for me. Normally, getting in and out of the water here was a challenge in itself – you had to hurry; it simply had to work out. The next wave broke quite a way out in front of me and rolled towards me at full speed. I was caught up in it and lay flat on my stomach. I grabbed the board by the fork in front of me; it dragged me along, I was washed forwards and landed on my knees in the sand, with the board leading the way.
The water coming up from below swept me, as I slid on my knees, up the beach. I had to get out of here! I was still kneeling quite far down, and the receding water was trying to sweep me and my kit back into the shorebreak. I was expecting the next shorebreak wave to hit at any moment – they were really vicious here today. So, on all fours, I made my way up to the top and hauled my gear up with me. The water thundered down from the top of the beach back into the sea, my foot flapping behind it – it was incredible. Once I’d dragged my gear out of the danger zone at the top on all fours, I tried to stand up. Standing on my right leg alone, I carefully placed my left foot down. Ooh, not a good idea.
We’ve done it! All on our own on the beach
I was on the beach on my own. So first of all, I had to pack everything away. If anyone were to help me collect my things, they’d only be able to do so once it had been packed away as a ‘handbag’, so that any potential helpers wouldn’t have to take things apart and make several trips. So I packed everything away and The boom, mast and sails packed together in one parcel. Then I crawled on all fours with the parcel up to the edge of the dunes, some 50 metres away, so that it wouldn’t be washed away by the water. My foot kept dragging behind me. I’d done it! Now I had to crawl back down on all fours again to take the board back to safety the same way. Brilliant!
I’d been sandblasted to bits; I looked like a piece of s… I was now sitting at the top of the dune in the sandblasting machine next to my dismantled kit. The sun was shining, and the wind was blowing full force from the south-west. What an absolutely brilliant day, what a load of s***! How on earth could this have happened? What on earth had I done? Two minutes’ rest.
After two couples of tourists and a cyclist turned up at the dune passage 200 metres away and responded to my whistle – which I always kept hanging from my harness for emergencies – they decided, when I waved to them, that they’d rather walk. Fortunately, after 100 metres on all fours, I managed to flag down someone who fetched my bus from Klitmøller so that I could first retrieve my kit and then get out of my wetsuit.
Four helpers, a Neo and lots of sand
The four people who had come to help were determined to call an ambulance. I refused at first. I needed to get my thoughts in order first and work out what needed to be sorted out beforehand: retrieving and stowing my gear, getting out of the wetsuit in one piece, my health insurance card, my ID card, phoning home, finding somewhere to park the car, etc.
Now the absolute worst was about to happen: my first ever visit to hospital. The general consensus was that the Neo would have to be cut open. Of course, that was out of the question! I’d already sacrificed the left shoe with the scissors; I didn’t dare do anything else. So I cut the shoe open and pulled the foot out. It wasn’t open; it just folded away to the left.
So I explained to my four helpers what needed to be done: eight hands, with three fingers from each hand inserted into the leg of the Neos at the 3, 6, 9 and 12 o’clock positions. So they put their hands into the leg area of the Neos and, at the same time, pulled the Neos’ leg apart as far as possible so that I could pull the foot out. YES! Done and dusted – the loose foot was out and the Neos remained intact. At least that’s something! A huge thank you for that.
Things would certainly have turned out differently in an ambulance. The equipment was also retrieved and stowed away in the bus. What lovely people were there to help me – unbelievable! Others preferred to look the other way or didn’t answer the phone after my ‘positive’ message. After I’d driven several hundred metres in the bus and found that changing gears with my right hand was ‘a bit’ difficult, I had to admit that it would also be a little dangerous to carry on driving myself. So I accepted my helpers’ offer to drive me to hospital in my own bus. Brilliant!
At the hospital in Thisted
In the hospital, sitting in my wheelchair in the waiting area, another windsurfer from Hamburg walked past me with a ‘head wound’ – he’d also been hit on the head in Vorupør. After a wipeout, he’d suffered a laceration to his head that required six stitches. He gave a detailed account of it. According to his story, he’d collapsed next to his van after his manoeuvre and was subsequently taken to hospital by ambulance. Apparently, the rescue service had been on site and come to his aid; even the helicopter had apparently already been called out. However, he was able to leave the hospital unaided. After his detailed account, he no longer had time to listen to me or even offer any help.
After that, I was back on my own in the waiting area. I was hoping for the best but expecting the worst. When, after the X-ray, the attractive doctor knelt down beside me, I knew straight away: there was no good news in store for me. What a nightmare. A broken ankle, a Weber B fracture. That was it. ‘Congratulations’ – it was exactly what I didn’t want to hear. This meant an operation, followed by six to eight weeks on crutches, all without putting any weight on my foot. Then another operation to remove the joint-locking screw. A year of recovery, then another operation to remove the plate and screws, followed by more physiotherapy and the hope that everything would go back to the way it was before. “This can’t be happening…”
Thank you for the lovely German
I was given initial emergency treatment. I was to be transferred to a specialist clinic in Aalborg. All this was explained to me in Danish, English and German, using hand gestures and – no longer – foot gestures. The staff were really friendly, calm and courteous. They all spoke a bit of German – brilliant! They even called in a member of staff who spoke it perfectly. As four attractive hospital staff members were now standing around me, I tried to thank them all for their excellent German using the four words I knew in Danish: ‘Tak for dejlig tysk!’ That broke down the barrier of my shaky language skills. Everyone laughed, and for a moment the seriousness of the situation was forgotten. Tak!
The doctor made it clear to me that I absolutely had to have an operation on my ankle. This was no laughing matter – it was a serious foot injury! She wanted to put my leg in a plaster cast right up to my hip. She surely knew from experience that we surfers don’t usually want to stay in hospital. We agreed, for the time being, to immobilise my foot up to the knee. These negotiations were difficult; she simply wouldn’t give in! In the end, I was fitted with a professional, lightweight plastic brace and given a pair of crutches. Once the brace had been put on, I stood up. The treatment couch was covered in sand. I tried to sweep it up with my hands and apologised for it. I didn’t want it to make a mess on the floor as well, but all I heard was: “Is ok, is Danmark.” We both had to laugh.
Against medical advice
The doctor tried to persuade me to stay and strongly advised me against leaving. Nevertheless, I left the hospital against medical advice. This in no way meant that I doubted the qualifications of doctors in Denmark – quite the opposite, in fact; they have an excellent reputation! However, I didn’t have a good enough command of the language to communicate properly or really understand everything in detail. I was welcomed and treated there in a highly professional and extremely friendly manner!
The doctors in Hamburg were later delighted with this bespoke plastic orthosis – there was nothing like it in Hamburg at all. Two days later, I found myself on the operating table in Hamburg for the first time in my life, hoping that everything would go back to the way it was before that incredibly eventful day of windsurfing. I reckon I’ve got a long road ahead of me. The main goal is simply to be able to walk without any pain again – then I’ll have to see how things go from there.
It was still gentler on the material, though
In summary, the decision to disembark at Klitmøller rather than Hanstholm proved, in hindsight, to be gentler on the equipment. Rumour has it that over ten masts were broken and the corresponding sails destroyed over there. One board was completely lost due to a torn-off power joint. On top of that, a complete rig was confiscated by Neptun in Nørre. There was an unusually high number of equipment failures that day, which impressively confirms just how challenging the conditions were!
The measuring buoy in Hanstholm was obscured from view by the offshore south-westerly wind and the land that day, but whilst I was out at sea in Klitmøller, it had recorded the day’s highest wave height of 7.33 metres. Experience showed that the waves in Klitmøller usually broke 1 to 1.5 metres higher as they rolled into the bay. Even the Danish press had, unusually, reported on this exceptional day for surfing!
Lessons learnt – what really happened
Whether the decision not to go out at Hanstholm that morning was a good one – because it was gentler on the equipment – is probably impossible to say with hindsight. Whether it was particularly clever of me to go out a second time in Klitmøller, even though I’d already received two warnings from Neptune during the first session, will probably always remain my unfathomable mystery! What I realised afterwards was that my front foot strap on the driver’s side was set quite loosely. I suspect that this slack meant that when the board lifted slightly as I rode over the broken wave, my foot – specifically my heel – didn’t make proper contact with the board.
As a result, the force of the wave was able to use this gap to slam the board against my foot with full force, causing this injury. Perhaps the waves were simply too fast and too powerful that day. Conclusion: Very big conditions – don’t use footstraps that are too wide to minimise the risk!
Images that linger
Looking back, what remains are images and impressions that stay with you forever – and which most people will never get to see! X-rays, of course, should never be part of an athlete’s routine in this or any other sport. Windsurfing is and always will be something you simply have to experience – whatever form it takes, with or without waves. It is and always will be a fantastic experience out there. But even if you’re confident in what you’re doing, you always have to be prepared for the unexpected.
Looking back, I can say that the body drag – in my case, without getting back on the board – got me safely and quickly out of the danger zone and to the safety of the shore! Practise this manoeuvre; it’ll get you home quickly and safely if something like that happens!
When windsurfing, your feet in the footstraps are simply at the greatest risk of injury. When getting in and out of the water, just lie down in the water once or twice and try letting the sail pull you along. If it doesn’t work, just go for a surf and try it again once or twice when you come back in. It’ll work eventually, and then it’ll become second nature. The six-hour drive back alone at night in my own coach from northern Denmark to Hamburg – without an automatic gearbox – is another ‘driving report’ that I’d rather not go into here.
I probably won’t make it until the next low-pressure system; I’d just be happy to be able to get back out on the water again. But I hope you all continue to have a great time on the H2O. I hope I’ll manage to get to the point where we can at least go flatwater sliding together again. ‘One at a time,’ as they say up north.
Thanks to all the volunteers
A huge thank you goes to my four helpers, without whom I wouldn’t have managed to bake anything. They even came to pick me up from hospital again. The same goes, of course, for the hospital in Thisted and its brilliant staff in Denmark – “Tak for dejlig tysk!” I certainly don’t want to forget to thank the staff at the AGAPLESION Hospital in Hamburg, who put me back together again after three operations. Thank you!
Boarding time
After the third operation to remove the material, the doctors’ approval and a further six weeks of waiting for me to recover, the moment finally arrived after seven months and 28 days: it was finally time to board! Now it’s time – albeit with the handbrake on – to say, “At last, back again!”
Back at the holy site
On 3 July 2026, at the sacred site, Neptune and Peter unpacked the big cutlery tray for me for the first time in ages. After it had taken me four attempts – and for the first time in my life I was actually scared to go out there in conditions like that, so much so that I packed the board away twice – I just had to get out there to put this experience behind me! It was absolutely brilliant, it was sooo brilliant, it was sooo smooth and it was sooo beautiful!
