Pro-Am race on Ringkøbing Fjord: My first regatta – as a ‘Weekend Warrior’ at the Waterz Long Distance

Please, no! Why now of all times? I’m standing on my 107-litre board, bobbing about and trying to pump myself into planing somehow. But there’s no chance – nothing’s working here at the moment. About 100 metres ahead of me, the green flag is raised on the starting boat and the first competitors shoot across the starting line at full throttle. Me, though, I’m bobbing back and forth on the waves like a duckling, without making much headway. That’s not quite how I’d imagined it.

My first regatta

Flashback: “I’d love to do something like that some time,” I’d often found myself thinking whenever I read about the Racer of the Sea, the Defi or other fun regattas. I’d never really been that keen on competitive windsurfing myself, but the revival of the One Hour regattas this spring gave me an extra nudge. Other blokes my age are buying overpriced luxury bikes or suddenly talking shop about portafilter coffee machines – perhaps this sudden urge to race round buoys is my midlife crisis? The dates for the DWC and Racer of the Sea don’t fit in with the family calendar, but by chance I stumbled across the Long Distance race at the Waterz Festival in Hvide Sande. I’d always wanted to pop along to that – Scandinavia’s biggest water sports festival – anyway. The long-distance race on the fjord is the centrepiece of the event: from Hvide Sande towards Ringkøbing, a leg of about five to seven kilometres, two days with two races each, and up to 100 competitors. Professionals and amateur sailors line up together at the start here; the set-up is deliberately kept simple. I’ve known the spot for over 20 years, and my colleagues in the editorial team don’t think the idea of taking part in a regatta for the first time as a ‘Weekend Warrior’ and writing about it is a complete daft idea either. Here we go, let’s do this!

​Spot Guide Ringkøbing Fjord: The best windsurfing spots around Hvide Sande and Bork Havn

​World Cup sponsor Citroën is lending me one of its Holidays campervans for my trip to Ringkøbing Fjord; it’ll be my home for four days. And as my personal quiver isn’t really kitted out for racing, I’m allowed to help myself to gear from the stock of Goya distributor Tom Eierding. I don’t want to put myself through proper racing gear; I’d rather just cruise comfortably. “Take the Carrera – it’s easy to sail and you’ll end up going fast with it,” he advises. Sounds good – with 127 and 107-litre, I can cover the full range of conditions. When it comes to sails, my initial thought is “Go Big” – after all, I want to blast across the fjord with plenty of power, not have to stop and start every now and then. But when the wind forecast for the race weekend reliably shows forces well above 30 knots, I opt for smaller sizes and choose a range of camberless freerace sails from 5.8 to 7.8 – and, as a last resort, I’ll pack a 5.0 wave sail from home as well. What are my goals for my "debut"? As long as I stick it out and cross the finish line with some dignity, I’ll be happy. And if I don’t end up in last place, but land somewhere in the bottom third, that would be a success!

​Thursday, 3 September

To get used to the equipment I’d borrowed, I’d already driven to Denmark the day before. After a relaxing night in the camper van and a few online meetings, I set off for the spot. The race is taking place in Hvide Sande Nord, right next to the Westwind surf centre. A few tents are already pitched, and people are still pottering about everywhere. The first person I meet is Birger from Ebeltoft, who’s competed in the race several times before. “The wind direction is ideal,” he says, glancing at the fjord, which has been smoothed to a mirror-like finish by the offshore westerly wind. “If it gets too southerly, it gets far too choppy!” I start setting up; after all, I want to get my gear set up as well as possible today. “Getting your kit set up properly is really important for keeping going and not tensing up too much,” the PWA racer Justine Lemeteyer featured in a guide to long-distance races. Fine-tuning isn’t usually my thing, but I’ve resolved to be particularly thorough today. At first, things go quite well with the 7.2 and the large board, although the wind is still very gusty. On the first few runs, it’s a mix of everything from full throttle to grinding to a halt; only gradually does it become more stable. I quickly realise just how useful another tip from Justine is: “Tighten your straps!” I adjust them tighter and tighter until I’m pinned to the board like in a ski binding. I’d never do this on a wave or Freemove board, but here it gives me the best possible control. After moving the front straps even further outwards, the setup is perfect. Birger’s out there too; we have a few battles and are about the same speed – which is great, as at least I can keep up with him to some extent. I’m raring to race!

Slowly, even the 7.2 is getting too big, so I’m switching to a 6.6 and a smaller fin. On the beach, I bump into Brendan Lorho and his dad; the young speed sailor is here for the IFCA European Championships and is also competing in the long-distance event. He’s only moderately impressed by the 48 km/h on my GPS watch, but politely adds that it’s not too bad for my freerace gear. “The start is the most important thing,” he tells me as I set off for the race. “If you’re trailing behind at the start, you won’t be able to make up the ground!” Out on the water, the young Frenchman then moves right up alongside me and challenges me to a duel. Whilst my 6.6 is slowly becoming too big and I’ve got my hands full just trying to stay in control, Brendan is hanging onto his 7.5 as if it were a lightweight training sail. After one run, he sheets in and pulls away with ease. Well, the bloke’s in a different league to me – but at least he pushed me to a top speed of almost 52 km/h.

After the warm-up, I'm raring to go for the race

The setup’s spot on, but the challenge is the long distance. I deliberately ride out really long runs along the coast to see if I can maintain my balance on the board over a sustained period. Suddenly, I slow down abruptly and keep decelerating, as if there were a rubber band attached to the fin. Seaweed – just great. I’ve got so much kit with me, but unfortunately no seaweed fin. On the way back, I have to brush the seaweed off several times until the water is finally clear again. Hopefully the wind won’t pick up too much, otherwise it’ll be drifting around the fjord tomorrow…

It’s getting windier and windier, and I’m actually setting up the smallest rig: 107 and 5.8. I usually only ride something like this with three straps and three fins, but I’m already ‘hooked’ after just a few metres: The small board hangs lightly on my foot and flies over the fin; the sail is fully powered up but still easy to control. Meanwhile, there are more and more racers out on the water; in a duel with a DEN sail number, I feel I’m hardly any slower. In between, I pop over briefly to register, get my Lycra and an official photo – it feels like being a World Cup pro. I’m fired up and head out again for a few runs, but my batteries are slowly running low, and sensibly, I should save my energy for tomorrow. To recharge my batteries, I treat myself to a large fish sandwich and tuck into a bar of chocolate afterwards, before crawling into my sleeping bag in the camper van.

The whole region is supporting the Waterz Festival

Friday, 4 September

It’s finally happening! I head to the spot early and set up my 7.8 – according to the forecast, there’s supposed to be a bit less wind to start with, dying down completely around midday, before it might pick up again in the late afternoon. On Saturday, it’s set to get really fierce, with winds well over 30 knots. Everyone’s setting up their gear, the last few are picking up their Lycra suits, and lots of people know each other and are chatting in small groups. “The Danes just do it brilliantly,” enthuses DWC racer Oliver Schott, who’s been competing at Waterz since the very first event. “The atmosphere is always brilliant!” Right next to me, Lasse from Nyborg on Fyn and a few other lads from his surf club have parked up: “We always come here in a group,” says Lasse. Inspired by Waterz, the Nyborg Surf Club has even launched its own long-distance race, the “Great Belt Race”, right next to the big bridge.

At the skippers’ meeting, race director Søren explains the various flags, the start procedure and the course. With the wind blowing offshore from the west, we’ll be sailing parallel to the coast, either north or south; the start and finish lines are out at sea, directly in front of the surf school. And how long will the race be? “About five to seven kilometres,” explains Søren. “We’ll see what the conditions are like. If the wind is light, I don’t want you five kilometres out at sea if it turns out there isn’t enough wind after all.” I try to memorise the signals and set a five-minute countdown on my watch.

There’s no launch sequence yet, but there are a few people out there zipping back and forth, so I grab my gear and head out too. Unfortunately, it’s not enough to really get going. Some are planing along at 8.6; the 7.8 isn’t quite enough for my weight. As I bobb up and down in the choppy water, I take a close look at the starting line and get a slightly pitying shrug from the crew of the start boat as they pack up their buoys and chug back towards the beach. After a painfully long time bobbing about against the wind, I eventually make it back ashore and get changed. I’ll wait for the wind to die down; it’s supposed to pick up again this afternoon.

Inspired by Cold Hawaii

Whilst I’m waiting, I meet up with Katrine Kock-Frandsen, the main organiser of the Waterz Festival. She tells me about the early days of the Waterz Festival in 2010: “The idea came from an intern at Hvide Sande local council who’d seen what had been done in Cold Hawaii.” The aim, she explains, was to showcase what the region has to offer in terms of water sports. As big names are a major draw, the plan was to bring well-known events to Ringkøbing Fjord – the PWA has already visited three times, and this year will once again host a major IFCA championship.

There is a great deal of support, with many regional businesses on board as partners with Waterz. “Many people here realise that water sports – be it windsurfing, kitesurfing or whatever – attract a lot of visitors to the area. And these visitors often come several times a year, stay a bit longer and spend a bit more money than the average tourist, so the investment is well worth it.” This support isn’t just visible through logos on the posters, but also in a very practical way: Shortly after our conversation, a building contractor spontaneously drops by on his wheel loader to make the waterlogged meadows and paths passable again with a load of gravel. In addition, around 100 to 120 local volunteers are actively involved in the festival. “We work closely with local sports clubs; we make a small donation to them, and they ensure that tasks such as setting up, dismantling and cleaning are carried out,” explains Katrine, who took over the organisation in 2014.

The dream: a major competition on the North Sea

The long-distance race on the fjord is the centrepiece of Waterz, and the programme traditionally also includes a SUP race. A fun race featuring inflatable water toys and a high-diving competition at the harbour have been new additions to the programme for the past two years. “We wanted Waterz to have a greater presence in the town,” says Katrine. Her dream is for the North Sea spots in Hvide Sande to become part of Waterz too: “In 2021, we held the Kiteboard Cup there – the first year there was absolutely no wind at all. But I’d still love to make that happen – having a really big, top-class competition right by the sea would be fantastic.”

What are Katrine’s highlights from the ten-plus years she’s been at the helm of the Waterz crew? “There are several, such as two years ago and also in 2019: at both events, there was one of those days when things just got really intense. I find these days great fun, really entertaining, because the riders love it, the crew love it, and everything gets a bit more exciting. The team, the boats, the anchors, the kit, the riders – everything is pushed to its limits. And when everyone’s got a big smile on their face at the end, that’s always a massive high for me!”

Today, however, there won’t be another historic highlight just yet: the wind was actually supposed to pick up from 15:00, but the AP flag is just flagging from the mast. Just like in the World Cup, the ‘First Possible Start’ keeps getting postponed in half-hour intervals. The only thing getting mor intense is the rain. Finally, a flag signal and a message via the WhatsApp group announce that there will be no more races today. What a shame – I was absolutely raring to go and would have loved to have sailed a race in reasonably normal conditions before the storm hits.

Messed up the first start

Saturday, 5 September

The night in the camper wasn’t very restful; gusts of wind kept shaking the van, and every now and then torrential rain lashed down across the site. I’m glad I was lying down on the lower sleeping area rather than in the pop-up roof. There’s no chance of having a lie-in, so I head back to the spot early and set up during the brief breaks in the rain. The question is, will the wind be too strong to race? Do I have kit that’s small enough? And, above all: will I manage to get out there and see it through, or is this a bit too much for me? In the morning, the wind is still reasonably kind, and just in time for the start, the sun even comes out. The 6.6 is still easy to handle, and the small board goes with it perfectly. After a few test runs and the skippers’ meeting, I head for the starting line and position myself so that I have most of the field in view. Contrary to Brendan’s advice, I’m not aiming to cross the line the moment the starting signal sounds. I’d really like to avoid causing a general recall in the very first race.

When the start is given, nothing happens. I see the green flag go up and just plod along. I’d worried so much that there might be too much wind, and just when it finally gets going, I’m stuck in a lull. This can’t be happening! But the majority of the field are in the same situation; when I look around, I see loads of others bobbing along at a snail’s pace towards the starting line. I pump my arms, drop back, catch a gust and, squeezing just past the starting boat, manage to cross the starting line after all. But straight after that, I make a pretty daft mistake because I take my hand off the boom to give the harness a quick tug. In doing so, the harness accidentally unhooks and I end up in the pond. Really daft, really annoying. Quickly sort myself out, water start and carry on! The 6.6 is really blown up, but still well under control; I can open the throttle and am finally in the race. At full throttle, I head north (luckily away from the seagrass beds); I’m right in the middle of the pack and see a colourful mix of old and new gear, slalom and freeride kit, and people of all ages. It’s really good fun!

What I can’t see are the orange buoys that are supposed to mark the way to the mark rounding point. So I just carry on following the others to stay roughly on course – it can’t be that far off. When I finally spot one of the buoys, it’s a long way in my back. I’m far too far downwind and have to work hard to gain height. Just then, the leader comes towards me. That means I’ve covered almost half the course and the windward mark can’t be far off. I push, push, push, push to gain height, which slows me down, and suddenly I’m in the middle of a pack of other riders who are in exactly the same situation as me. Somehow I manage to jibe round the mark and get back into the race. The run back to the finish is absolutely brilliant: full throttle on the sail, the board’s flying, the sun’s shining. I overtake a few people, and get overtaken a few times myself. It’s. So. Awesome! Later, when I look for my name on the results list that’s been put up, I’m initially worried that I wasn’t included in the results or that my start number was illegible. Instead, on the second page, I find myself surprisingly high up the list: 29th place! I can hardly wipe the grin off my face.

Race number two in Survival Mode

Whilst we’re refuelling with some delicious sandwiches from the local baker’s, another shower rolls in and the wind picks up to gale force. Nobody really believes the 22 to 26 knots officially reported by the start boat; the weather station at the harbour later reports gusts of up to 40 knots. One of the Nyborgers heads out with a 5.6 wave sail and returns a short while later, shaking his head, his cheeks puffed out. Everyone pulls out the smallest gear they’ve got – classic wave sails instead of new race gear. Some people aren’t sailing at all because they don’t have anything that small. I rig up my 5.0 wave sail, pull it nice and flat, mast foot forward, and do a quick test run. It sort of works, but it’s no fun. I’m in the same mindset as for a marathon: persevere, push yourself a bit, and the main thing is to finish.

Even making your way out towards the starting line isn’t exactly easy. In the final minutes before the start, most of the fleet stands in waist-deep water, simply waiting so as not to waste any energy. I join them; the wind is tugging at the sail, and the board is almost lifting off the water. As the first sailors set off, I get up on my board too – I don’t need to worry about lulls in the wind this time. I cross the line fairly quickly, straight into an absolute inferno: the water is incredibly choppy and completely white from the short, steep chop and the wake of the other surfers; the surface is pure chaos, the board is thrashing about and the sail is completely out of control. The wind has shifted a little since this morning, so the course heads slightly further east towards Ringkøbing out onto the open fjord. With every metre, the chop gets bigger; this is a far cry from my comfort zone. It’s now just a matter of somehow keeping the board down; with every wave, the wind tries to yank it round. I’ve come within a hair’s breadth of crashing several times; my arms and thighs are already burning after just a short while, and my ankles are being pushed to the limit by the wriggling board. This time I can also see the marker buoys and realise I’ve covered a quarter of the way there, then half. Shortly afterwards, I do end up crashing, but I’m glad to take this little enforced break for my arms and legs.

A day for the Waterz history books

The next milestone is the third marker buoy; finally, I can see the gybe mark too. Yippee, I’ve at least managed the first part! Gybing is completely impossible – as soon as I unhook and try to turn, I get tossed about again. When I get back up, I see that everyone else is in the water around the mark too, taking a quick breather – we’re all in the same boat. On the way back, we’re heading straight into the low-hanging sun; the water is glistening and the surface is barely visible. You have to be 100 per cent focused every single second; the moment you lose even the slightest bit of concentration, a crash is imminent. The chop is coming diagonally from the front and getting bigger all the time; I’m flying with every wave, and the board is wriggling beneath my feet, which are strained to the point of tearing. I’m incredibly glad I’ve tightened the straps so much. A few times it’s incredibly close; it’s only down to sheer luck that I somehow manage to stay on the board. Because of the sun’s glare and the spray, I can barely see the marker buoys, so I’m sailing behind the riders in front of me again, hoping they don’t push too high and that I won’t have to drop back towards the finish line.

With my arms and legs on fire, I somehow manage to make it to the finish. No sooner have I crossed the line than I turn straight into the wind and head for the shallow end to catch my breath. I’m glad it’s over and, at the same time, proud to have completed the race in these conditions and to have come through it reasonably well. It wasn’t actually planned to be this extreme. Just like after a marathon, I’m flooded with endorphins, and once again I’ve got a massive grin on my face as I come ashore. Bit by bit, everyone arrives on the beach; everyone’s chatting and swapping stories: “How was it for you? What were you riding? How many times did you crash?” One of the Nyborg lads says it was the toughest race he’s ever done. A few people have to be picked up by the boats, but luckily nobody’s been hurt. My neighbour in the car park, Lasse, has broken his boom and board and is a bit annoyed. In the end, the finishing position is rather secondary, but 22nd in the second race and 23rd in the overall rankings exceed all my expectations. That was one of those extreme days for the Waterz history books, and definitely not my last race – though next time, I’d be happy with a few knots less!

Information about the festival: waterz.dk