In the Service of Aeolus: Autobiography of a sailor

By Peter Foerthmann

Peter Foerthmann has spent his life in the service of Aeolus, the Keeper of the Winds. He learned to harness the power of the wind first as a sailor and then as the man behind the Windpilot windvane self-steering company. The winds of fortune have by turns favoured (his serendipitous meeting with Windpilot founder John Adam, for example) and tormented (numerous legal entanglements being the most prominent example) him without ever managing to blow him entirely off course – a course that stretches to the horizon and beyond, where sailing dreams become reality (at least for those with the right transom ornament).
This book presents the recollections of a self-taught original who, heedless of convention and rely-ing strictly on his own internal compass, has developed a unique understanding of social interaction among sailors, who have rewarded him in turn by spreading the word about his products effectively enough to make Windpilot the world market leader for windvane self-steering systems. Building up the company and developing a product that enables sailors the world over to enjoy long passages freed from the need to steer continuously has given Peter an all but unparalleled insight into blue-water sailing and an expertise in various related areas that he has shared in several highly regarded specialist publications.
A compulsive writer, Peter takes as much pleasure in choosing his words as he does in telling his story, the story of how he swapped a boat for the idea that became his life, how he went from a tra-ditional workshop-based operation building everything by hand to what must surely be one of the world's smallest state-of-the-art industrial manufacturing companies and, most importantly of all for him, how he has managed to defend and maintain his independence both commercially and socially by sticking to his principles – fairness, respect, empathy – and learning, not without incident, to choose his friends wisely. Above all, this is the story of half a century in the windvane self-steering business, a story that – Aeolus willing – still has a long way to run.

• Language: English
• Publisher: tredition
• Release date: Sep 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9783347724808

Book preview

Preface

A book about an entire life? That could easily go wrong. How is an author to decided what to include and what – if anything – to omit? Every recollection adds more colour to the tale and therefore has a claim to be told, but the reader needs a story to enjoy, not a faithful retelling of an entire existence. Somewhere there is a tipping point beyond which more information dilutes rather than enhances the experience, beyond which tedium replaces entertainment.

Short cuts can be a handy recourse here. Throughout my life I have always been a fan of seeking out my own, faster way to progress. Doing things my own way has allowed me to set the pace of my life, to study, learn and acquire necessary skills at the rate that suits me and advance my cause and expertise with a rapidity that can sometimes leave feathers ruffled.

I am motivated in many ways by the urge to please, but this impatience of mine has a tendency to undermine my efforts in this area. I have never really managed to keep everyone happy though and have been reminded, from time to time, that it is in ceasing to try to do so that I come nearer to independence and freedom. This realisation has helped me enormously: striking an effective balance in life is much easier with a clean, fair hull and no unnecessary ballast.

This book addresses what I consider to be the central pillars of my life; structures that have helped me keep my head above water in a hostile shark tank and – eventually – learn to tell the difference between a friendly smile and a hungry leer.

I have had the support of some remarkable individuals, to whom I owe a debt of thanks beyond measure. When I say that I could never have written this book without my mother, I do not just mean in the obvious sense. I have realised over time that my love of writing comes very much from her – indeed is a continuation of her own urge to commit the things that matter to the written word. Writing, for me, is an elegant way to pan the gold flakes from life‘s events and milestones and keep myself on course with a smile.

It comes to me naturally to do things this way, to live, reflect, process and move on, for that way every day brings the promise of a new adventure. I thrive on the freedom that living like this brings, but I also acknowledge that such an approach requires time and – most important of all – can only work in a harmonious relationship. I was born to share, made for a team of two, and it is flying side-by-side on the magic carpet – the dream of dreams – that I am fulfilled and energised. A problem shared is a problem more than halved while joy and pleasure shared is more than doubled: can there be anything more remarkable?

21 May 2022

Peter Foerthmann

My Lucky Day

I would like to say I emerged into this world on an elegant schooner clutching a screwdriver in one hand and a pen in the other, but actually I arrived wet and howling just like everyone else – in my case at Hamburg’s Jerusalem Hospital in May 1947. I was picked up, briefly inspected and then snuggled up at my mother‘s side to sleep off the shock.

My early years were fairly typical too: plenty of do this, do that – and definitely don’t do that. Resistance was futile – believe me I tried and believe me it hurt. The world seethed with temptation, overflowed with restrictive rules. Some of them even made sense, usually once I found out what happened when I ignored them.

A child perceives no deeper meaning in rules and consequences, they are both just obstacles to be evaded or, in the worst-case scenario, weathered as quickly as possible before returning to business as usual. I was no different and would never, ever have suspected that, decades later, I would actually come to appreciate and be grateful for my mother’s firm and consistent approach to child rearing. I made the most of what freedom I was allowed and I enjoyed myself: life was simple and the world full of opportunities.

My first love proved long and enduring – and also something to endure, especially when I had to cycle around with her on my back. Hauling my violin around exhausted me and together we were a source of exasperation for both my mother and my music teacher. My instrument and my wheels, my muse and limousine, kept me from becoming involved with people, from criticising them and even from defending myself. That would have made me easy pickings for the bullies except that I wasn‘t really bothered, which didn‘t suit their agenda at all.

No boy can avoid confrontation for ever of course, but I managed to limit my serious dustups to one with my brother – who still bears the scars of my attack (at least that’s the way his wife puts it) – and some other kid who never amounted to anything as far as I know (unless, that is, you consider being a senior international judge at the UN tribunal in The Hague an achievement).

Water enjoyed a place close to my heart from my earliest years – provided I wasn’t expected to wash in it. I understood cleanliness had its place but it required a commitment of time I could not afford to make. Perhaps also I was discouraged from washing overmuch by the fact that it fell to me to empty the zinc tub down the drain afterwards (as you can see I also understood the importance of having a halfway decent excuse ready to go when I needed it too).

I soon claimed the Hamburg harbour for my own and would hurtle down there on my bike whenever possible. It was a short journey with the fear of missing something exciting on the ever-colourful waterfront driving me forwards. My personal soundtrack for those years came, logically, from Austrian singer Freddy Quinn, whose tales of the sea struck a chord in my young mind. I was transfixed, transfigured, enchanted, my mind away over the far horizon in moments.

My mother, who played the harpsichord and piano and preferred to spend her time in the company of Bach and Schumann, was though quite horrified by my taste, so I hid Freddy‘s records under my bed.

With my brother Berend on the cello, my violin teacher and stand-in father Hubertus Distler (in passionate Hungarian style) on the violin or viola, our house was a place for ‚proper‘ music, but as an aspiring seaman I felt I belonged more to the St. Pauli of Hans Albers.

My brother had a completely different outlook on life to me in those days and we mostly took care to avoid having to play together (or even set eyes on each other). It didn‘t help that he was much more industrious than me as a child and tended to spend the day tight in the lee of our mother, shadowing her every move and playing the man of the family (a role he eventually assumed for real much later on) despite being a right little chicken when it mattered.

Freddy Quinn indirectly came into my life again 20 years on when I joined Windpilot founder John Adam and Rolf Kaczirek, inventor of the Bügel anchor, to deliver Freddy‘s former pleasure cruiser Libertad to the Seychelles on behalf of the Sylt-based construction magnate who was taking it off his hands. Freddy’s stature as a cultural icon is a matter for others to debate; it was his physical stature that concerned us as we repeatedly banged our heads on door frames that had clearly been fitted with a shorter breed of sailor in mind. The boat, which had come into the world as one of the many small trawler-based warships („Kriegsfischkutter") built for the German navy in WW2, enjoyed a renaissance under Freddy, metamorphosing into a chic venue for stylish receptions and a smart landmark on the Priwall Peninsula coast, which it seldom left until financial considerations persuaded the owner to sell it. Which is where we, the delivery crew, came into the picture.

But back to the harbour in Hamburg. When the banana boats steamed in from Ecuador, there I lurked down at the docks like some crazed monkey waiting for any ‘windfalls’ from unloading. Ships from Morocco meant oranges, which tumbled from their pallets by the crate load if the crane operator had hiccups or was otherwise struggling to maintain control. His loss was my gain as I scrambled for the glowing bounty and crammed fruit into my panniers until the tyres threatened to burst with the weight.

Arriving home, the same question always marched out to meet me: Are you sure you‘ve you done your homework? What a drag! I had plenty of freedom though and felt my trips to the docks were a noteworthy contribution as well as a bit of fun.

Logistics was the problem. There were uncles and aunts who would pay good money for a share in the delicious, nutritious bounty but the fruit was heavy, there was a limit to how much I could collect and obviously storing it was not really an option. The days of live vessel tracking still lay far in the future but shipping movements were advertised in the newspaper and I quickly familiarised myself with all the regular arrivals. I had my sales channels in place pretty quickly too but the potential for growth was always limited by what I could shift on my bike both from a practical point of view (Hamburg has very different standards to Bangkok in terms of what constitutes a reasonable load for a bike) and a safety point of view (I understood very well that the customs man‘s friendly wave as I passed could easily be replaced with hostility and legal complications if I pushed my luck too far). Sticking to regular but modest fruit runs seemed like the soundest policy.

The bike began to lose its appeal to cars when I hit ten and by eleven I was driving an Opel Rekord (three-speed gearbox and wraparound windscreen) around Hamburg sitting on a cushion.

My mother had very mixed feelings about this but her pride – and the practical advantages of no longer having to do everything herself when exhaustion left her wishing for nothing more than a chance to relax on the chaise longue obviously outweighed her worries in the end.

The Winterhude district of the city was my patch at that time and I saw myself as cock of the roost. I knew every tree and every crack in the pavement in our neighbourhood – and I kept a weather eye out for the cops, just in case they should risk in incursion into my ‘hood. My ego knew no bounds!

Reassuringly, once I was finally able (years later) to obtain a licence legally, I had no trouble doing so without any additional driving lessons. I even saved money on the test thanks to the examiner being one of my mother‘s patients: 70 Marks it cost me to enter the adult world and a full tank of fuel cost only 10 Marks – and lasted two weeks!

Cars, however, were nothing compared to the sea. I could hear it calling to me, feel it drawing me away. It came to dominate my thoughts completely and at 16, still a mere slip of a lad but powerless to resist any longer, I packed my bags and set off for maritime college to learn how to be a seaman.

Appropriately, the college was perched right by the water in Falkenstein with a view over the Elbe that comforted my soul. I spent three months there doing my best to pick up the skills I would need for the sea. Along with the Prüsse brothers and Hartmut Paschburg, I was one of just four students in my class who knew how to sail already. The rest still had mud on their boots.

Uli Prüsse, scion of the Hamburg harbour launch dynasty, we did our best to avoid lest he and his brother take exception to our presence. The sailing school on the Outer Alster Lake still bears his name, although he himself embarked on his final voyage a long time ago (may he rest in peace). He taught sailing very successfully for many years, wisely investing the proceeds in the finest sailing ship to be had anywhere in the entire region, Ashanti (later admired as Ashanti of Saba). Ashanti was – and is – an absolute beauty to behold and suited Uli in every respect. He tended to the taciturn, but then why would he need words when he had a yacht that spoke for itself ?

Hartmut Paschburg combined a slight figure with a sharp intellect and a natural flair for business. He rose to become a captain and on one long voyage years later happened to notice the legendary Sea Cloud, then named Antarna, lying in Panama in a dilapidated condition. He and a consortium of Hamburg businessmen bought her for a song, returned her to Germany with a crew of 40 in 1978 and sent her off to the Howaldswerke Deutsche Werft in Kiel for a refit. A year later, now the epitome of the floating luxury hideaway, the immaculate Sea Cloud returned to service. And some 40 years later she is still at it, a spectacular example of a square rigger successfully parting the wealthy from a modest portion of their assets in exchange for relaxed, no expense spared (golden taps in the bathroom) cruising under acres of canvas.

But none of that has anything to do with what I was up to in the mid-1960s. What I was doing was heading to sea. And finding out what dreams could do to a man who really wasn‘t one yet.

Had I forgotten that the sea was in my genes, that I was born to live my life largely out of sight of land? Not at all! That was my trump card, the argument non plus ultra with which I had finally quelled my mother‘s objections.

Already advanced in years by the time I was born, my father never played an active part in my childhood.

I knew him to be a man of the water though. A lecturer at the maritime college, he had been forceful in countering the (flawed) official line during the investigation into the loss of the Pamir, had served as an advisor to the Meyer yard in Papenburg well into old age and had left his mark on the profession with the stability calculations he produced for the Hamburg Ship Model Basin. My parents maintained a peculiar relationship of (largely) suppressed yearnings and desires, a relationship effectively directed by another woman who knew how wield all the weapons (financial included) in defence of her property with relentless intensity and feminine finesse until it – he – was rendered powerless to follow his heart any further.

It seems it was the same drama then as it is now when people who have grown apart accept a life in irons instead of walking away – crawling if necessary – or leave it too late to face up to the fact that they are staying only out of guilt or fear (and who put it there?) rather than any hope for future contentment. I speak here from experience and with the benefit of having eventually landed on my feet.

The result of all of this, sadly, is that I barely knew my father. My mother, on the other hand, was a talented writer who recorded her life meticulously on her Continental typewriter and archived the pages with scrupulous care in a series of robust box folders. I am hugely grateful to her for this as it has given me a sort of compass to navigate the past, a means to bring order to all kinds of recollections and find explanations for many things that my mind needed to have explained.

It was hardly surprising I heard the call of the sea ringing so clearly in my own ears, in other words. I wanted the ocean under my keel and I wanted to travel as far as possible. Most of all, I wanted (what‘s new?) to see the world and live life to the full.

No less surprising is the fact I ended up on a banana boat operated by the Laeisz shipping company, Hamburg‘s most prestigious, bringing every ape‘s favourite fruit (in fiction at least) to the people carefully chilled so that the yellow treasure would be in peak condition on arrival (unless the ship was delayed or the cooling failed, in which case it would be a foul brown mess).

The ships of the Laeisz company were famous the world over as Flying P-Liners, every one of which had a name beginning with P. The stories of mighty windjammers like the Pamir, Pisa, Potosi and Passat had been regular features in my childhood dreams even though I had no inkling back then that I had a family connection to the tale.

My very own gleaming Flying P-Liner sailed under the name MS Pisang and when it set off down the Elbe on the ebbing tide one day in 1964 on its maiden voyage with me among the crew, I felt like a real man at last (until I saw my mother waving me off from the Willkomm´ Höft, at which point the sudden realisation that I was leaving home and hearth perhaps for good turned me into a blubbering wreck).

Bananas for Japan were our standing orders, which meant a life criss-crossing the Pacific for the foreseeable future – years and years of it. That, at least, was the plan and when I realised the full implications, my teenage composure abandoned me completely.

My confidence took a mighty blow in those early days at sea as the pecking order and my place in it were brought home to me. Living in exclusively male company I found enormously tough and it scares me still to think how poorly equipped I was, both mentally and physically (fist-fights had never been my thing), to hold my own. My career moved on rapidly, all the way to the rank of ordinary seaman, but I was still bottom of the pecking order in a testosterone-fuelled environment full of irascible characters who knew but one real outlet for their pent-up frustration/boredom/rage/etc.

Eventually the coast of Ecuador would draw near, the pilot would come aboard with the all-important glossy laminated brochure of delights and they would be unleashed