A Day in the Life of a Camper

"Hey, damn, the wind’s gone," Marek noted.

"Ooo, how nice and warm!" one of the girls at the bow shouted.

"Alright, you rascals, what's the plan? Second breakfast or beaching?" asked Mr. Krzysiek.

"Second breakfast first, then beaching," I answered on behalf of everyone.

"In that case, prepare to drop the jib."

"Aye, prepare to drop the jib!"

"Jib away!"

Grzesiek, one of the sheet handlers, released the line he was holding, and Adam quickly pulled in the furling halyard — the front sail disappeared in the blink of an eye.

"Staszek, prep the engine for ignition. Prepare to drop the mainsail."

A moment later, the onboard clatterbox tore through the silence, puffing out exhaust.

Malwina and Julka jumped below deck through the forward hatch, shouting they'd handle the fruit, and Marek was already setting out cookies on a plate.

Our Antila anchored among the reeds in a beautiful, sandy shallow area, and soon enough we were all munching on apples and biscuits.

Five minutes later, we were jumping into the refreshing water, snorting like seals — pure bliss in the heat!

The water barely reached our waists, so Mr. Krzysiek tossed us an inflatable ball, shouting, "Game on!"

Suddenly we heard another engine, and from behind the reeds emerged another one of "our" Antilas, followed closely by a different yacht. Apparently, we’d all come to the same conclusion: sailing is great, but during a dead calm and heatwave, it’s best to splash in the water.

That second yacht carried an older couple who parked off to the side, and our other boat docked close by — soon we were all splashing around, yelling our heads off.

"What are you doing for lunch?" rightly asked Mr. Piotrek, skipper of the second yacht.

"Spaghetti or rice with something. Crew, what are we doing for lunch?" asked our Mr. Krzysiek.

About two hours passed this way, and then we set off again, getting ready to lower the mast, since there was a bridge ahead — and Lake Dargin beyond it.

"Alright, listen up. We're approaching the bridge, so we need to lower the mast. Remember what to do?" Mr. Krzysiek, as always before a tricky maneuver, gathered us in the cockpit.

"Yeah, head into the wind, start the clatterbox, drop the sails, and lay the mast down," I said. "No big deal after a few days of practice, right?" I added.

"First unclip the boom, smartass," laughed Julka.

"Oh right… the boom first," I muttered.

"Okay then, thus, henceforth, and whatnot: Grzesiek, head into the wind. Adam, start the clatterbox. Malwina, once we’re upwind, you take the helm and keep us gently into the wind. Then we furl the jib, drop the main. Staszek and Marek, remove the boom, then the locking pin on the mast support, and help with the lay-down. Julka and Zosia, watch your sides and make sure the shrouds and halyards aren’t tangled. And just before we lower the mast, uncleat the jib furler halyard. All clear?" Our skipper explained patiently yet again.

We nodded. Now it really was a piece of cake. Only landlubbers don’t know what a jib furler halyard is!

With a metallic clunk, the mast gently rested on the support. Maneuver complete.

"This is the way!" I shouted.

Mr. Krzysiek smiled, gave a thumbs up, and signaled Malwina to increase engine throttle. A few minutes later, we smoothly merged into the formation of boats cruising under the bridge.

We were entering Lake Dargin.

"Turn right immediately. Watch for the Sztynort Rocks," Marek warned.

Our Antila sliced through the water under engine power. I lay on the bow, hanging a bit off the edge, watching the yacht cut through the green water. But before we turned right, the bow pointed briefly into the wind so we could raise the mast and set sail again. Our well-trained crew sprang into action, the mast went up, sails fluttered—and instantly drooped.

"So much for the wind… at least for now," observed Mr. Krzysiek.

"Ahoy, greenhorns! Lost the wind too?" shouted Mr. Piotrek from the yacht right behind us.

"Yeah. Come over for coffee," our skipper shouted back.

"Is someone offering coffee?" asked Mr. Paweł, sailing on yet another Antila.

"If you've got cookies, you're invited!"

Mr. Krzysiek always made sure we kept a proper sailor’s diet.

In the total dead calm, the three Antilas rafted together, with ours in the middle. Mr. Paweł cranked his rudder hard left with the engine barely idling, and our improvised raft lazily spun on its axis. The JBL speaker synced up with the others on nearby decks, and before long we were all belting out: "Oh ho ho, heel and more heel..."

"Mr. Krzysiek, can I cool off?" – I shouted.

"You may," replied our skipper.

Just a moment earlier, he had dipped his signature red bandana into the lake and was now tying it around his neck, droplets of water generously splashing his face and beard. He wore that red bandana, as he said himself, to balance the hair distribution between his face and his head. Though, as we all knew, it was a losing battle – he definitely had more beard than hair.

I reached into the stern locker and pulled out our trusty bucket with a bit of rope tied to the handle. I tossed it behind the stern and slowly it filled with water. Lifting a full bucket wasn’t easy, but I managed. Straining under the weight, I raised it above my head aaaaand...

…splashed it all over my head!

“Brrrr, soooo gooood, that’s amazing!”

Indeed, in the afternoon heat, a bucket of cool lake water poured over your head really did the trick! Soon, most of the people on nearby yachts followed my example, and around us you could hear spluttering, laughing, and the happy squeals of girls.

"Alright guys, time to wrap it up. Sztynort, as agreed?" – asked Mr. Piotrek.

"Yep, we’ve got a spot reserved at the pier. Besides, I need to get some soup at 'The Fisherman’s Daughter'. And remember, tonight I’m taking whoever’s up for it to the von Lehndorff Mausoleum – bring flashlights!" – replied Mr. Krzysiek.

"Ah yes, your trademark act and that creepy story about the red eyes. The girls are gonna be freaked out for two days again!" – laughed Mr. Paweł.

"Well, they need something to remember the trip by," grinned Mr. Krzysiek.

"Alright then, off you go, we’ll see you in Sztynort. Crew, enough splashing! Piotrek, Krzysiek, head to your boats. Crews, return to your vessels, prepare for departure!" – our skipper commanded.

A few minutes later, the three Antilas detached, started their engines, and leisurely headed toward the Sztynort Canal, passing the infamous Sztynort Rocks on the right.

“Crossing the canal only takes a few minutes,” said Mr. Krzysiek, “and on the left there’s an awesome swimming spot with a dry reed-covered bottom. If it’s hot tomorrow, we’ll swim there.”

The Sztynort Canal didn’t exactly blow me away with scenic views – except for a fisherman awkwardly casting his rod across the main sailing path, with the float stuck right in the middle!

“What a guy,” I thought to myself.

He quickly reeled in and cast again, far away from us this time. And we entered Lake Sztynort.

And that’s when my jaw dropped.

A forest! A real forest! A forest of masts!
Silver mast-trunks crowded almost the entire northern shore of the lake.

"Whoa no way… do you see how many there are??" – I shouted.

“Oh wooooow…” – sighed Malwina.

“Keep an eye out for Pier No. 3, that’s where our boats are docked,” Mr. Krzysiek told me.

“Aye aye! I’m heading to the bow to prep the front line?”

“Yeah, go ahead. Girls, prep the fenders – two on the left, two on the right, waterline level for now,” commanded our skipper.

“Marek, Grzesiek, Adam – clean up the cockpit, coil the spare lines, everything unnecessary goes below deck. We need to make a clean, elegant entrance into the marina.”

The crew jumped to their tasks. Meanwhile, our Antila, smoothly maneuvered, approached the dock. Mr. Krzysiek spotted Pier 3, shifted the gear and turned the tiller. The yacht slowly rotated stern-first into the assigned spot. The guys were already ready with the lines, which we looped through the Y-boms' cleats and back onto the deck with practiced ease. All while still moving – it was like well-oiled machinery. So cool!

“We’re moored!” – came the long-awaited command.

“Staszek, Marek – help the others dock. Grzesiek – tidy up the deck, please,” Mr. Krzysiek instructed as he jumped off the yacht onto the pier.

“Adam and Julka – lines. Coil up the excess. Also, turn off the gas. Zosia, come help me sort things below deck. Let’s tidy up, folks! Mr. Krzysiek needs to be happy when he gets back.”
Grzesiek was clearly stepping into his role as second officer (well, obviously I’m the first, right?).

The rest of our boats docked quickly. We tossed lines back and forth, and soon everything was secured. Marek and I returned to our boat and dove into the front locker, loudly debating whether we were having rice with Bolognese sauce or pasta with Bolognese sauce.

The sun was setting, and the marina smelled of food. The "greens" made a massive scramble with onions and sausages. We, the "reds", voted for rice, and a huge steaming pot was placed on the cockpit table. The "blues" were frying up some sketchy-looking cheese (tofu?) in thick slices, stuffing it into tortillas with veggies and spices.

All thirty of us shouted "Enjoy your meal!" and started devouring our dishes.

“Skippers, I’m going for that soup at ‘The Daughter’. Who’s coming?” – asked Mr. Krzysiek.

"Me!" – I blurted – "I’ve heard so much about it, I have to try it."

“Cool, you’re invited,” smiled our skipper.

**“You’ve got an hour now – dishes, cleanup. Showers are included in the stay, go if you want. After that, anyone who wants to play beach volleyball, head to the court with Mr. Piotrek. Piotrek, you’re on that?”

He nodded.

“And whoever’s interested, meet me at the clearing by that big tree. We’re doing a session about shanties and shantymen.”
The rope, stretched as tight as a guitar string, creaked loudly. I wondered who would give in first – us or the rope?
Mr. Krzysiek, wrapping up our shanty lesson, was proving the superiority of synchronized rope-pulling over the chaotic, all-out tug-of-war style.
Indeed, the loud "heeeeeey ho!" from our appointed shantyman fired us up against the opposing team, who were pulling the rope their way, shouting to the rhythm of their own leader.
After a minute, maybe two, neither team had managed to drag the rope to their side – but I definitely felt like my hands were on fire!

"STOOOOOOP!" – shouted Mr. Krzysiek.

Phew! We all rubbed our burning hands, raw from the rough rope.

"So, my dears, do we agree that you need a shantyman and some good synchro?" – our skipper asked.

"Yeeees!"

"It was easier this time."

"Well, it ended in a tie, and they actually had more girls on their team."

Everyone started responding all at once.

"Rinse your hands in cold water, that'll stop the burning. Okay, you’ve got free time now until 9:30 PM. Anyone who wants to join the flashlight hike to the mausoleum to hear a certain story, sign up with Staszek," said Mr. Krzysiek.
"It’s optional – whoever doesn’t want to go can stay in the port with the other skippers. You can also go to bed early, do some laundry, play UNO – whatever you feel like. Quiet time starts at 10:00 PM as usual – try to be back on board by then."

9:30 came quickly. We stood at the entrance to the piers with our flashlights, surrounded by the scent of OFF, MUGGA, and all sorts of anti-mosquito sprays.

"Alright, in two lines, by crews, facing me – roll call!" came the command.

"Eight… ten… twelve... Piotrek, I’m taking the twelve with me, the rest stay with you," Mr. Krzysiek called out.

"Just make sure they’re able to sleep afterward," laughed Mr. Piotrek, waving at us from his Antila.

"Right turn, Staszek you’re rear guard, march!" – our skipper shouted, jogging up to the front of our two-file formation.

We passed the Prussian Lady restaurant on our right – the local favorite – as well as a few food trucks selling (believe it or not) Portuguese food, ice cream, and next to them, a small stage. Just before this weird vehicle with massive wheels, we turned right, cut across the volleyball court and the meadow, and got onto a path. We left the manor buildings and the fancy hotel behind us and headed toward the fields. Soon we turned left onto a dirt road. Huge bales of hay dried in the fields, and the scent of grilled food and campfires carried all the way out here. The evening chill from the fields was slowly starting to win against the warmth of the sun-soaked ground.

"Mr. Krzysiek, what’s the story? Why do we have to go there? Is it far? Why won’t we be able to sleep after?" – the girls from our crew started bombarding him with questions.

"You'll see... muahahaha!" – our skipper laughed ominously.

"Julka, Mr. Krzysiek is totally messing with you. It’s probably just some old ruins or something. We’ll just get eaten alive by mosquitoes," said Malwina.

"A mosquito is a creature too. It deserves a little luxury," I said.

"Exactly!" – laughed Mr. Krzysiek.

It wasn’t close – though on the map it had looked like it was just around the corner. After about thirty minutes of walking (the last part in complete darkness, since we’d entered the forest), Mr. Krzysiek ordered us to turn on our flashlights. The whole way, we could still hear music coming from the port – another shanty band concert, it seemed.

Old crosses, covered in moss, with dates like eighteen hundred and... – the rest faded and unreadable. In front of another cross, a narrow ditch, like a collapsed grave.
Such an atmosphere! – I thought. The moon rose over the trees and in its glow we saw a small tower – maybe part of a chapel? – which made it all feel even more surreal.
Our “little titmice,” as Mr. Krzysiek called the girls, fell silent and kept looking around nervously, flashing their lights into the darkest corners of the forest.

Mr. Krzysiek sat down on the crumbling steps, lit his face with the red beam of his flashlight, motioned for us to come closer, and we formed a half-circle around him.

The music from the port faded away…

"Welcome to the mausoleum of the von Lehndorff family," said Mr. Krzysiek, lowering his voice for dramatic effect.

I felt the hairs on the back of my neck slowly rise...

"Listen to my story – something that happened right here in Sztynort twenty years ago, when I came here with some friends..."
he began.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight...”

“Yeah... me neither!”

“Mr. Krzysiek, did the story really have to be that scary?”

Ah, these girls… I thought to myself as we stepped out of the forest and laid eyes on the Sztynort marina. Bright, lively, full of music and dancing – the port was alive.

Walking down the dirt road toward our marina, the night chill had started to set in. Mist hovered above the fields, mosquitoes buzzed like crazy, music drifted from the port – in other words, classic Mazury summer.

“So, crew – how was it?” asked Mr. Piotrek.

“It was sooo cool! Mr. Krzysiek told us this story about a real murderer from Sztynort – and that he came face to face with him!” – one of the girls shouted.

“Sounds like it was awesome!” – replied Mr. Piotrek.

We all burst out laughing.

“I mean, the trip was awesome, not that it was great Mr. Krzysiek met a murderer!” – Piotrek laughed along with us.

We reached our dock.

“Okay, my dears, we’re almost there. It’s super late, so you’ve got literally 10 minutes for teeth, bathroom, and then it’s bedtime. Tomorrow, as always, we’ve got lots of sailing ahead, so we all need to be well-rested,” said Mr. Krzysiek.

Yeah, WE need rest, I thought to myself. Our skippers stay up for another hour or two, watching over everything until we’re all asleep. But of course they do – they’re making sure we’re safe and tucked into our bunks.
After a full day in the sun, swimming in the lake, sailing, and now the night hike, I was definitely feeling tired – and honestly, I was already looking forward to diving into my sleeping bag.

Back on the boat, we scattered to grab our toothbrushes and rushed off to the bathrooms. On the way back, I spotted Mr. Krzysiek sitting on the boom, leaning against the mast with his guitar in hand, softly strumming.
He once told us that guitarists have a duty to play every single day – even if it’s just for a moment.
Sometimes I can’t tell when he’s joking and when he’s serious… but this time, I think it was a joke.

Snuggling into my sleeping bag, I thought about tomorrow – we’d be heading to Lake Dobskie, a designated quiet zone where we’d be sleeping by a small pier.
I knew “quiet zone” meant no engines – just sails.
So how were we going to maneuver in the port? Since in Mazury, using the engine for docking and port maneuvers is actually required. Hmm. I was really curious how our skippers would handle that...

Today was an awesome day. Honestly, every day out here is awesome – but tonight we’d fall asleep to the sound of water lapping against the boat, soft guitar music, and the gentle creaking of the rigging…

Yeah… it was a really good day.