On September 4, 2021, Skipper (my dad), Mrs Captain (my mum), Bedste (my 92-year-old grandma), and I sailed De Gæ Nok from Juelsminde to X-Yachts in Haderslev, where she’ll spend the winter season being pampered and protected from the rough elements at the shipyard.
It was a beautiful, mild day, with just enough wind to make the sailing smooth and fun. As usual, we slowed down as we came through Fænøsund so we could honour my grandad’s memory by toasting in Fernet Branca shots at the point where we scattered his ashes following his passing over a decade ago. As usual, my grandma reminded us that soon we’ll be doing the same for her. As usual, I waved off that comment with a smile and a spiel about how fresh and vigorous she was: she’d be sailing until she was 100, at least!
Meandering through the long, narrow Haderslev Fjord, I savoured every moment of the gorgeous final hours of the ride in the clear, blue waves framed by rolling fields and meadows and the prettiest farm houses. When we finally got to the home of the X-Yachts and moored De Gæ Nok amongst all of her elegant smaller and bigger younger and older sisters, we hung around for a bit to drank champagne and thank the boat and each other for a good season. Bedste was a bit tired after the 7 hours at sea, so after tidying up a bit, we drove home and saved cleaning the boat for the next day.
On Sunday, my parents and I returned to rinse and scrub down every corner of the deck, handrails, and cockpit thoroughly, clean the inside of the boat carefully, and empty out everything that makes the boat a comfortable home. We folded all the sails and loaded them into our cars along with all of the cushions, kitchen equipment, and sailing clothes. All of this gear will spend the winter in the dry and warm attic in Juelsminde.
As I’m writing this post a few days into January 2022, the thought of the coming spring and the day when we’ll load the boat again and sail it back to Juelsminde is very appealing. At first we’ll go skiing in March, and then it’ll be time to start thinking about salt water again.
Sadly, however, 4 September would turn out to be my grandmother’s final day at sea. On 16 December, a mere month before her 93rd birthday, we lost her.
These are the thoughts I jotted down the day after her passing:
She once slipped a jellyfish down the back of my swimsuit when we were out swimming, maybe 25 years ago, maybe here in Juelsminde. It was a prank. A game. We played many games. In the water, around Denmark, abroad. She called me her sunshine girl, Camilla Dingsbums (German for ‘thingy’), or (as the only one) Camilla Victoria. This past summer, she was fit: sailing with us, working at a charity shop, going for walks and workouts with neighbours, hosting and visiting friends, driving her car so proudly, bragging about people thinking she was 63 not 93, dressing up in neat outfits, overcoming minor health setbacks, reminding us that ‘ill weeds grow apace’ — in all respects making the most of life, just as she always has been. She told me, ‘there are many doors in life, where we have to knock and ask kindly to be let in, because if we don’t, we’ll be left in the dark. People do reach out their hands, and I receive them openly. I too reach out my hand — to touch, help, and meet others. We must make an effort, step forward, and be curious.’
Resilient. Optimistic. Feisty. Zest for life.
Recently, there was a shift. Experiencing a health scare this autumn, she didn’t bounce back the same way she always has. She grew tired and seemed unable to muster her usual unflappable spirit. Started to feel weak and lonely. Was no longer happy just doing her own thing and seeing friends and family whenever anyone had time for her. Yet, resented the idea of growing dependent on other people. ‘I’ve had a good life. Now it’s OK if this ends,’ she said and stopped eating and drinking.
Having been home this past week to see her fade away has been valuable. This notion, today I can go see her, tomorrow I might not be able to anymore, was really powerful. I knew there was nowhere else I’d rather be. When I arrived last Sunday, she was happy to see me, smiled, and thanked me for the braided paper Christmas hearts that Sanoop and I made for her. The following days, I knew that I was mainly visiting her for my own sake — gradually growing used to the idea that it’s time for her to move on, as I was sitting there next to her bed, watching her sleep, stroking her hand, telling her how much she has meant to me throughout the past 34 years. At one point she woke up and told me that my hands were cold and started rubbing them between hers. Said that she was dreaming a lot — about all of us. Yesterday, my mum and I went to see her together. My mum had a feeling before we got there — and sure enough, Bedste found her peace on that gloriously clear and sunny day.
A child during the war, she grew up with a fascinating German mother, a Danish father, who was part of the resistance movement, and a half-brother, who was forced by the German government to fight on their side of the war. She loved sports. In 1947, she and my grandad bought their first sail boat together, a wooden dinghy in which they spent their honeymoon, and went on to sail together for circa 60 years, accumulating countless friends and adventures on the waves. My grandad had type 1 diabetes: she’d boil his glass insulin syringes on jetties across the country. Their mantra was, De gæ nok (it’ll work out!). My first summer was spent on board their boat, and throughout the ‘90s, my brother and I enjoyed lots of adventures on the water and in marinas with them. They both were amazingly present, engaged, and inspiring grandparents till the end. A constant in our lives.
As a teenager, it always made me cringe when friends said they’d met her in town, as that would mean she’d have told them every last true and embellished detail about my, and likely also her own, life. If a story isn’t thrilling as it is — why not spruce it up a little? No doubt she loved my brother and me just as we were, though. She had all the time in the world for us. Drove us EVERYwhere as kids. Took us sailing and rowing. Let my brother cheat when we played card games. Saved my 100s of drawings and letters. Let us soil her kitchen with our messy cooking attempts and turn her lounge into blanket caves full of lego. Attended our sports and graduation events. Came skiing in Austria and Italy. Visited me in Copenhagen and London and video-called me in Singapore. Bragged about all the flowers my brother would bring her on a weekly basis. Paid attention to most things we were into. Showed an interest in everyone we were into. A few years ago, she took up English lessons to (meet new people and) be able to talk properly to Sanoop. I spent my first Christmas with her — and am grateful we escaped covid in London last Christmas to spend that holiday with her.
2 winters ago, we celebrated her 91st birthday in Düsseldorf. She ended up dancing about and downing Jägermeister shots with a group of strangers-instantly-turned-friends at a downtown brewery. We were in town because our new boat was on show at the annual boat fair there. Back in the day, she and my grandad taught everyone in the family to love sailing. I’m so glad she got to baptise De Gæ Nok this summer, making everyone at the event laugh with her brilliant speech. Her comic timing and dry humour were always on point. Next spring, sailing the boat back up north from its winter residence in Haderslev, we’ll drink a shot of fernet branca to each of them in Fænøsund.
I’m grateful for all of the memories.
Here’s her obituary on her local sail club’s website.
De Gæ Nok 
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