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On the Kiel Fjord:
On the road with a pilot
It is 10.30 am. A real splash of colour in the grey harbour of Strande - the sun is still struggling through the clouds - there it is: the bright orange pilot boat. Markus Böhm meets his colleague at the jetty. the watch station at the lock in Holtenau has registered 35 ships for the day - and each one needs its pilots. The captain collects the team and sets off for Kiel lighthouse at 25 knots in a calm Baltic Sea.
The small waves break at the bow of the boat and then roar away at the stern. The sky and water merge together on the horizon. The atmosphere is relaxed. The men can only laugh at the light swell. Here and there, the sailors crack a joke and take each other on their arms - "lotsisch", Markus explains with a wink. Concentrating, the captain steers the boat towards 54° 30' north latitude and 10° 16' east longitude, exactly where the Kiel lighthouse is located. "Do you remember? It looked like this here a few days ago," says the captain, holding his mobile phone in front of Markus with a video showing a raging Baltic Sea and a pilot boat swaying heavily. Markus nods knowingly. The 45-year-old has already got to know the water in all its facets and has seen the seas of the world - first as a ship mechanic, then as a navigator and finally as a pilot.
The lot of a pilot
"Either aviation or seafaring" - as a Swabian, Markus gave himself this ultimatum during the orientation phase of his professional career. As a good friend advised him against aviation, he headed out to sea. "Lake Constance was a bit too small for me, so I ended up in northern Germany," jokes the pilot. After training as a ship mechanic at Hapag Lloyd and a few years at sea, he went on to gain a degree in nautical science at Bremen University of Applied Sciences.
After completing his studies, connections from his training brought him to TT-Line, where he spent six years at sea as an officer on the Travemünde-Trelleborg ferry service. A private relationship? "Yes." Social contacts? "Very few." As a sailor, Markus knows what it's like to be away from your family, partner and friends for months on end. "In the little time I was at home, I had to almost desperately maintain or re-establish social contacts," he recalls. And although he loved his job, the vastness of the sea and the occasional silence and solitude, something new was needed. "I want to become a pilot," Markus announced to the GDWS authority (Directorate-General for Waterways and Shipping) in 2008 - after a total of eleven years at sea. No sooner said than done. Eight months later, he took up his post at Kiel Lighthouse. From now on, he is an advisor to captains, checks and supervises, is the first contact a foreign ship has with German waters, is the expert in the local fairway and the one who is supposed to symbolically guide a ship into safe harbour - just like a lighthouse.
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Rock in the surf
After just 15 minutes of driving, the three reinforced concrete foundations and the 33.5 metre high aluminium tower appear on the horizon. The red and white stands out from the grey that the sky still imposes on the overall picture on this day. The 50 metre long legs of the platform are at right angles to each other. "This allows the captains of the pilot boats to see which side of the piers they are protected on so that they can moor even in heavy seas," explains Markus. The surprisingly spacious concrete platform appears cool and rough, but from a distance it didn't seem that big.
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The crew of the pilot station know only too well how the beacon at a height of 29 metres provides warmth and safety at night. Inside the tower, an interior with 70s charm is revealed. Historic photos of a completely iced-over pilot station adorn the walls of the common rooms and once again emphasise how harmless the sea was on this day. Pilots and watchmen have the opportunity to fortify themselves, warm up and even rest in a bed to pass the time until their next assignment. Those who want to can brush their teeth in the bathroom - provided they don't mind the salt content of the tap water. "Even if I don't want to live here on the platform, the lighthouse gives me a feeling of coming home," reveals Markus, who still has about ten minutes until his mission.
The 45-year-old talks almost casually about his freelance role as second senior - the second "class representative", as they jokingly refer to it among colleagues - in the NOK II pilot brotherhood for the Kiel-Lübeck-Flensburg area. Here he is responsible for 35 employees, takes care of the administration and even organises the burial at sea of deceased colleagues. "My job is varied, but also risky," explains Markus. Not only due to the weather, but also financially. "No ship, no money." It goes without saying that closed locks can, to put it mildly, reduce a pilot's livelihood at times.
Off to new shores
Suddenly things move very quickly. The car transporter Ems Highway is to be approached. Markus and the captain run back to the pilot boat. It unerringly sets course for the colossus, which appears out of nowhere at the pilot transfer position to the east of the lighthouse. After just five minutes of travelling, Markus climbs aboard the Ems Highway via the pilot ladder. He is now jointly responsible for guiding the ship safely through the Kiel Fjord by advising the captain on navigation. From the lock in Kiel-Holtenau onwards, it is no longer in his hands. Here, another pilot guides the Ems Highway to Rüsterbergen, where it is handed over to the Brunsbüttel pilot brotherhood. Twice in an eight-hour shift, a pilot is to head for the Kiel lighthouse in order to be taken from there to a foreign ship. On this day, second senior mate Markus will once again advise, supervise and confidently guide through unknown paths. He then heads home, exhausted from the fresh sea air and intense concentration. Then he switches off the light - and a light goes on at Kiel lighthouse, ready for the next guest in the Kiel Fjord.