Staande Mastroute - 53°19' 47' N 06° 55' 52" E

Once again, Chinook might go cross-country instead of 'cross the sea.

Due to the weather conditions in the North Sea, we found ourselves contemplating something we hadn’t expected to do at all—the Staande Mastroute, or Standing Mast Route, through the Netherlands.

We had actually eyed this route after our jaunt through the Göta Canal, but our trusty cruising guide had put a rather large spanner in the works. It stated that the route was limited to a mast height of 18 metres. With our mast standing at a lofty 21 metres, we had rather reluctantly filed that thought under “not going to happen.”

But the North Sea had other ideas. With the weather not in our favour and the prospect of spending more time than we wanted bashing to windward along the Dutch coast, the Standing Mast Route suddenly started looking rather attractive.

Then, as luck would have it, we met the most lovely Dutch couple who completely changed the equation. They assured us that our 21-metre mast would indeed fit through the route. Better still, they didn’t just give us verbal encouragement—they generously handed us the guide, a list of bridge opening times and the all-important website for checking current conditions. Suddenly, the impossible became possible!

Having breakfast onboard Hout Vaart with Rob and Agnes.  Notice that Chinook is tied alongside?
Rafting is a great trick for moving from boat to boat.

... and this is where we rafted, spent the night and then had breakfast.

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Staande Mastroute is a network of inland waterways designed to allow boats with an air draft higher than 6 metres to travel through the Netherlands without lowering the mast (which, in our case, would mean detaching the standing rigging, lifting it off Chinook with a crane and building a truss on the deck or having it shipped to our endpoint). The route connects the Delta waters in the south with the IJsselmeer, Friesland and Groningen in the north, providing a sheltered alternative to the often less-than-friendly waters of the North Sea.

Of course, there is a slight difference between “boats with masts over 6 metres can use the route” and “a boat with a 21-metre mast can squeeze through all those bridges.” That was the bit we were about to discover for ourselves.

There was, however, a small hiccup—or perhaps a fairly significant one—when we discovered that the bridge at Uitwellingerga was undergoing repairs and could not open. So rather than exiting at Lemmer into the Ijsselmeer, we decided to take the northern route across Groningen and Friesland from Delfzijl to Harlingen.

Armed with the route, the bridge schedules and the confidence of our Dutch friends, we decided to give it a go.

21 metres of mast, low water levels, dozens of bridges, and a few locks thrown in for good measure?

And so began our Dutch inland adventure.

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Instead of worrying about wind, waves and a rolling North Sea, our attention shifted to bridge heights, opening times, locks, water levels and exactly how much clearance we had above our mast. Suddenly, our daily navigation routine involved a lot more looking upwards! It promised to be a very different kind of sailing—slow, precise and occasionally nerve-racking, but also fascinating as we threaded our way through the Dutch waterways.

The Waterkaart, run sheet and VHF radio

After a stop in Heligoland to refuel, we had a glorious sail to Delfzijl on the Ems estuary.  In the dying lights,  we wound our way up the channel lined with wind turbines into a very commercial harbour.  Due to the very low water levels on the rivers such as the Danube, many of the barges were finding their way to the waterways of Holland.

Sailing into the mouth of the Ems River, the channel is well defined.
Navigation buoy near Heligoland

Motoring into Delfzijl, surrounded by wind turbines

Down the Zeehavenkanal towards Delfzjil.

Impressively large drydocks with ships inside , Delfzijl harbour

We slipped through the lock and the journey began.  

A call to the Bridgemaster and 'open sesame'! 

The bridge masters were a friendly lot. Most of the bridges were controlled centrally and operated by remote control, but the older, smaller bridges in the towns were manned by a bridge master—and his/her bicycle.

This created a rather charming system. We would go under a bridge and wait while it closed behind us. The bridge master would then jump on his/her bicycle, pedal furiously to the next bridge and open it for us. And so it went on, bridge by bridge through the town, with us following along the canal while our trusty bridge master cycled ahead. It was wonderfully old-fashioned and, somehow, incredibly efficient.

The traffic-light system was equally straightforward. 

• A red light means stop.
• A red and green light means, “I've seen you and the bridge will open shortly.” 
• A green light means go!

There was something reassuring about seeing that red-and-green light appear. It meant someone was watching out for us and, somewhere up ahead, a bridge master was getting ready to earn his bicycle mileage.

Dodging rowers as we pass through Groningen

Barge homes line the banks in the towns

And cows 

And crops

Russell is a dap hand on the helm ... and looking VERY smart in his crew cap.

Which way? Oh wait, there is a 'road' sign...

Big, black clouds don't scare us on the canal

Fishing boats?  Yep, an easy trip out to the North Sea from here

Nothing says Holland quite like a windmill

And another

This is how we will alway think of the Standing Mast route.

Dogs barking at the passing boats.  Sean may or may not have been "moo-ing" at them.

This is the land of the Friesian - the most common breed of dairy cows in the world. 
And it all started here around 2000 years ago.

A windmill of a different vintage

And another traditional one!

Handy signage to keep us on the straight and narrow

Look carefully and you will see the bow and stern of this ship are actually connect. Heavily laden barges plough up and down the canals, seemingly ready to sink.

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After a wonderful five days pottering along the canals, we finally popped out into the Wadden Sea at Harlingen. From there it was a short motor across to the Afsluitdijk, the enormous dike that separates the Wadden Sea from the IJsselmeer.

Due to the unusually low water levels being experienced across Europe, the locks were having to be carefully managed, with water being conserved wherever possible. When we arrived, boats had already been waiting for two hours to get through the lock.

Oh my goodness! Didn’t this produce some sport.

Both lock chambers were absolutely jam-packed with boats, all manoeuvring for position in what was a very small space. Boats were squeezing past each other, engines were burbling away, fenders were taking a beating and everyone appeared to have a slightly different idea about where they should be.

All the boats are circling, getting ready to enter the lock.  Are we all going to fit?

It was all rather terrifying, particularly when you consider our solar panels protruding WAAAY up high and out astern, the high lock walls and very little room for error. Somehow, though, everyone behaved themselves, nobody collided with anything important, and we eventually emerged from the other side completely unscathed—as, remarkably, did all the boats around us.

The boat to the right is Hout Vaart owned by the lovely Agnes and Rob who made this adventure
possible with their advice and encouragement - and feed us some wonderful meals along the way. 
Thanks Agnes and Rob!

Phew!

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We were back in open water of the IJsselmeer, the mast was still standing, solar panels intact and our nerves were only slightly frayed. Another little Dutch adventure successfully negotiated.

Happy to be sailing once more