What my guests say

Greg:

Let me just get this out of the way: that sailing trip with Peter on Antares was one of the most tedious experiences of my life. While everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves, I spent the entire time counting down the minutes until it was over.

First off, Peter was his usual self—overly cheerful, ready to spin another yarn or drop some “sailing wisdom” at the drop of a hat. I get that he loves the sea and all that, but does he have to talk about it non-stop? The stories were endless, and frankly, I lost interest after the first few. But Peter just kept going, as if we were all hanging on his every word. Spoiler alert: I wasn’t.

Then there was the wind—or lack thereof. We were practically dead in the water, barely moving, and Peter took that as an opportunity to break out the cheese. Really? I didn’t sign up for a glorified picnic on a boat. But Peter, in his infinite enthusiasm, seemed to think this was the perfect moment to “enjoy the finer things.” I couldn’t care less about the cheese, but everyone else was acting like it was some gourmet experience.

And don’t even get me started on the cappuccino. I don’t know what’s worse—drifting aimlessly or doing it with a lukewarm cup of coffee in hand while Peter reminisces about some ancient voyage. He served it like it was the highlight of the trip, but it was just another excuse to drag out the day.

Peter’s selection of fine Portuguese and New Zealand wines? Let’s just say it didn’t do much to improve the situation. Sure, Peter probably thought he was impressing everyone with his “refined” taste in wines, but to me, it was just another gimmick to try and distract from the fact that we were stuck on a boat, barely moving.

The wines might have been good—I wouldn’t know, because by the time Peter was waxing poetic about the “notes” and “hints” in each glass, I’d already checked out mentally. I’m sure everyone else was nodding along, savoring each sip, but to me, it was just another part of the endless charade of trying to make a dull trip seem interesting.

The others seemed to be soaking it all in, laughing along with Peter, pretending like this was the best day ever. Meanwhile, I was just trying to keep myself from losing it. The whole trip felt like an endurance test—a long, slow, drawn-out exercise in boredom, complete with snacks and stories I didn’t ask for.

So yeah, while everyone else might have had the time of their lives, I can’t say the same. If I never set foot on Antares again, it’ll be too soon. Peter can keep his stories, his cheese, the wine, and his cappuccinos—I’ll pass.

Lucas:

Oh, man, let me tell you about that time I went sailing with Peter on his sailboat, Antares. Now, don't get me wrong—I respect Peter a lot. The guy's a seasoned sailor, and he's got that whole "wise sea captain" vibe going on with his dark hair and that greying beard. Plus, he's genuinely a nice guy, always welcoming and making sure everyone's having a good time. But sailing? Not exactly my cup of tea.

You know me—I'm used to the powerboats. Give me an engine, a throttle, and open water, and I'm set. The whole idea of relying on the wind, adjusting sails, watching telltales—it's all so… slow. And man, Peter was on my case the entire time. "Lucas, you're not watching the wind," or "Lucas, you're veering off course." I felt like a rookie, and I don't like feeling like a rookie.

And it wasn't just about handling the boat. There was all this prep work. Peter’s meticulous, which is good—I get it, safety first. But between checking the rigging, making sure every piece of equipment was in order, and listening to his brief on emergency procedures, I was itching to just get going. You don't get that with powerboats. You turn the key, the engine roars to life, and you're off. Simple.

Once we were out there, though, I have to admit, Antares was impressive. It's a well-maintained boat, and Peter knows the Baltic Sea like the back of his hand. He'd point out all these hidden coves and tell stories about the places we were passing, which was cool. But I couldn't really relax because I was constantly being corrected. Sailing takes a level of concentration that I just wasn't used to.

Peter’s passion for sailing is infectious, though. You can tell he loves being out on the water, and he wants everyone else to love it too. But I’m more of a "pedal to the metal" kind of guy. Maybe it’s just the difference between being a powerboat captain and a sailor. I like the speed, the power, the control. With sailing, you’re at the mercy of the wind. It was a bit frustrating, to be honest.

But hey, I survived the trip, and I learned a thing or two. Peter’s a great skipper, no doubt about it. But if I had to choose? I’d stick with my powerboats. Faster, simpler, and a lot less yelling about wind and sails!

Almut:

As I stepped Antares onto Antares, the first thing I noticed was the condition of the deck. It’s a good boat, don’t get me wrong, but time leaves its marks on even the most cherished vessels. The gelcoat was faded in places, with small patches where it had started to crack and craze. Not unexpected for a boat from 1977, but it told me that Antares had seen her fair share of sun, salt, and sea. The wear wasn’t a sign of neglect—there’s a difference, and I could tell that Peter took care of his boat. But I couldn’t help but see the age in her. Antares ihren Anteil an Sonne, Salz und Meer erlebt hatte. Der Verschleiß war kein Zeichen von Vernachlässigung—da gibt es einen Unterschied, und ich konnte sehen, dass Peter gut auf sein Boot achtete. Aber ich konnte nicht anders, als das Alter in ihr zu sehen.

The rigging was solid, but I noticed a few spots where the lines looked a little frayed, not dangerously so, but enough to catch my attention. I made a mental note to mention it to Peter later, just in case he hadn’t noticed. You know how it is with your own boat—sometimes you become blind to the little things. The sails, too, were well-used. They still had life in them, but I could see they’d been patched up here and there. A good job on the repairs, though, no doubt about that. Peter’s meticulous nature showed through in the small details.

Inside, the cabin was cozy, exactly as I expected from a boat like this. The layout was efficient, and the space, while not luxurious, was comfortable. But there was that familiar scent of age—wood, varnish, and just a hint of mildew that’s hard to avoid after so many years on the water. The cushions were a little worn, and the hardware, while functional, had clearly been through a lot. The stove, though—it’s one of those old models that I haven’t seen in years. Reliable, sure, but I wondered how much longer it would hold up.

Als wir schließlich in See stachen, zeigte die Antares When we finally set sail, Antares showed her true colors. She moved through the water with grace, a testament to her design. Sirius 26s have always had a reputation for being solid, dependable boats, and this one was no exception. I could feel the years of experience in the way she handled the waves, steady and sure, even if she lacked the quick responsiveness of a newer vessel.

Peter was in his element, his dark hair blowing in the wind, his focus entirely on the task at hand. He handled Antares with confidence, clearly knowing her quirks and how to get the best out of her. But as we sailed, I couldn’t help but notice the creaks and groans that came from the boat as she cut through the waves. Again, nothing serious, but they spoke of a boat that had been well-loved and well-used. Antares mit Zuversicht, kannte offensichtlich ihre Eigenheiten und wusste, wie man das Beste aus ihr herausholt. Aber während wir segelten, konnte ich die Knarzen und Stöhnen des Bootes nicht überhören, als es die Wellen durchbrach. Wieder nichts Ernstes, aber sie sprachen von einem Boot, das gut gepflegt und viel genutzt worden war.

I found myself enjoying the sail more than I expected. Antares Antares might not be as pristine as some of the newer boats I’ve been on, but she had character, history. There’s something special about a boat that’s been around as long as she has, something that newer models just can’t replicate. Every little imperfection, every bit of wear and tear, told a story of the journeys she’d been on, the storms she’d weathered, and the countless hours Peter had spent at her helm.

By the time we returned to port, I had a new appreciation for Antares. AntaresYes, she had her deficiencies—her age showed in a hundred small ways. But those same things made her what she was: a boat with soul, a boat with memories. And despite the little issues I’d noticed, I found myself looking forward to the next time I could sail on her. There’s a certain charm in sailing an old, reliable boat like Antares. She might not be perfect, but in her own way, she’s just right. Antares zu segeln. Sie ist vielleicht nicht perfekt, aber auf ihre Weise ist sie genau richtig.

Markus

As a passionate sailor with a love for classic wooden boats, I couldn’t resist when the opportunity arose to spend a few days on Antares Antares zu verbringen. Lübeck, der Heimathafen dieses 26 Fuß langen GFK-Bootes, bot den perfekten Startpunkt, um die Ostsee zu erkunden. Obwohl ich normalerweise den Duft von Teakholz, den Glanz polierter Mahagonileisten und das Knarren eines alten Holzrumpfes bevorzuge, wollte ich Antares eine faire Chance geben.

At first glance, Antares is a solid boat. She has the robust construction typical of 70s fiberglass boats, built for safety and stability. But the first thing I noticed was the absence of the warmth of wood that I was used to from my previous sailing experiences. Apart from the tiller and the toe rail there is hardly any wood on board. The interior of the boat is functional, cozy, and well-maintained—but it lacks the charm and character that a wooden boat exudes.

The toe rail was another issue. It had clearly seen better days. The wood was worn, cracked in places, and definitely needed replacing. It reminded me of boats waiting for restoration in the shipyard, and I couldn’t help but feel a bit sorry for this last remaining wooden feature. It was as if the toe rail told tales of earlier times when boats still had handcrafted woodwork on deck. But on Antares, not much of that remained.

As for the sailing performance, I couldn’t really complain. Antares handled smoothly and steadily, though she gave me the sense that she was built more for comfort and safety than for sporty performance. The waves didn’t bother her, and she cut through the water with confidence, surely thanks to the solid fiberglass construction. Still, I missed the direct feedback I was used to from my wooden boats—that feeling that the boat beneath you is alive and working with you.

As I steered the boat, with the tiller in my hands, I could sense Peter’s love for Antares. It was obvious that he took good care of her and that this boat had many stories to tell. But as a fan of classic wooden boats, I couldn’t help but feel that something important was missing. That special, almost nostalgic feeling when the wind sweeps over wooden planks, the smell of fresh varnish lingers in the air, and every movement on board connects you to the traditions of boatbuilding.

Antares may not be a beauty made of mahogany and teak, but she has her own strengths. Antares Antares is the perfect boat for someone who values reliability and functionality without the constant maintenance that a wooden boat requires. For me, it was an interesting experience, but after returning to the harbor in Lübeck, I knew I would soon start longing again for the warmth of a true wooden boat.

At the end of the day, the trip on Antares was pleasant and safe, despite the lack of wooden elements. But for a lover of classic sailboats, a fiberglass boat remains exactly that—practical, but without the magic of old times.

Bernhard:

As a passionate regatta sailor, accustomed to the narrow waterways of Berlin, I was eager to set sail with Peter on his Antares Antares and tackle the Baltic Sea. Unlike the bustling regatta courses, where I thrive on sailing closely in the pack, Peter’s approach to sailing was entirely different, something I quickly realized.

At the first opportunity, when another sailboat came into view, I instinctively steered closer. I wanted to savor the thrill of slipping past other boats, feeling the wind and the tension of tight maneuvers. But Peter saw things very differently. He made it quite clear that he was not comfortable with such situations. "Bernhard, if you can count the number of people on board another boat, you're too close," he said firmly. While his words were polite, the message was unmistakable: here, we keep our distance – and with emphasis. For someone like me, who loves sailing in the thick of it, this was a bit of a shock.

But that wasn’t all. The next thing that really threw me was Peter's stance on garlic. During dinner on board, he casually mentioned, "Anyone who eats garlic will spend the next day in the dinghy – 25 meters behind Antares." AntaresAt first, I thought he was joking, but Peter’s serious expression quickly made it clear that he wasn’t. For a garlic lover like me, this was a small tragedy! Spending the next day in the dinghy? No, thank you! The culinary restrictions were as firmly set as the rules on the water.

Despite these differences, I had to admit that Peter’s Antares Antares was a reliable boat, and he himself a skilled skipper. His style of sailing was different – quieter, perhaps more deliberate – than what I was used to from regattas. Where I sought speed and tight maneuvers, he sought open space and tranquility. It was an experience that challenged me in ways I hadn’t expected.

In the end, I had no choice but to adapt. Antares Antares was Peter’s domain, and the rules were clear. For my future trips, though, I’ll make sure there’s enough room for both sailing philosophies – and maybe I’ll leave the garlic at home!