I waited for my host to wake up. I didn't want to leave without saying goodbye and he offered to give me a lift to the marina to save me an hour of walking. At 11:00 I checked to see if he was in the house, maybe he'd gone out earlier without me noticing.
I woke him. Despite his hangover, he was out of bed and we were on our way to the marina, with me once again behind the wheel. I didn't know not driving while hung over is a thing, but apparently it is. I've never had one.
Kids, don't drink and drive. Also, don't put yourselves in a situation where I have to drive stick for you.
I paddled on calm water across the southern end of the island and then turned into the north south fjord between the island and the mainland. I first felt the north wind that lasted all day.
My progress was pitiful. So slow I couldn't figure out where I was on the chart because I thought I was much further north, and an Island connected to the mainland by a bridge hid an important land marking harbor from me. My chart doesn't show bridges, which is a defect.
I stopped at 17:30 without having hit any of the distance landmarks I expected to find. I needed a toilet. Five identical red vacation homes were lined up above the water next to the small marina. The marina had a number of small cabinless fishing boats, each with five rods held ready in upright shafts. The wind made the fishing line sing.
I didn't want to take an afternoon poop in the marina with people about. Looking for a bathroom I found that none of those people spoke English. It turned out they were mostly German tourists on a fishing holiday.
Up at the red houses a number of them were cleaning and gutting their catch of the day. Families set to work happily with knives, fish, and a hose. Nobody knew where I might find a toilet. Nobody wanted to give me the least bit of help.
I walked past the last house and found a secluded spot next to the water. I used the fish cleaning hose to shower and slept in the one boat that had a cabin. It did not have fishing rods set up as the others did and only smelled mildly of gasoline.
The next day, while walking some distance from the marina I met a man who knew Schell, my Thursday night host. He had heard about me and was all too happy to host me in his guest cottage for Saturday and Sunday night.
Sunday was Tisha B'Av, the Jewish day day of mourning.