An Outsider’s Journey Through the Ancient Art of Skûtsjesilen

Ah yes, ashore in Heeg—a quaint Frisian town brimming with participants and enthusiasts. The crew disperses, and I follow the skipper to the office, where handshakes, paperwork, and people flow through the acceptance process. Once we’ve crossed that bridge, we cross another, leading us to the other side of the village. There, we settle in with beverages, quietly observing the beauty of life at its most peaceful, even as everyone within that panorama is preparing for battle.

Then, the moment arrives. As if summoned by a silent signal, everyone moves in unison toward their barges. The same ritual unfolds: carefully stepping across and trusting the hands that guide you from vessel to vessel. Here, I must pause and confess, no one, least of all the skipper, bothered to explain the rules to me. Instead, he shared his family’s history and the legacy of the barge, a story stretching back through generations.
Families who once transported coal often lived in the barge’s cabin during the winter season. The space was small but contained a little oven to cook and keep the children warm, a few secret nooks for safekeeping, and—yes—the skipper told me how the tradition of Skûtsjesilen began. But let me finish this tale before I unravel that thread.

My role seemed simple: hoist the heavy rope quickly down the narrow stairs into the cabin. No biggie, right? I assure you, my days spent preparing sand for my sculptures felt lighter, at least in memory. Backing out wasn’t an option. And, of course, minding the big boom (the horizontal pole attached to the bottom of the sail that swings across the deck) to avoid cracking my skull on the way down was part of the job, too. Meanwhile, I absorbed the spectacle: these giants of the water circling tiny flags with improbable grace. It was fucking extraordinary—pure exhilaration.

During the race, I inadvertently broke a rule. Caught up in the moment, I couldn’t help but exclaim my admiration for a manoeuvre made by Ulbe. The nearest crew members looked up, their faces etched with utter disbelief. But Ulbe just smiled. Somehow, this man, feared and respected by everyone, had found a certain respect for me and a tolerance for my otherness.
That’s the thing about this culture: respect isn’t a given. It’s earned, and once lost, it’s gone forever. Here, people have been forged by adversity for centuries, expected to tough it out, prove themselves time and again, and demonstrate they are worthy of respect.

I suspect Ulbe never bothered to explain the rules because he saw me moving naturally on his vessel. Ulbe had even allowed me to grab the ship’s wheel, almost bigger than me, on his other boat. (This wasn’t a skûtsje, nor even a tjalk, but an Aak- one of those capacious, gracefully rounded Dutch cargo vessels, designed with a shallow draft for navigating the intricate web of inland waterways. Unlike the more utilitarian Tjalks, Aaks possess a distinctive elegance, with broad hulls and sweeping lines hinting at strength and subtlety. The sheer scale of it was humbling, and the trust Ulbe showed by handing over the wheel was not lost on me. Of course, he knew I was genuinely interested in the real history, not just the spectacle.

But back to the race: witnessing the dance between wind, water, opponents, and crew was an honour. There’s a raw, unspoken poetry in how these elements collide and cooperate, a choreography as old as the Frisians.
The second race was delayed, not by the wind’s ferocity, but by its absence. With sails hanging limp and time to spare, the crew adjusted their expectations, cracked open a few beers, and anchored alongside others in open water. The waiting stretched on, not a moment of calm, but a vivid interlude. Music sounded, voices rose, and anchored in the stillness of the lake, the energy simply refused to pause.. When the race finally resumed, I chose to watch from ashore, letting the spectacle unfold from a distance.

After the races, the celebratory hall brimmed with laughter, clinking glasses, and the exuberance that only follows a day spent chasing wind and water. The victors were lauded, and the rest of us were content to celebrate survival and spectacle.

Memory, however, is a fickle shipmate. I recall, with equal certainty, two endings to that day. In one, I slipped away from the revelry, seeking sanctuary in the minivan’s quiet, only to be roused by Ulbe and his crew, their surprise at my ability to drive nearly as great as their thirst.
In another, I arrived with the whole entourage at Ulbe’s house, a big, welcoming place with an even bigger table. Steaming bowls of snert (the legendary Dutch split pea soup, thick enough to anchor a spoon) awaited us, and stories flowed as freely as the beer.

Certainly, it was two nights, yet the mind, like a river, braids its channels. What remains clear is the warmth of the room, of the soup, of belonging- however fleeting- among those bound by tradition and tide.

May Harmony find you,

Irena Phaedra

P.S. “Oant sjen!”

We will see each other again, somewhere between wind, water, and memory.