Mission accomplished, Proasis is officially the first proa design ever to finish the famous Silverrudder race! I made it from Svendborg to Svendborg after 34 hours, 38 minutes and 17 seconds after sailing a distance of approximately 135 nm. Here is a detailed account how I experienced the race:
Leaving the Svendborg sund just after the start
Due to a very bad weather forecast a week ahead of the start—the first storm of the season had just passed through—I decided to sail Proasis to Svendborg two weeks early. When I arrived, the harbor was almost empty, and I think Proasis may have been the first boat there.
Two weeks later, when I returned, the contrast couldn’t have been greater: the harbor was packed, and Proasis was already attracting attention thanks to her unusual look.
The Thursday before the start passed quickly with last-minute preparations and many enjoyable conversations. The wind was still strong and gusty in the wake of the storm, but it eased slightly overnight, setting the stage for the days ahead.
The next day the race began for me with waiting. With more than 400 participants, the Silverrudder fleet is divided into groups by size and type (monohull or multihull), each starting 30 minutes apart. The smallest keelboats go first, and the largest multihulls start last.
Proasis, competing in the small multihull class, was in the second-to-last group. Watching all my friends head out while the packed harbor slowly emptied felt strange—like the party had already started without me.
The start itself was rather unspectacular. Only 12 boats made up the small multihull class, and I took it easy, assuming they would all be much faster anyway. To my surprise, I soon found myself in a duel with Tim on his Dragonfly 25 and even managed to pass him for a while.
The course east of Fyn, between Langeland, began as a downwind reach. With flat water thanks to the offshore wind, the conditions were practically tailor-made for Proasis. Still, the gusts remained strong, pushing well into the mid-20s. One after another, boats blew out their downwind sails.
At first, I was cautious, holding back in the gusts. But when TRI—one of the large trimarans and eventual overall winner—blasted past me at double my speed under a massive gennaker, I thought: screw it. I hoisted the kite myself.
The effect was immediate: Proasis took off like a rocket, hitting 12–13 knots in the gusts and averaging 9–10 knots. The long reach to the northern cape of the island turned into the fastest stretch I have ever sailed on her.
After passing under the Great Belt Bridge, I had closed the gap to the extra-large and large keelboats and was ripping through the field like a jet on afterburner. Proasis was in her element, and it felt incredible to carve through the bigger, heavier boats at speed.
By the time I reached the cape, I had already overtaken the first of the small keelboats—despite the fact that they had started two hours earlier. The realization that I was reeling in boats from multiple classes gave me a huge boost of confidence and made the leg even more exhilarating.
By this time the wind had eased considerably, dropping to around 15 knots. From here on it was close-hauled sailing all the way to the Small Belt—and the clock was ticking. The Small Belt is notorious for its strong tidal currents, and the forecast predicted the flow would turn from favorable to unfavorable around 2 a.m. My goal was clear: get there early enough to slip through the narrows and under the infamous bridges before the tide turned.
But the wind kept softening: first to 12 knots, then 10, and eventually just 8. That range is where Proasis struggles most—her sail area is too small and her sail shape less than ideal. One by one, the keelboats I had stormed past earlier began creeping back up, while I could not managed to hold position with the other small multihulls.
Still, the sailing had its own reward. Under a calm, starry sky, the Milky Way arched brilliantly overhead, and I even caught a few shooting stars. Despite the frustration of slowing down, it was one of those rare, beautiful nights at sea that makes the effort worthwhile.
Unfortunately, time was working against me. By 2 a.m. I was only just approaching the entrance to the Small Belt, and I could already feel the current turning against me as I tacked up the narrow water under the first bridge.
When I reached the old train bridge, the scene ahead looked almost surreal. The water was filled with moving lights—mostly white, occasionally flickering to green or red. As I drew closer, the reason became clear: just below the bridge the wind had died completely, and those half of the fleet that had arrived too late, like me, was stuck in the current, drifting helplessly backwards.
To cut a long story short, we spent the rest of the night drifting. After a few hours, Proasis was pushed onto some piles near the shore. I took the opportunity, tied up to them, and decided to wait out the tide rather than lose more ground. It was a humbling pause in the race, but at least I was holding my position until the current shifted.
Unfortunately, the expected tidal shift never really came. The strong southwesterlies of the previous days had disrupted the pattern, and instead the wind swung further south while dropping to a whisper.
The result was a long, grinding Saturday. All morning and well into the afternoon I was forced to tack endlessly against both the current and the light breeze. Progress was painfully slow, and every gained mile felt hard-earned. It was a test of patience as much as sailing skill and physical endurance.
After clearing the island of Bågø, the wind finally picked up just enough for me to point directly where I needed to go. For a short while, it felt like the tide had turned in my favor.
But the relief didn’t last. From the west, a dark front of clouds rolled in, bringing first a curtain of pouring rain and then hammering gusts of wind. I can’t say for certain how strong those gusts were, but they were fierce enough to force me to reef down as much as possible just to keep Proasis under control.
The contrast was stark: from creeping along in light airs to suddenly battling through a storm line, the race reminded me once again how quickly the conditions over here can change.
Considering the duration of the race, the numerous shunting maneuvers over the past day, and the lack of sleep, the reefing pushed my exhaustion to the absolute limit. Even worse, just 15 minutes later, the squall was over, and I had to reverse everything…
At least from this point forward, I knew I was on the last 20 nm to the finish line, and this stretch was entirely downwind. Unfortunately, time was ticking again: the Svendborg Sound is known for very strong currents, and just before the finish line there is a bridge with narrow gaps between the pylons. So, just before sunset, I set all the sails I could to somehow make it before the tide turned. Unfortunately, I have no photo, but for a while I was sailing under two gennakers at the same time, rapidly approaching the finish line.
Fortunately, I got lucky and passed the bridge just at the moment when the current shifted, making it over the finish line without any issues after 34 hours, 38 minutes, and 17 seconds.
My only goal was to make it around, so mission accomplished. If I had been a bit luckier with the timing in the Small Belt, my time could have easily been 6–8 hours faster. But well, that’s part of the game.
Would I do it again? Maybe. It really comes down to the weather and whether it makes the race fun or not. I think we got pretty lucky this year.
