Roll out the Guns...

The excitement here never ends.
It is Week 5 of my urgent task to renovate the exhibit "Skepp i Strid" (Ship in Battle). Now it is time to select the particular artifacts that will be displayed and perform the necessary conservation work to prepare them for installation, now a mere two months away.
First on the list; one of Vasa's 62 gun carriages.

The centerpiece of "Skepp i Strid" is to be one of the three remaining 24-pounder bronze cannon on an origianl carriage--the poundage refers to the cannonball. The cannon barrel weighs 1.5 tons (fear not, the barrel will be supported by a steel armature, not the aged carriage).

The carriages, or 'levetter' as they are known in Swedish, are truly impressive artifacts. Made of enormous slabs of solid wood, they have a sturdy, solid appearance rivaled only by Vasa's fortress-like hull. Their squat, bulldogish form instills an understanding of the enormous strain borne by these carriages--the 1.5 ton barrel and the violent recoil when it was fired.

Even the solid wooden wheels denote the power cradled in these carriages--and demonstrate why the unfortunate sailor pinned under one of them when the Vasa heeled over never managed to escape. His skeleton, found beneath the cannon wheel, still wrapped in his leather and wool clothing, now lies repose in the Shiphall.

On closer inspection of the carriage, it is possible to see through the waxy layers of protective PEG (polyethalineglycol) to the fascinating patterns eroded into the wood by the incessant, slow sand-blasting of the currents during the 333 years on the harbor bottom.
My next job will be to move from Fred Hocker's office to Emma Hocker's office in the Conservation Lab and begin 'cleaning up' the PEG on carriage 'Nummer 04219'. It is a tedious process of smoothing out the lumps of whitened PEG with a damp cloth. In the end, the polished PEG will have the same ominous dark color as the rest of the ship.

One of the exciting parts of choosing a carriage is the fact that all the assembled carriages are all stored underneath the Vasa. This shot shows the Vasa's keel and lower planking as well as the steel cradle suporting the ship. The blue hoses pump climate-controlled air into the ship's hold to prevent molding (Don't worry, Vasamuseet did not cut the holes, that was an ethically questionable decision made by the excavation team to drain the mud and water out).

Insult and Protest....

I hope news has reached the US about the 'Muhammad caricature conflict' that is dominating the news in Scandinavia.
It began with a Danish newspaper printing a series of cartoons of Muhammad that pertained to terrorist bombings etc. It was a foolish move and naturally there was a very strong reaction. In fact, stonger than they expected. Now Danish flags are flaming all over the Middle East.

Sweden, Norway, and the Danish government quickly began to make moves to distance themselves from the inflammatory Danish newspaper. It was a matter of free speech, but it was impossible for it not to rub off on the reputation of the rest of Scandanavia.
Thus, while Danish flags burn, Swedish Muslims have decided to stand up and make a statement as well, but in the name of peace and civility. They condemn both the violence and the inconsiderate action of printing images of Muhammad.

A few days ago while returning fromthe University I found the street cordonned off by police as a demonstration proceeded by chanting and waving banners.

The Mulsim demonstrators marched through the streets to Sergels Torg where they gathered to make their statements. I was impressed by the reasonable tone of the event that was so contrary to what the papers are portraying.

The message was simple and clear. The demonstrators supported the publisher's freedom of speech, but condemned the decision to print something so flagrantly offensive. Their purpose in demonstrating was to call attention to the offensive act and its violent response and use them as an examples of how we as a society need to conciously work towards greater respect and understanding.

After witnessing this event it is difficult to know how inflated news reports of violent intentions elsewhere really are, but here in Sweden, cooler heads prevail.

Ye Olde Barbershop...

The Classic American barbershop has been in decline since WW II's introduction of the safety razor and "all that long hair" in the 1970s (so a barber in Seattle told me). Now they are frilly and choking with perfume. Magazine racks of Field & Stream have given way to People and Vogue. A culture is dying....

But at Vasamuseet we've done our best to keep the classic barbershop atmosphere alive.
Last Friday I reported to the carpentry shop (snickeri) where Nicklas was waiting with his trimmer. The mandatory beer in hand, he began and amidst the smell of woodchips, the haze of sawdust, and the sound of the drill press, I got a haircut.

Nicklas giving me the one hair style his trimmer is capable of.

You can bet I have been feeling the winter weather ever since.

P.S. I am proud to add that my notoriously thick hair (something my barbers always complain about) succeeded in killing the trimmer's battery.

It had to be a two-part trimming.

Gangway for the Ferry!

Now that I am forced to live ashore on the south side of Stockholm my commute has increased from 30 yards to 30 minutes. It is only a short walk from my flat to the Bagarmossen T-bana subway station. The following twenty-minute ride on the crowded train is my chance to wake up and read the morning paper (yesterday's highlights were Swedish Olympic scores and Dick Cheney shooting his hunting buddy).
Hopping off at the Slussen T-bana stop on the south side of the harbor, I walk down to the shore to catch the Djurgården ferry that will take me practically to the Vasa Museum's doorstep.

Despite being only a ten-minute trip across the harbor, the Djurgården ferries are indeed an experience. I would not describe them as shapely vessels of any particular grace or beauty, but rather as rugged little motorbarges with a heated deckhouse.

Fred points out that, "You can't really complain about a commute that gets you a boat ride twice a day." True. I do get a stunningly beautiful harbor tour twice daily and it is quite a lot of fun to go crashing through the ice and weaving around the big cruiseships.
Yet, there is something unnerving in riding the little ferries.

What concerns me is what is happening in the pilot house. I want to think that the ferries are just unwieldy, but something about the way they cut the corners and barrel through the shallow water along the banks of Kastellholmen or dive right under the looming bows of these Viking Line cruiseships coming in makes me wonder what the job qualifications are. More than anything, it is how the skippers execute a docking that makes me cringe--and demonstrates the ruggedness of these little tin vessels.

More than once while watching the boat come charging into the dock at a wildly oblique angle my friend David has turned to me and said, "Want to take the bus?"

Onboard you find yourself acutely aware of where the lifevests are stored and always braced for a collision. The adventure might be pleasurably exciting if it did not seem like wanton recklessness.

I can only imagine what summer will be like when the harbor traffic increases ten fold....

On Rudolf...

I have just had my first taste or reindeer.....it was rather good. Contrary to some of the jokes I heard before I came here, it does not taste like chicken. It is a very dark meat but tender and slightly gamey. I would liken it to duck meat but with a softer, bovine texture. After sampling it, I think I will have to catch one....

A Rope Can Tell a Yarn.......

A few days ago I had the pleasure of joining Ole Magnus in the Conservation Lab where he and his wife, Annetta, have been sorting through Vasa's rope remains. Through months of work they have been re-cataloging all the rope finds and recording whatever information Ole's observations and expertise can bring to bear on them. It is impressive to watch him work, how quickly and easily Ole can spot crucial clues in the decayed fibers attesting to the way they were made, the materials used, and even the rope's history.

Almost as soon as he unveiled this section of rope from its protective cover Ole was able to point out a half dozen fascinating characteristics. Hovering over the ancient piece of line, he showed me the unusual courseness of its fibers, posing the fascinating question, "Why would the grandest ship in the fleet have such mediocre material onboard?" There were even whole splinters of bark within the strands.

Then Ole pointed to a line where the yarns were wound in a steeper spiral than other ropes and remarked that such a lay of the yarns indicated a history of heavy strain. Then directing my attention to a short section where the fibers were crushed flat, he added that the line was stretched long before it was ever put aboard the Vasa as the flattened spot indicated a knot that had been removed. Then he showed me a line made of two cords of varying thickness--the mark of an unskilled ropemaker, perhaps an apprentice.

Ole told me that this line was a shroud taken from another vessel and stowed aboard Vasa as a spare. It had been heavily strained and every foot or so there was still a lashing where a ratline had been secured. It was deemed a spare because the ratlines were all cut off near the lashings and the heavy line was found in an enormous heap below decks.

Going Ashore...

Regrettably, there comes a time when every sailor must quit the sea and go ashore...
My time aboard the 1915 icebreaker Sankt Erik has come to an end through a confluence of circumstances. Preparations are getting underway to get the ship opened for the tourist season with exhibit installations in the cargo hold, cafe workers taking over the galley, and the restoration crew rushing to finish the remaining carpentry work on a few compartments back aft. Meanwhile, there is pressure to clear the ship's staterooms before the spate of spring conferences held onboard commences. Then there is the fortunate circumstance that arrangements for my apartment in Bagarmossen ("Begger's Bog," on the south side of the city) have gone through unexpectedly quickly. Thus I have packed my belongings into my sailbag and stepped ashore...

It was just barely over a month ago that I first walked up the gangplank of the Sankt Erik. Since then, the sturdy little ship has truly become my home, the place where I am content and at ease. She has been a refuge for me in this foreign city, a small floating world composed of familiar sights and smells, curves and motions, and the nautical fittings typical of any ship anywhere--even ships back home. Indeed, Sankt Erik has truly come to embody the old Swedish saying "bort men hemma" (gone but home). She has become my second home--or more accurately--my ship. We never went to sea, yet Sankt Erik has become one of my ships like Cynosura, Wawona, or Corwith Cramer. You put in enough time working on a vessel--investing you time and energy, your concerns and your aspirations--and an unbreakable affinity is formed between man and ship. It is that age-old connection that makes it so tough to turn one's back to and go ashore.

I have gotten to know Sankt Erik from the bridge to the bilge...

(standing in the propellershaft-tunnel)

...and from stem to stern...

...I have developed a peculiar (and slightly masochistic) pride in unflinchinly marching into the icy head every morning...

...and in braving the short but perilously slick forray across her snow-covered decks to the gangway.

Yet I have also enjoyed the many pleasures Sankt Erik offered from the start. There was the relaxing calm that came with gazing through the dayroom porthole at the sun dancing over the stanchions and under the boatdeck as it reflected off the water and drifting ice below...

...and the delight of walking the decks of this ship--a near caricature of a steamer in her religious adherence to the sterotypical assortment of rivet heads, bitts, steam winches, the squat funnel, and the clustered lifeboats.

Below decks was home--a very luxury home. From its enormous foyer...
...to its brass-decorated 'Grand Staircase'...

...and the elegantly decorated wardroom where I spent many comfortable hours attempting to reconstruct the swedish language.

...And there were those many other hours I spent exploring the ship...

...back and forth through passageways, up and down ladders, around piles of spare parts and over miles of twisting pipe...

I poked about the restored period cabins...

...and through the lower decks aft where the restoration crews have been laboring...

...and into the countless hidden corners of the ship like the lazarette where a fascinating multitude of lines, equipment, tools, and spare parts are stowed away.

But is the little things I know I will miss most--the rythmic pulse of Finngrundet's beacon light shining through the port side portholes,...

The clatter of bow thrusters resonating through the water as the big Viking Line ships from Finland come in, the dull throbbing of the steamer Saltsjön chugging by (left of cruise ship), or the muttering of the ducks and swans swimming between the ice floes beside the ship.

...and I will miss the exciting sounds of ice grinding against the steel plating when a wake from a passing boat surges along the hull.

and quite naturally, the ever-present smell of cookies in the restoration crew's dayroom...

...Even more, there are the delicately enchanting patterns of snow gathering and melting on the ship, elequently marking a valve wheel, a mooring line, or even a hidden deck beam in a striking contrast of black and white.

But all these simple pleasures Sankt Erik has provided me--and hopefully, to you as well--must now be locked away in memory. Spring, then summer and the bustling tourist season are approaching and Sankt Erik will become a very different place. Already elegant but racous parties are being held in the wardroom by night and the restoration crew is unleashing a cacophanous army of powertools by day. Soon the galley will be swarming with restaurant staff.

The wardroom carefully and ornately prepared for a party

In some respects, I wish I could stay and see the ship come alive again after a long winter. Like Captain Ericson says in The Cruel Sea, he prefers the ship with the bustle of shipboard life--the humming of the dynamos far below decks, the klunking of the on-duty watch's boots on the ladders, and the distant roars of laughter from the mess deck. The quiet and still ship he finds in the shipyard seemed cold and lifeless, the way Sankt Erik has been.

But at the same time, there is the realization that perhaps I got to live aboard during the best time of the year to do so. The noises of the coming months will not be those of a living icebreaker, but rather those of a ship converted into a floating tourist attraction. Moreover, the presence of persistently nosy, noisy crowds could make life aboard somewhat less than relaxing and probably obstruct my indulgent pass-time of exploring the innards of the mighty ship.

On my last day aboard the galley sink froze up. Ice in the drain again. Determined to clear it, I took a portable heater, an extension cord, and a flashlight and went looking for the end of the drainpipe.

When this happened in my stateroom two weeks ago, an hour of warm air against the copper pipe where it passed through the hull was successful in melting the ice that had formed there.

Aiming to do the same with the galley sink, I first had to find the through-hull where the pipe met the icy winds of the harbor. The fact that the galley is situated amidships near her widest section meant that finding the correct through-hull required an extensive exploration of the engine and boiler rooms--much to my delight. Naturally, the engine and boiler rooms are already a maze of twisting pipes. Somewhere among them had to be my drinapipe...

I poked into the aft engine room with my flashlight but it was too far aft anyway. So I squeezed past the watertight door into the boiler room, wound my way past the No. 1 and No. 3 boilers and began scanning the pipes overhead. They wound about in every direction, curling around eachother and over the deck gratings above. In pitch dark save for my feeble flashlight, I climbed the bare steel-rung ladders up two more 'decks' through the boiler room. Finally there was a solid deck overhead--probably the main deck and therefore, just below the galley level... but it seemed I was now too far forward.

Top of the No. 3 boiler.

I went back down the ladders in search of a route that would take me upward in the after section of the boiler room. Tucked behind the No. 1 boiler I found a small ladder leading up to a narrow catwalk grating. The ladder was squeezed into a tight space between the boiler and a bulkhead such that I could barely wedge myself in to ascend the ladder. Once on the grating above, perched between the tops of the two enormous boilers (I wondered how anyone could have withstood the heat on this grating when she was operating) I found another ladder arching over the boiler and passing through a small hole in the solid deck plating above. Squeezing through I found myself in a space that I assumed had to be directly beneath the galley. Scanning the ceiling once again, I soon found the galley drains, five of them all in the correct orientation to eachother. I had found it!

But then I had to follow the pipe to the through-hull. I traced it along until the pipe disappeared into the port rocker tank (a large ballast tank that would be rapidly filled and drained to start the ship rolling side-to-side so as to break free of the ice if she became stuck). Damn... But then I noticed an inspection port that had been opened. Shining my light through I could see the through-hull 15 feet away. I passed through heavy steel plating, the exterior hull of the ship!

Assessing my own dimensions relative to the inspection port, I took the heater and extension cord and wriggled through the tiny opening. Once inside the tank, I was able to stand up straight for the first time in a half hour; it was really quite spacious in there...

Moving toward the through-hull, I passed a sizable opening in the floor connecting to a lower portion of the tank, some two decks deep. It was like one of those terrifyingly jagged, deep caves you find in a lavafield. Skirting around it I set up my equipment beside the pipe and wriggled my way back out into the light of day in the galley.

When I came topside I found that I was smeared from head to toe with oil, grease, and rust. My hands were black as coal and for a moment I felt like I was have a true steamship experience...though the boiler room was eerily cold and still.

A half hour later the sink gurgled and drained. Success!! Satisified that I had done the ship one final service before leaving, I scurried below one last time, crawled back into the rocker tank and retreived the equipment. Despite my elation at having defeated the ice in the nearly-inaccessible pipe, I refrained from telling Magnus. Somehow it seemed that as the restoration chief, the last thing he wanted to hear about was a guest researcher clamboring around in the dark on creaky catwalks trying to find hidden pipes inside water tanks.

But it was a very good last day aboard...

So, farewll to a fine ship. I am moving ashore...


So, with a parting salute to the colors and a few notes of "Johnny, Leave Her" on the concertina, I marched down the gangplank.

The Good Omen...

There is something wonderfully prophetic about the way the sun shining through my porthhole falls directly upon the Wawona...

Kapten Hans Jonsson

We have a new face in our office...and not much more than just a face. The bust of Kapten Hans Jonsson of Regelskeppet Vasa, reconstructed in silicon from forensic analysis of his skeleton found aboard Vasa, has just been delivered to our office. He will continue on to the exhibits department for installation in the ship hall soon, but for now he 'lives' with us. The detail and realism of his face are incredible--absolutely dumbfounding. Everyone who has been queuing up outside our office to 'meet' the captain has uttered something about expecting him to speak or move at any moment. He is unfathomably real right down to the creases around his eyes, the sweat on his brow, and the stubble on his cheeks. He is so real that we regrettably have to put a plastic bag over him in order to work. It seems so disrespectful to disrupt his steadfast gaze, fixed toward our window and the patch of water beyond where the Vasa and Kapten Hans Jonsson plunged to the bottom some 375 years ago.

Kapten Hans Jonsson av Regelskeppet Vasa

The Rope Maker...

...what infinitely fascinating and wonderful people maritime heritage folk are....
I know I say this on a regular basis, but it really deserves mention once again. A few days ago--maybe a week by now--Fred and Emma invited me out to their house for dinner again. Dinners at Hockers' house are guaranteed entertainment and fun for the entire evening. Between Fred and Emma's inexhaustible humor and the hilarious antics of their two boys, Thomas and Simon--11 and 7 respectively--there is no way to leave their home feeling unsatisfied in any way.

On this particular occasion I was accompanied by Ole and Annetta Magnus, my Danish shipmates living on Sankt Erik with me. We took the train out to the Hockers' house in Kallhäll, on the north side of Stockholm, and joined them for a lovely dinner of smoked salmon--an essential dish I have been without since leaving Seattle. Given the company, there was plenty of talk about a variety of maritime museums, historic ships, and wrecks around the southern Baltic. Then, as we prepared for dessert, young Thomas requested Ole to make good on his earlier promise to show the boys how to make a rope.

Ole is the world's leading scholar in the history and craft of hand-made rope. He has studied the rope found in more than a dozen medieval sites including wrecks and has made or supervised the making of much of the rope used on Denmark and Norway's numerous Viking ship reconstructions. Now he has been invited here to the Vasa Museum to study all of Vasa's preserved ropes and tell us what can be learned from them. Already, their quality attests to the haste with which the ship was built.
Given Ole's unquestionable expertise, naturally Thomas wanted to be taught by the very best.
However, most of the rope Ole works with is made of hemp, flax, or horse hair--not exactly your average household materials. But Ole had a solution in mind: toilet paper.

Emma found six roles for the task and Ole set Thomas and his little brother, Simon, to work.

First, Ole had the boys unroll all six roles of toilet paper across the living room floor--every child's dream! Ole is kneeling on the end of the TP strands, Fred holding them in the middle, and the faint blur in the foreground is Simon moving at incredible speeds in his assigned duty to make a 'professionally' designed mess.

Next, the numerous strands of TP were lifted as a bundle and we began twisting them into a single, tight, cord. Front to back-Emma, Simon, Ole, and Annetta.

Then the cord was doubled back on itself and countertwisted (the key to keeping a rope from unravelling). Left to right, Emma, Ole, Thomas, and Annetta--our forever reliable anchor.

The countertwisting action was somewhat difficult. First, those holding the bitter ends must do a 'dance' around eachother to wind the two cords together. This involves ducking under the other cord with each pass--a difficult challenge for Fred when Simon (standing four-foot-nothing) held up the cord for his father to go under.

Secondly, it is important to keep constant and even tension on the two cords. Fred and Simon, differing in weight by over 80 pounds, had a little trouble maintinaing this requirement as well. Left to right; Fred, Simon, Emma, Thomas (hiding behind his mother), Ole, and Annetta putting the final counter-twist into the rope.

Quality Control. Fred, Thomas, and Ole.

What astounded me most about the process was the incredible strength of the end product! Remember, this is a rope made of toilet paper, a material designed to break. Yet, once wound into a rope, no test the boys employed could break it; neither jumping-rope nor tug-of-war nor even hanging their combined weight on the line could exceed its strength!! I must say, Ole has one remarkable party trick....

The War...

"What is your pension money doing right now?"

This is a very popular advertisement in all the Stockholm Subways right now.

Discussion of the war in Iraq is not quite as prominent here as it is in the US, but it receives at least one headline in the first two pages of the newspapers each day. Being an American here, I get a fair number of people asking about the war, Bush, and American intentions toward Iran. They are always very delicate in asking these questions, testing the waters to see how I will react if they try to talk about the topic. They want to ask "What the hell are you doing over there?" but do not want to start off the conversation in such a critical tone. People have what you might call 'an unspoken policy of appeasement' toward the US over here. If they refrain from angering the US with criticism, maybe--just maybe-- the US will cool off and the world can return to civility.
To state the general feeling here in a single phrase, people are afraid of what America might do.
--Not what the US might do to Sweden, but what it might do to other countries around the world. The US has become an unrestrained and unpredictable superpower that nobody can influence any longer, a bull going mad in a china shop.