Magellan i Sverige: Midsommar on <em>Thisbe</em>

Ah!.....the pleasant gurgling of a hull driven by sail.....

Indeed, for the Midsommar holiday, I got to return to my natural habitat--"the watery part of the world" as Ishmael puts it in the opening lines of Moby-Dick. However, in my trot down to the seas it was certainly not "a damp, drizzly November in my soul" or anything of the like. After all, I was going sailing!!

Through a somewhat confusing chain of contacts (classmate's boyfriend's father's...) I had secured a spot on a fine little craft headed for the gorgeous Stockholm Archipelago. The vessel (I find it's always good form to introduce the ship before the skipper or crew) was the fiberglass sloop Thisbe. She was sailing out to the islands for that most treasured 'day of days' in the far north, Midsommar. The day when the sun--a rare treat in the short days of winter--stays up longer than at any other time during the year, almost 19 hours plus a long dawn and dusk. In fact, it never really gets dark.

Her owner and skipper was a very interesting gent named Owe. He had been a high official in the UNESCO natural resources management authority, traveling the globe to just about every corner of every continent to meet with heads of government to discuss resource sustainablility and so forth. He had a wealth of rich experiences and good stories--including a few chillers like a meeting in one African country that started with a pistol being laid on the desk, "So what did you want to talk about?"

Owe's son and chief deck-hand, "Grumps"--no idea where the nick-name came from for it certainly doesn't describe him--is a Swedish-English translation specialist whose real passion is philosophy. Incidentally, he is also my classmate's boyfriend and thus one of the vital links that got me out on the water for Midsommar. Like a true deck-hand, here he is peeling potatoes.

We drove out one of the larger islands of the archipelago to a little marina tucked in a reed-lined cove and piled our scant gear--mostly exquisite Midsommar food and such--aboard the little Thisbe. Then, we got the little motor puttering away, cast off, and glided out down a long and very narrow channel through the reeds that led out of the sheltered anchorage.

Wriggling past the little beachhouses that lined the shallow channels where tree branches pawed at the rigging, Owe guided Thisbe out into the open channel, opened the throttle, and a fine brisk breeze began to blow over the deck.

It was already late in the long day and so we ducked into the first available cove, scarcely a mile from the marina. Because there is no tidal change in the Baltic, we were able to nose Thisbe right up to the rocks, dropping an anchor astern as we came in. Then, securing another line to a tree ashore, we suspended the little craft just inches off the rocks so one could easily step dry-shod on and off the boat.

Being a native of the Pacific Northwest where a tidal range of 15 feet is essentially the standard, this kind of cruising and mooring was a total novelty to me. In fact, like a five-year-old, I spent half the evening hopping ashore and then back aboard just to make the most of this peculiar opportunity.

So we eventually settled in and Owe threw together a very fancy pre-Midsommer's eve dinner. Three guys on a little sailboat; I was expecting hotdogs in a can. Clearly I had landed a spot on a pretty choice vessel.

There followed a bit of Swedish Midsommer activity--or lack thereof--sitting in the cockpit with the traditional schnapps telling sailing stories and admiring the slowly fading light.

Rising quite early the next morning to catch a very 'envigorating' swim, we had a traditional smörbröd (bread with herring, cheese, etc) breakfast and then got ready to get underway for the outer archipelago. As the other boats in the cove began to show signs of early morning life, we cast off, hauled up the hook, and raised sail.

Soon we had broken out of the little island group and were galloping eastward across some of the wider channels.

Thisbe was really flying, slicing along and leaving a nice foaming wake.

As we barrelled along at 6 knots, 'Grumps' and I poured over the chart, trying to decipher the absolute forest of submerged rocks that lay in wait in all the thousands of little channels. But Ova kept his eyes ahead. Every shoreline and rock had its place carefully pinpointed in his mind. He truly knew these waters.

Owe had been sailing the Stockholm archipelago almost his entire life, learning the waters in infinite detail from the decks of countless vessels. His favorite, however, had actually been his previous boat, a lovely, traditional, Swedish skärgårds folk boat--a real beauty. There are still a number of these pretty little craft out there in the summers--glimmering like furniture but sailing along more gracefully than the most etherial swan.

There is a good website with a bunch of great pictures of these boats out on the waters outside Stockholm, http://www.kf-yachts.se/NFCharterPictures.htm

Almost as soon as we sailed out I had been revelling in what outwardly appeared very similar to the places in British Columbia, Canada where I grew up sailing--of course the mountains were definitely missing, but the ragged shoreline, the glacier-sculpted granite, the moss blanketed islands, the pines etc were like a long-missed treat from home.

Yet, for all the similarities, it didn't quite suffice to cure me of my yearning for BC sailing. The main problem was that the Baltic just doesn't smell right. I longed for the waft of a low tide, the aroma of drying seaweed and mudflats. However, being without tides or even particularly salty water, the Baltic was jsut fudnamentally different. It was really more akin to a big lake, the shallows being disappointingly devoid of marine life and the shoreline clustered with reeds. Yet, all the same, it was beautiful.

So I continued to soak up the new sights, sounds, and smells of sailing this new craft on these new waters. 'Grumps', meanwhile, was preoccupied with his reading and the fine basking-weather.

At the end of the day we reached an exposed little cove in the outer archipelago. Out here the islands were different, being lower and having fewer trees, largely a result of the harsh winters that pummel this area with ice and swirling snow.

Yet, at Midsommar the islands' vegetation is going full-bore.

This little island we stopped at for the seond night was covered in lovely wild onions...

...and thus attracted a few other boaters to the neighboring cove--or maybe it was jus tthe Midsommar vacation allure. After all, if you have a boat in the area you simply do not consider spending Midsommar doing anything other than sailing into the archipelago.

So, we too sailed out there to the little flower-covered islands dor the longest day of the year and had ourselves a fine Midsommar feast--and a bit of concertina music for good measure.

The waning light of that longest of days--about 11pm.

Then, the festivities over, we set sail for home the next morning, threading our way through the islands and the other lovely sailboats gliding from island to island.