Friday June 22nd: NEVER start a voyage on Friday. There are few sailing superstitions more entrenched than that particular chestnut and when we devised our launching schedule we had planned to obey it rigorously.
But our failure to install either the composting head or the manual windlass meant that by Friday morning we had the boat completely ready to go and we were itching to leave, not least because the boatyard had suddenly become busy with happy Swedes coming down to their boats, laden with food and drink, voices positively giddy at the prospect of getting out into the archipelago to celebrate Midsommar.
But the weather is no respecter of dates and the big day dawned gusty and full of showers. My plan was to return the rental car to Norrtalje – about an hour’s drive away – and return by public transport. What I hadn’t planned on was given the importance of this day in the Swedish calendar, the habitually wonderful local bus system was operating on a quarter service – meaning that once I had changed buses for the branch line that went to the island I was faced with a two hour wait for a bus. Or I could walk. So walk I did, and before long I came across a backed-up line of cars waiting for the ferry.
Swedes are far too polite to turn down a request for a ride so I brazenly marched to the front of the line and asked the first car with a single occupant I could find. By chance he was a naturalized Swede, originally from Poland, and a boat builder. We chatted about my boat’s design for the brief ferry ride and ensuring car journey to the boatyard. Such lovely people, these Swedes!
The boat was ready to roll and so were we….so we simply slipped our mooring lines and off we went. Given the gusts and the newness of the boat (to us) we opted for a reefed main and small jib, sacrificing speed for comfort and ease of handling. We made uneven progress for the first couple of hours under grey skies as we headed north east through a crowded channel with countless islands, skerries and rocks to keep us vigilant. We turned eastwards from Ljustero into the channel just south of the islands of Ostersundet, Edöo and Applarö and I quickly slipped back into the routine from two years before – monitoring channel markers, checking for shallow water and (when I could) adjusting trim for the constantly shifting and fluky winds. Out here you get a serious wind shadow while you pass an island, then get hit by a vicious gust as you clear the lee and scurry to ease the mainsheet and dump the surplus. You will often lament your reefed main or small working jib, then be thankful just moments later as a venturi effect threatens to lay you on your side. But as our mood changed from caution and care we became a little – how shall I put it – giddy at the prospect of longs days ahead of us in a well-found boat in one of the world’s great cruising grounds. But the winds soon gave way to lulls and we found ourselves becalmed for a couple of hours, so we abandoned our original destination of Granhamn and adjusted our sights to Blidö, a well-regarded and cozy gasthamn to the north east about 22nm from our departure point, which we read was pleasantly sheltered from the main east-west ferry traffic passing the island of Xylan to the north. To make things even better, by about 5pm as we approached the south side of the island the clouds cleared and a glorious late afternoon sun appeared to dry us out and warm us up. We pulled in about 7pm and side-tied to the dock, since all the bows-to buoys were taken. Leg one was in the books!
I was feeling pretty euphoric at the first successful passage of the trip and so I was grateful to climb the hill and order an Islay whiskey and a beer from the Wardhus, which overlooks the dock and serves some terrific modern Swedish cuisine. The staff were busy celebrating Midsommar night themselves and although the service was fine, it was clear their priorities lay elsewhere. I collapsed into my bunk a little after 11pm, sure I would sleep through the night. Barely two hours later I awoke to the sounds of celebrating locals. A family of middle aged Swedes were carousing at the sauna right across the harbor from my boat, alternating between roasting, swimming, and drinking. Time to make lemonade from lemons, I thought, trudging bleary-eyed to the harbor’s laundry room where, I was told, the wifi was strongest. I fired up my laptop and caught up with emails. An hour later weariness overtook me. As I walked back to the boat, the sauna-ists was still at it, and there was more action on the dock, where a couple of very handsome Swedish teens were making out to the sounds of a boombox playing Bruce Springsteen’s “I’m on Fire”.
It was quite a moment.
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