Sweden Sailing - Day 1

Where is Royce? Click to Sail Along ⛵

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Well.  Here we go again.  For those of you new to this Blog, or these adventures, I’m not sure how to preface this other than to warn that you might get lost in the adventure and may have to nurse your marriage back to health after ignoring your spouse over the following two weeks, getting lost in the nail biting action, approachable prose, and side-splitting humor…or, and equally likely, you’ve already grown bored and logged off, gone back to Instagram or worse, Tinder.  For either reaction, I’m sorry and you’re welcome.  I hope you enjoy as much as, well, I hope to. 

Oh, and for those who are returning for another round of fun, all I can offer is my sincere sympathy for the boredom you must feel in life.  Have you not yet discovered Ted Lasso, White Lotus, or something of entertainment value?  You’re here already, so I guess, you can come along too…again.

Let’s embark together…

​It’s 6:59pm, Mountain Time on Friday afternoon, September 17th.  I’m sitting in a stiff, pleather chair at Denver International Airport staring out at the sun setting behind the mountains and a massive aircraft that will be leaving in 30 minutes to take me to London, England, with continued service, after clearing customs twice, and waiting in the airport for 6 hours in a mask, to Stockholm, Sweden.  The obvious question at this point…what will be the evening in-flight meal.  Bangers and Mash or Fish N Chips? 

Why are you flying to Sweden and WHERE the hell are you sailing, and how can you leave for three weeks, and how much of a saint is Tara to let you do this, and isn’t it cheaper and less disruptive to everyone to just get a fucking tattoo at 43 than to sail across the North Sea, etc etc?!  Are you excited?  Are you scared?  Who are you sailing with?  How long will it take?  Do you even know these guys?! 

Seriously, discussing the British Airways cuisine would be a hell of a lot easier and less time consuming than bringing the world (very finite select readers) up to speed.  I hope to answer all of your questions in the forthcoming passages in a much more appetizing manner than choking down an airplane-version of Shepherds Pie. 

We’re boarding, so I’ll continue on the plane.  But before I do, is it unconscionable to fantasize about excusing myself into the airplane bathroom to take off my mask and do breathing exercises.  I’m torn between the asphyxiation I’m experiencing now or the odors I can’t un-smell later. 

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Was I complaining earlier about the pleather seats?  How short-sighted. Under the assumption that transcontinental sailing trips would not soon become the norm, save for ending a perfectly happy marriage, I splurged on my airline ticket and selected business class.  I wasn’t expecting the cabana that awaited me in Seat 1F.  Now in the air, partially reclined (my seat becomes a bed when I’ve grown exhausted from the champaign) I’m torn between the Chicken and mushroom risotto and the slow-cooked short rib.  Is it any surprise Frontier airlines is under their 4th round of owners in as many years, with their 2oz bags of generic peanuts for a small fee.  Let me address some of your burning questions, while I wait for the Pinot to breathe…

This trip was born about 9 months ago.  In a moment of scholastic perversion this January,  while thumbing through what Tara regards as “sailing porn”, I read an article by a well-known blue- water (Ocean) sailor and podcaster, Andy Schell.  I’ve listened to Andy’s podcasts in the past, where he interviews all kinds of adventure-seeking sailors from around the globe. 

At the end of this particularly thrilling article highlighting what to do should your rudder fall off, or you collide with an ice berg, or encounter a mermaid, I saw a blurb about joining one of his two boats for some offshore excitement.  Upon visiting his website, I noticed a 2-week trip that began in Stockholm, Sweden, sailing south and then west through the Baltic Sea, entering and sailing through the Kiel Canal in Germany, and then crossing the southern portion of the North Sea into the English Channel and disembarking at Falmouth, UK.  2 weeks in some of the most storied waters of English sailing lore, WWI and WWII.  The complete absurdity of it enticed me, along with this growing thirst for bigger and bolder adventures on a sailboat. 

Though my relationship is one where my  bride encourages me to pursue my dreams, I wasn’t sure what her reaction to a three-week trip abroad might be.  In fact, I wasn’t sure myself whether this was a good idea.  Like any loving companion who has absolutely no comprehension of geography, she enthusiastically applauded the idea. 

“Really, babe, Sweden.  You’re ok with that?”  ”Of course, dear, you should do it…where is Sweden?“ 

Before either of us came to our senses, I signed up and recruited my sailing companion from Costa Rica, Alejandro.  (Read all about him in my inaugural blue water trip to Bermuda).

So, here we are.  On an international flight to a country I’ve never seen, by way of a country I haven’t seen in 20 years, to pursue a dream of mine, all following a few clicks of the mouse, a swab in the nose, and a very tearful explanation to the children.  The “what the fuck have I done” feeling that should accompany any gray-haired suburban father of 4 who serves on his neighborhood HOA has not yet hit me.  I almost hope it does.  This is still all surreal.
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I’ll touch base again tomorrow, from Heathrow.  These short ribs aren’t going to eat themselves…

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