1. Beginnings - Every Dream Starts Somewhere (updated)

By me, via Chatgpt

My Dad Got Me Started

Many of us start sailing from an early age. It might be a father, a grandfather, an uncle, or anyone.  For me, it was my dad. He was a young man, just 30 and I was 10.  I could tell that sailing was a thing for him.  Not sure why.  He never talked about why.  He had grown up hours from the sea, on the edge of an endless forest, but then, somehow, he found his way to becoming a seaman at 16. There were treasures in an attic box, black and white postcards of black African girls dancing tribal dances, naked, pretty, which excited the ten year old I was; a dust-dry crocodile skin lamp; a ship model schooner that I had to gently lift two-handed; mysterious things, most of which I never learned the story behind.  He had done Africa, South America, the Caribbean, North America, and the Panama Canal.  Not sure if he ever went around Cape Horn, but I wish he did.

The J18: New Journey in an Old Boat

The only picture of my dad's boat, from about 1970. That's me standing in the companion way.

He bought a boat. About 1970 or so.  It was old then. Built in 1939, the same year he was born. Pine on oak frames, a J18. They were a series of boats quite popular on the West coast of Sweden, from the J10, through our J18, to a J26. They were collectively known as Långedragsjullar. The number defined how many square metres of sail they flew. It was never as popular as the Folkboat. Lines based on old working boats, fat in the beam, similar to old Koster boats. See https://www.julleregister.se/lank_reg/j18_10.html a wonderful website with the stories and recollections of hundreds of these boats, from the families that cherished them.

Sailing Memories: Coffee, Jolly Scotts, and Beyond

I loved her. My first memory was when we collected her up the Swedish coast close to Smögen. My dad didn't know anything about sailing so he brought a friend who did. A giant of a man, Hans, who on the very first sail hoisted me onto the boom to rest against the full mainsail, as if it was a single-side recliner version of a hammock.  You know what I mean. To this day, 50 years later, I can still feel the power of the wind in the faded yellow cotton sail, the texture of the canvas rough and soft at the same time, and the movement of the boat as she heeled down and went forward and the power in the varnished Douglas Fir boom under my feet.

This was in 1969. One of the stories in my family was how he bought it just before the storm of 1969, sailed it down to Marstrand and docked it up the day before. I remember this only vaguely, apart from the memory of standing on the boom, but I was only ten. I had my first coffee on that boat.  I hated it no matter how much sugar we put in.  And there was the start of a lifetime affair. First you hate it and then you love it. I mean coffee.

A Father's Gift: My First Boat

Then, a year or two later, my dad bought a small plywood dinghy.  12' long. A Jolly Scott.  For me, specifically. Which means more to me now, with two boys of my own, than it did to me then when I was twelve.  It's weird how we learn about our fathers from our sons.

From the book "Segelbåtstyper" Fred Bremberg, Staffan Seth Sesam förlag, published 1964, via Svenska Jolly-Scott Förbundet on Facebook.

The Jolly Scott was designed by Per Lawner in 1958, not far from Gothenburg, built out of marine plywood. Gunter rig.  In total some 1,000 were built. In 1973 it was a dying class. Sailed better than an Optimist, which was something, and looked like a boat with a pointy end and a pointy sail. The boat my rich friends had was the Europe dinghy, a sexy little thing, and later the Laser that went on to conquer the world (200,000+ built). Oh well, my boat still took me all around the Archipelago that was Västergötland and Bohuslän. I was always more interested in exploring than racing anyway.

That could be me (but it's not). From https://jollyscott.se/om)

Sailing Inspiration: Thank You, Dad

The Swedish west coast is special. Thousands of islands made of brown and grey granite, ice-age polished into round bald heads of sleeping giants just over (or under) the surface of the water.  Hard rocks, short summer, but no tides. And that's how it all started. One day I will go back there on Beyond, just for a summer.

My dad, Nils, and I. 2014.

It's all his fault. In a good way. In a spirit of humble honesty, we would love for this journey of Beyond to be the spark for someone else to be inspired about sailing. And this is only one small story of my him. Later I will share how he was with me every single day when I crossed the Atlantic.

Until then, thanks, Dad.