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: a New Journey in an Old Boat
He bought a boat. About 1970 or so. It was old then. 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 J22. 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.
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.
A Father's Gift: My First Dinghy
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. 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.
The Jolly Scott came from the UK and was fibre glass but in Sweden around Gothenburg, they built them out of marine plywood. Gunter rig. In 1973 it was a dying class. Sailed better than an Optimist, which was something, but the boat my rich friends had was the Laser. Oh well, my boat still took me all around the Archipelago that was Västergötland and Bohuslän.
Sailing Inspiration: Thank You, Dad
Islands made of brown granite, ice-age polished into round bald heads of sleeping giants just under the surface of the water. Hard rocks, short summer, but no tides. And that's how it all started. Thanks, Dad. 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.
Now available in our store, click here to buy. Every time you have a cup of coffee you will remember the love of your dad, or of your son, of all the dreams you have lived and have yet to live.
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