When I was a young boy, barely having learnt how to swim, I would stand by the sea in my speedos with goggles tightly strapped around my head and I would stare at the ice that was clinging onto the rocks on the shore, willing it to disappear. It would have been late March or early April, which typically signifies the end of winter on the south coast of Finland. While both the air and the sea were barely above freezing, the spring sun would have by now begun working its magic and slowly the ice would let go of its hold. Memories seem to grow warmer with time, because I cannot recall feeling the slightest bit cold. I would wade in between gigantic chunks of ice, pretending they were dangerous icebergs, navigating my selfmade miniature bark ships – with branches for masts and thin pieces of cardboard for sails – through what I imagined were treacherous Arctic waters. This imaginative game would go on until my skin turned blue and, eventually, my mother would order me to run back to the sauna. There, my father would throw water on the stones stacked on top of the fire-heated stove. As the hot steam circled the room and gently burned my back, all I could think of was running back to the sea to continue my epic adventure.
While the Baltic Sea pales in comparison in both width and depth to any of the great oceans is gliding along effortlessly at nearly seven knots, pulled by a beautifully shaped spinnaker.
