In my case, I can exactly pinpoint the day my eyes were opened, and I was introduced to the wonderful world of sailing. The year was 1979 and I was in my early teens when my parents followed a spontaneous suggestion of my uncle to invite me to join them on a 14 days sail to the Baltic island Gotland onboard their Vega IMARI. Little did my parents understand what change in life these two weeks with my uncle would bring. For me, it became clear the very minute I stepped onboard with my huge suitcase, more suitable for a Boing 747 than for a 27 foot sail boat. I can still remember the big eyes that rose in my uncles bearded face starring at the suitcase, but he said nothing. I think I am not so far away from the truth when I today believe he must have been thinking something in the lines of "Oh dear, will it ever become a sailor out of this boy?!..."

My uncle Lasse is of the cogitation type, constantly pondering over how to improve a boat, preferring to invent an own solution onboard, rather than degrading himself to purchase an already available mass-produced item existing on the market perfectly suitable for the task in question. Therefore, everything onboard his Vega carries his signature, starting from the stripped and refurbished exterior to the re-inforced and isolated cosy interior. IMARI, having been a family member since the 1960's, will definitely stay as such for the foreseeing future.

Having passed the 70 some time ago by now, Lasse still moves like a weasel onboard, perfectly balancing with the spinnaker pole in one hand on a rolling foredeck, trimming his characteristic blue spinnaker, carying a huge "Vega-Star" in red, racing with his Vega with hull number seven among 80 other Vega's in an International Friendship Regatta (IFR) or at the annual Lidingö Runt.

His second sailing grounds are the Irish and Scottish waters, where he has circumnavigated Ireland twice (with his dear wife driving a motor home ashore the second round, meeting him every night in the corresponding harbours for the night, proving the story with a seaman having a girl in every harbour to be true). He has taken his beloved IMARI to most places in the Baltic and crossed the North Sea to Holland and back at times, but he has only been three times to Bohuslän on the west coast of Sweden. And since a further marine lesson was due for me, I thought I'd invite him to join me on Regina for a couple of days. Just my uncle and me. The opportunity would be perfect to learn more from his experiences, especially from Scotland and Ireland, where I was dreaming to sail in due course. At the same time, it would be a perfect moment to show him my favorite places in Bohuslän during some few wonderful days in October of 2004.

"The advantage of sailing only us men is that we may do things we would not be allowed to do otherwise", reflected my wise uncle Lasse. I had hardly found the time to nod my head thoughtfully, when the spinnaker came down all by itself, without even asking for permission! Torn apart in both leeches from top to bottom! Just like that! And without even the slightest flapping first as a kind sign of warning!

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I did not quite know how to explain this to Karolina, obviously, and on the train home I did not carry many more essentials than this huge bag with the spinnaker to be taken to the sailmaker quickly, before showing this leechless creature to anybody. It was not easy to hold this huge sack containing the leftovers of our colorful sail behind my back, embarassingly smiling to Karolina looking like Micky Mouse, when she met me at the train station a couple of days later.

But that was a problem of the future. Right now we had to get the spinnaker down. Well, actually it was down already, but not on deck but colouring the sea next to us, instead. "Well", said Lasse, calm as always, "That reminds me of a recent race in a Vega Regatta, when my inexperienced crew was to take down the spinnaker on my order. They did their best following my request, not to drop it into the water, and they actually succeeded pretty well in that, getting it down on deck. The problem was just it was not onto our deck. It landed on the very surprised Vega owner in front of us, into the cockpit of the Vega we just tried to overtake. The helmsman of the leading Vega was suddenly wrapped up in our spinnaker, not seeing anything but the dark blue fabric of our spinnaker. My crew claimed they followed exact order, proudly proclaiming the fact that the spinnaker did not get wet...."

During our entire cruise, Lasse did not miss a moment to tell tales. Not stories, but true yarn. Not even the tell-tales in our sails could keep up with Lasses tales. How many tales did this man hold in his memory? They were all equally salty, many about the Scottish sea, tides and current of the rapit-flowing waters around islands, while simultaneous pictures built up in my phantasy about all those places and all these people he talked of.

At times, even I was part of his yarn, when he reminded me of certain episodes when I was onboard IMARI on the bespoke fortnight in 1979. Why do such things always happen when he is around? Lasse himself claims having a certain magic radiation influencing any electrical or mechanical system in vicinity and hence stopping them to function. Now, he brought memories to life that I had already repressed, like when I suddenly was locked up inside an outhouse on a remote island after having done what I had planned to do in this private remote building. I suddenly remember very well my desperate fear to be left astern with the remaining crew on IMARI sailing on. Not a nice ending for an eager teenager! I had almost forgotten this embarrasing story, but Lasse reminded me in all details. How I had gone in, locking from the inside as one was expected to, however not noticing that another hasp, consisting of a piece of wood on the outside having become unbalanced, at the same time had fallen into place locking from the outside as well. After a long time and desperate shouting and banging, an old man passed by asking what was the problem with me inside. "Well, I'm in here!!!" was all I could say in my desperation. "Well, than that's OK" the helpful gentleman said, "Do what you have to do in piece". He was just on his way to leave me in my prison, when I shouted through the heart-shaped hole with my lips sticking out "But I've done that!". "Well, that's fine. You can come out then.". Again I could feel his soul disappearing when I changed position, now holding my one eye close the heart-hole, trying to find out if this man was joking or what. Again I swapped eye against mouth, letting the heart-window explain that I couldn't. "It is locked!" I explained. "- Ahhh!", came the reply, as if he had discovered something really interesting, ready to give a solution: "Well, you know, you have to unlock the door, before you can get out, my son". Thank you! I thought! I will never get out of here and IMARI is maybe already loosening the mooring lines by now! We were just to cast off, when I just had to do a little task before, I had said rushing off to the outhouse.

Today, I can, of course, better understand the gentleman on the outside of the little privy, believing that such a place is looked only from the inside and not from the outside as well. I was lucky enough to finally explain that there was a second hasp on the outside asking if he possibly could help me lifting it up so I would not miss the boat, please?!

In great detail, Lasse told this story of my embarrasing imprisoning, and today we could laugh long and loud about IMARI almost loosing its crew back in 1979.

Lasse continued: "There aren't many bends or knots that actually have been invented since the good old days of the square riggers. - But there is one..." he said with a hint of mystery buried in his voice. And then he showed me the Hunter's Bend, which became known to sailors as late as in 1979. It was, however, already discovered independently by an American mountaineer called Phil D. Smith in the 1950's but for the marine world it will always be known as the Hunter's Bend after the British physician Dr Edward Hunter. It fulfills all criteria of a good and safe hitch or bend: It is easy to remember, easy to tie, safe and stable while still easy to open with the same trick as you open a fully tied bowline by bending it over itself.

Later, when I came home, I checked Lasses yarn about bends, hitches and knots, verifying by looking them up in the "Bible of Knots", The Ashely Book of Knots. Mine was from 1981 and thus it already contained the Hunter's Bend, while the so popular Reefer Knot had a symbol of deaths head as a warning! I read with astonishment what it said in this authoritative book containing 3800 different knots: "One of the best but most misused of knots is the Reef or Square Knot. Employed as a Binding Knot, to reef and furl sails or to tie up parcels, it is invaluable. But employed as a bend (to tie two rope ends together), the Reef Knot is probably responsible for more deaths and injuries than have been caused by the failure of all other knots combined."

Oh my dear!! And this knot is taught as the very first knot to be used to tie together two similarly sized ropes! From now on, this knot is only to be used to wrap presents to the captain, but otherwise banned from Regina!

For a description to tie the Hunter's Bend, check here.

Later at night, at anchor, we sat under deck after a good meal and a glass of wine. Lasse was moving his fingers over the charts and cruising guides of Scotland, which I had taken onboard for this very purpose. "Here...", Lasse said thoughtfully, "...here, Leon, you need to watch out." He tipped his finger on a narrow sound. "Only pass on slack water here..... But there,..." the finger moved further north on the chart, "...there is a good anchorage, but beware that stone in the entrance! I remember when we anchored there with my daughters, - oh, they can't have been old then - and they wanted to climb that mountain they could see in the distance. I can remember how we then all....." and so the next story found fuel, ignited by memories of a long life at sea.

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Let me finish with the following poem by Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936), read out slowly with rolling "rrrs" with a profound yearning for travels by sea, one of Lasse's favorites. (See more work by Kipling here or here.)

There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,
  And the ricks stand gray to the sun,
Singing:—“Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover,
  And your English summer’s done.”

         You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind,
         And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;
         You have heard the song—how long! how long?
         Pull out on the trail again!
      Ha’ done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,
      We’ve seen the seasons through,
      And it’s time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
      Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

It’s North you may run to the rime-ringed sun,
  Or South to the blind Horn’s hate;
Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,
  Or West to the Golden Gate—
         Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,
         And the wildest tales are true,
         And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
         And life runs large on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old,
  And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;
And I’d sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll
  Of a black Bilbao tramp;
         With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,
         And a drunken Dago crew,
         And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail
         From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,
  Or the way of a man with a maid;
But the fairest way to me is a ship’s upon the sea
  In the heel of the North-East Trade.
         Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass,
         And the drum of the racing screw,
         As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
         As she lifts and ’scends on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new?

See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,
  And the fenders grind and heave,
And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate,
  And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;
         It’s “Gang-plank up and in,” dear lass,
         It’s “Hawsers warp her through!”
         And it’s “All clear aft” on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
         We’re backing down on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,
  And the sirens hoot their dread!
When foot by foot we creep o’er the hueless viewless deep
  To the sob of the questing lead!
         It’s down by the Lower Hope, dear lass,
         With the Gunfleet Sands in view,
         Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
         And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

O the blazing tropic night, when the wake’s a welt of light
  That holds the hot sky tame,
And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors
  Where the scared whale flukes in flame!
         Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass,
         And her ropes are taut with the dew,
         For we’re booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
         We’re sagging south on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb,
  And the shouting seas drive by,
And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing,
  And the Southern Cross rides high!
         Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,
         That blaze in the velvet blue.
         They’re all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
         They’re God’s own guides on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.

Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start—
  We’re steaming all-too slow,
And it’s twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle
  Where the trumpet-orchids blow!
         You have heard the call of the off-shore wind,
         And the voice of the deep-sea rain;
         You have heard the song—how long! how long?
         Pull out on the trail again!

The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,
And The Deuce knows what we may do—
But we’re back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
We’re down, hull down on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.