25/08/2026
Recap: Across Sweden through the Göta Canal
Mika on the helm, me on the ropes. No capstan, every line hauled by hand, all the way, and my palms went soft and raw from wet ropes.
You learn the rhythm fast. Lock opens, slowly in, ropes on, gates close behind us, water boils under the bow, ropes off, and the lock opens again. On to the next one.
An audience for all of it. Half of Sweden seemed to spend its summer leaning on the lock railings, watching us work. Hundreds of photos of Sweet Hope taken by people we'll never meet. She's in more strangers' holiday albums than ours by now.
1820 is cut into one of the lock walls. Chiselled by hand, two centuries before we tied up against it, and still doing exactly the job it was built to do. Some of the locks still work the old way. So do we.
In between: bronze hares watching us pass, cows grazing an arm's length off the rail, ice cream in the afternoon, allsång drifting over the water at Karlsborg. Evenings so still the red warehouse came up out of the water twice.
Then Vättern opened up, and it was blue all the way to the horizon again.
Sweet Hope