Van Svinesund aan de Noorse grens tot Torne älv aan de Finse grens

Ik verlaat de kalme, veilige wateren van het Falsterbokanaal en kom uit op de zuidelijke Oostzee. Mensen in een tegemoetkomende motorboot roepen iets onverstaanbaars. Immediately outside the piers, I am met by high, at times breathtaking swells. A previous storm has left old seas lingering.

I pick up speed over the wave crests to maintain balance, plant the paddle for support as I slide down into the next trough, and try simultaneously to get an overview ahead to avoid getting caught in the long, hard-to-spot fishing nets that are so common along the coast here, or capsizing on some treacherous sandbar. It has started to rain and darkness falls when, after a couple of hours, I reach the outskirts of Trelleborg, land soaking wet in a bay, hide the kayak in a reed bed, find a hostel, and get the last available bed. The tent is with my paddling companion. We got separated through a misunderstanding already in the canal, so I believe he too is on dry land.

One section per summer

My paddling companion Jan Lönn and I are on a long-distance trip along Sweden's long coastline. Every summer, we paddle one section. The start was under Svinesundsbron at the Norwegian border in calm and sunny weather. A perfect start for a long coastal paddle that would take just over ten years, or more precisely 110 days, and stretch over 2,890 kilometres; a journey through both time and space. We avoid the busiest part of summer. Likewise, we avoid shipping lanes in the most popular archipelagos.

The large harbours with ferry traffic pose direct threats to paddlers. Ships and rebounding waves from piers and stone embankments are sometimes difficult to handle. But otherwise, we are remarkably alone and undisturbed along the long coast. We have food and a tent with us and really only need to visit "civilisation" to refill drinking water or visit a cosy harbour restaurant, often with seafood delicacies on the menu.

Depopulation is palpable

Bohuslän and Halland, with entirely different coastal characters, are easy-going sections. Now, outside peak season, the depopulation is palpable. We avoid the crowds and wind and weather are rarely anything but pleasant acquaintances. We avoid the worst tourist traps and are therefore flush with cash the entire time. Only the approach to Gothenburg becomes a bit dramatic. The wind suddenly picks up, going from fresh to near gale before we reach safety behind Älvsborg fortress.

In Gothenburg's southern archipelago, we get to know the seals. They are curious, sometimes come very close, and feel like our companions. The cliffs along the shores give way to soft, green meadows as we come down into Halland. Finding a spot for a night camp with a sea view is easy. We pass the hectic harbours of Helsingborg and Malmö with a distress call. The bridge pillars of the Öresund Bridge reveal that the water is flowing northward, towards the shallow and brackish Kattegat.

Like one long beach

Skåne's east coast is one long beach. In twilight and a fresh offshore breeze, I nearly capsize in the cold water during the six-kilometre crossing to Hanö in Blekinge. We get a telling-off from the people in the small harbour. Jan and I decide to paddle separately from there since we have completely different risk appetites. Instead, Stig Johansson becomes my paddling companion from Karlskrona onwards.

At the Småland border, we round a headland and paddle almost straight into a white-tailed eagle that is just as surprised as we are. The desolate beaches along Kalmarsund turn out to be very suitable locations for nudist camps, and we manage to embarrass ourselves several times trying to go ashore without having realised it.

On a sunny May day, we pass the nuclear power plant in Oskarshamn. Security is working. A car with guards follows us from the shore as we struggle past in a cold headwind, and I have actually become a touch seasick. We are somewhat disappointed when they realise we are completely harmless and the car drives off with a quick start.

The Kupor in S:t Anna

Sankta Anna – what a fantastic name – has a character all its own, a jumble of skerries and small islands. Navigation becomes a problem at times. The low heights on the skerries are called Kupor here, which suits the scale of the area well. We have learned that in the outer archipelago, self-standing dome tents are the way to go. Camping on the smoothly polished rock slabs right next to the water is then no problem. The morning dip then happens more or less voluntarily right outside the tent.

Stockholm's vast archipelago, which offers everything from green, friendly islands to gnarly rocks and skerries, displays the same phenomenon as on the west coast. Outside the busy shipping lanes and overcrowded natural harbours, calm and tranquillity prevail. We are mostly completely alone. We praise Skärgårdsstiftelsen (the Archipelago Foundation), which has ensured that large areas remain unexploited and thus open for public outdoor recreation.

When we pass the northern pier at Öregrund, Norrland begins in practice. All boat traffic ceases as if by magic. The beaches become deserted, houses few, and above all, the coast becomes stubbornly rocky and hard to access. In return, the people we meet become increasingly friendly and talkative the further north we go.

The Norrland coast is loooong. The usually south-westerly winds, i.e. tailwind for us, seem here to have decided to temporarily always come from the north when we set out from land. The headwind easily drains the energy of even the most enthusiastic sea paddler. Islands to seek shelter behind are extremely sparse. But we somehow still maintain our usual pace, 30–40 kilometres per day.

Sea kayaking can seem monotonous. It can to some extent be compared to mountain hiking. You experience vast expanses, an open horizon, and fresh wind. The paddler is offered good opportunities for meditative pursuits. But the paddler is probably more exposed to the elements than the mountain hiker. The days pass far too quickly, however, once shoulders and abdominal muscles have somewhat acclimatised and the sitting muscles have developed the right shape.

The Västerbotten coast is the most boring

Höga kusten (the High Coast), one of our World Heritage Sites, lives up to its name. We more or less blow into the small, remotely located Berghamn, surrounded by high mountains and with a cauldron of waves and currents at the inlet. In return, we take part in the village's annual celebration with dance, food, drinks, and pleasant company. Further north, we pass the skerry Dynglasset, in whose immediate vicinity we visit a surprised work colleague at his summer cottage. He quickly composes himself and provides us with sustenance. The Västerbotten coast a bit further north turns out to have the country's most boring coast, large stones and dense forest for miles on end. The positive note is the cosy restaurant in Ratan and that we suddenly get a tailwind.

Suddenly Finnish names

The Norrbotten archipelago, on the other hand, turns out to be a real gem as a finale to our coastal odyssey. The islands consist of sand, and consequently we usually camp among sparse beach grass with an accompanying large sandy beach where we have the place to ourselves.

East of Kalix, most things on the map suddenly get Finnish names. We are approaching the bilingual Tornedalen. A waterspout with thunderstorms and hail – on the mainland an old customs house burns down and some roofs blow off – passes while we visit the distinctive national park Haparanda Sandskär far out in the Gulf of Bothnia.

Finally, we paddle, into a headwind, up to and bang our fists on boundary marker no. 59 at the mouth of Torne älv, Sweden's easternmost point on the mainland. And we are faced with the problem of finding some new challenge when we realise that the long journey is actually over.