"A Baltic Chantey: Yo Ho and a Bottle of Bargain Beer"
"Swedes quench a big thirst on a floating
loophole; bellying up in the sauna"
ABOARD THE M.S. ATHENA--Capt. Alf Andersson peers through the gloom
of a brisk March night on the Baltic. The wind is northwesterly at
30 knots, the sea is high, and so are most of the passengers. "My
mission," the captain says, slowing the ship to minnow speed, "is to
sail smoothly so that no one leaves the bar."
The captain has set course for a bleak Finnish atoll called Aland,
roughly 80 miles offshore. Not that anyone else cares. For the
1,300 passengers, this overnight voyage is measured in liquid
consumed, not leagues of water crossed.
Onshore, in tax-thirsty Sweden, liquor is so costly and drinking
laws so strict that citizens drink carefully, and some even brew
their own. At sea, they can drink duty-free, and bring a few
bottles home. In a nation where filmmakers and tennis stars flee
offshore to dodge taxes, the Baltic ferry is the common man's
loophole. Swedes call the 24-hour cruise their "little vacation."
A TeeTotaler's Nightmare
The ferries to Aland and other Finnish ports generate big money and
big controversy. In 1989, over nine million tickets were sold, more
than the population of Sweden. Many passengers are legitimate
travelers, such as Finnish workers returning home. But most,
especially on the Aland ferry, "aren't going anywhere, except the
bar and disco," says a spokeswoman for Viking Line, which owns the
M.S. Athena. Even in the winter, it is booked months in advance.
The ferries frustrate the Swedish teetotal lobby, which has persuaded
the government to cut liquor stores' hours, raise prices, and lower
blood-alcohol limits so that one drink can land a driver in jail.
"The duty-free drinking is a shame, but we may never stop it," says
Joran Magnuson, head of Sweden's Temperance Union. "These ferries
have become a thing special to Swedes, like smorgasbord."
Preparing for the Onslaught
What follows is a diary of a "little vacation."
1900 hours. As the ferry leaves Stockholm, Roger Thomander polices
the main deck. "Fridays are the worst," says the brawny crewman, as
two drinkers drain glasses of vodka. On another ferry last year,
drunks ran amok, shooting fire extinguishers and smashing windows.
To guard against a repeat, Mr. Thomander readies three jail cells.
"On weekends," he says, "these rooms are always over-booked."
The rest of the M.S. Athena isn't so Spartan. The world's
second-largest ferry, its 11 decks include 559 cabins, six bars, a
sauna, solarium and Jacuzzi, a casino, a nursery and a video arcade.
2100 hours. At the Lizard Pub, Thomas Plogby scribbles figures on
the back of a soggy napkin. "Onshore, you can have a heart
operation for the price of a beer," says the roofing salesman,
exaggerating only somewhat. A pint of beer costs $7, a hospital
visit as little as $8.50. At sea, the beer costs $3.50. A bottle
of Absolut vodka runs $23 instead of $40.
"Of course, you don't save money because you drink twice as much,"
says Mr. Plogby, whose company is aboard for "a relaxed business
meeting." Looseing his tie, he adds, "We walked business for five
minutes. Now we are getting relaxed."
Co-worker Tomas Liberg says he is there to meet women. "If you find
one you like," says the 23-year-old, "they can't run away, unless
they jump overboard."
Some passengers do just that. Capt. Andersson says one person a
year on average goes overboard on the Baltic ferries. "We think
most jump," hey says, "but they are so drunk that we cannot be
sure." By circling back, he has saved two of three who have falled
during his watch.
The 50-year-old captain has piloted oil tankers through the
Dardanelles and coal ships across the Atlantic. But the Baltic run
demands a special skill: patience. By law, travelers must stay
offshore for at least 24 hours to buy duty-free. So the captain
sails at half-speed to stretch the short trip into a day-long
voyage. "If I dropped anchor outside Stockholm," hey says, "almost
no one would know the difference."
No Room in the Jail
0100 hours. Unsteady as she goes. The Boomerang Disco is rocking
at full tilt when the ferry hits rough water. Swaying dancers sway
some more, lose their sea legs and fall on the crowded floor. Disc
jockey Margareta Thelander spins a slow song and turns off the fog
machine. "People are blind enough already," she says.
As the ferry tils, dancers stagger into the lobby, clutching at
posts. The floor is carpeted with cigarette butts, broken glass and
passed-out drunks. Two men begin wrestling but the security guard,
Mr. Thomander, decides not to intervene. "The brig," he says, "is
already full."
A few hours later, Erik Bage lurches to the starboard rail as the
ship nears Aland. His tie is cinched around his waist, his open
shirt soaked in beer. "Land ho!" he cries. "Who cares!" Giggling,
he hoists a half-empty beer. "I have never visited Finland," says
the 32-year-old social worker, "and I do not intend to start now."
0400 hours. Marie Gustafsson slumps outside her cabin, worrying
about her roommate, who went ashore for food when the boat docked an
hour ago. "No one can spend so long in Aland, not at this hour,"
says the schoolteacher. "You would freeze to death or die of
boredom." A woman runs past in nothing but panties, pursued by a
half-dressed male. A very drunk man who has lost his key and
forgotten his room number knocks on doors, hoping to discover the
right one. At dawn, Ms. Gustaffson's roommate returns. "I got
lost," she says. "I couldn't find my way off the boat."
0800 hours. The restaurant opens for breakfast. Janee Kristian
stares glassily at a plate of Baltic herring. "I cannot eat," he
says. "But after last night, it is enough that I can breathe."
Standing Room Only
After breakfast, Mr. Kristian will take a sauna to sweat out the
booze, then drink more. While the ferry's bars remain closed in
port, beer is sold at the sauna from 10:00 a.m. By 10:30 the sauna
is packed.
About 20 passengers opt instead for a sobering wobble onshore. In a
tourist brochure, the port city of Mariehamn is billed as a "Finnish
Miami Beach." In March, it looks more like Nome, Alaska. The
temperature is nine degrees Fahrenheit, not counting the wind-chill
factor from a whipping Baltic draft. "This is nothing," says Lisa
Pettersson, her voice muffled by a hooded snowsuit and balaclava.
"You should be here in Janurary."
Ms. Pettersson used to prepare smorgasboard on the ferries. Now she
sells picked gherkins and three species of frozen fish in
Mariehamn's square. She is the only Alander in sight.
Stamps and a Stuffed Reindeer
"This one like salmon," she says, grasping a stiff fish in her
mitten. Picking up another, she adds, "this one also like salmon."
The third, she says, is "not like salmon." She offers three for the
price of one. "Business is not so good," she says.
In summer, Aland is a nice place for a bike ride and a picnic. Now,
the only attraction is the museum, which boasts a stuffed reindeer
and a complete collection of Aland stamps. An autonomous territory,
Aland issues its own postage, good only for mail on the island.
Many day-trippers end up at the police station. "We find them
sleeping under bushes," says officer Lars Holmberg. "They have no
money, don't know their names, can't remember what country they're
from." The police stick them in a drunk tank, then put them on the
next boat to Sweden.
Tallying the Damage
Drunks also urinate in public, bang on doors at 3 a.m. and smash
windows. A hotel by the dock now has reinforced glass. And the
road into town has huge signs pointing the way to public toilets.
Mr. Holmberg says some Alanders resent the tipsy Swedes, but most
welcome the money spent on trinkets and food. "What would we do
without tourism?" he asks, gazing out at a lone man in earmuffs,
walking a dog. "We would starve, I think."
1300 hours. The ferry leaves Aland, the bars open. Soon, mountains
of beer cans rise from the tables, fiors of spilt beer run on the
floor. The duty-free store opens to a frantic swarm of shoppers.
Each passenger can bring back a bottle of spirits and wine, a
six-pack of beer and a carton of cigarettes. Many smuggle more.
"Right now I never want to drink again," says a woman, stuffing
extra bottles into her bag. "But I must not be stupid, I will be
sorry later if I do not buy as much as I can."
1900 hours. As the ferry pulls into Stockholm, manager Jannica
Nordstrom tallies the day's damager. The people in the brig. One
broken nose. A per capita intake of three strong drinks and six
beers--including the non-drinkers and childer, about 20% of the
passengers. "For a Friday, it was quiet," she says. "No major
chaos."
