A boy's journey: Life after sailing around the world

The boy who grew up

The fall season was on us.

My broken foot prevented me from any more work. I was released from my job as a seaman, and sent home.

In Buenos Aires, Argentina, me on the right under the bow.

This made for one more interrupted career path. There would be many more interruptions until I grew up.

The first thing I wanted to do on my return was to restore my mobility by car.

The Moskvitch 1954

It had been standing in My grandfather's back yard all summer, in clear view. It had been broken into and I found a used condom in the rear seat. Nothing was visibly damaged, but the battery was totally discharged. I was glad that I’d had the wisdom to remove the distributor rotor and put it in a drawer in my room.

No hot-wiring or starter motor run could make the engine go.

How to start it? The concept of using a booster cable was not a good one, as I knew of no person that may have had one.

Let’s do a push start. My uncle pitched in as did a stranger we met in the street.

What are the necessary actions to start a dead car?

First, push the car fast enough so that I could jump in, put it in second gear and pop the clutch. We did this time and again. The engine turned a few revolutions and then the momentum was used up.

One more push, harder than ever.

As I pushed my very hardest, I felt how the metal bar got dislodged and dug itself into my leg, but the car was rolling faster than ever. A few chugs, and the engine started.

I sat there, in the driver’s seat, carefully tending to the accelerator and the choke and – then I felt it – my foot was getting warm-wet.

Blood.

I knew it, the metal bar had come loose and cut my leg, inside the plaster cast.

What first, get the car going on its own power or tend to my bleeding leg?

The car won.

I drove it around for a while, making sure that the charging ampere meter always was in a positive position. As the blood pooled on the floor, I made up my mind, I need professional help.

I drove to the hospital emergency clinic. I parked the car, left it to idle and I asked for help to get in.

By now there was quite a puddle of blood on the floor by the driver’s seat. My cast was, of course, broken and useless.

My home town hospital didn’t have any idea of what was inside that cast, so I was X-rayed, again.

The broken bone seemed almost whole. The decision was made – take the cast off.

It was done, and the source of the bleeding was found and quickly sealed, a nasty cut on my skin.

A couple of hours later I hobbled outside to my still idling car, with a huge white wrapping on one leg.

The car was running, I said that, but also surrounded by a cloud of steam. The radiator was boiling.

Now I had to trust the battery. This engine must be shut down.

There I was.

My life was no better. I stood outside the hospital in quite a bit of pain from my now unsupported foot and with a sick car.

Would it start again?

One of the hospital caretakers saw me in my despair with the still steaming car and brought out a bucket of water. A little later, the engine had cooled enough that I could add to the radiator – and start the car.

That was worth it, I am now a man with wheels again.

Fortunately, not enough water had boiled off to do any damage to the engine, it was still as wheezy and powerless as always, but without any new clicking sounds from burned-out internals.

Home again, boredom soon set in. And an abject lack of funds, of course.

This summer of 1959 had been the warmest anyone could remember, the grounds were burned brown, and many leaves had fallen early. I had seen nothing of it, I had been away all summer.

I took my mother and sister for one last beach visit of the year, in my car, of course.

Then summer ended, early.

What to do? My friends were, mostly, in school or away, somewhere.

I soon learned to walk in such a way that the break in my foot wasn’t too aggravated. Perhaps I limped, but I really tried not to.

I, as always, read all the newspapers I could lay hands on, especially the job ads.

“Volvo needs welders for its local factory. Union wages.”

It was probably the word “wages” that got me thinking. I can do that, for wages.

I went to the plant office, located in a long-abandoned sugar mill in the harbour. As I walked in, I could see and remember some of the sugarbeet handling equipment from my earlier visits, much of it still in place but very dusty by now.

I passed muster at the interview and was hired.

“My job?”

To run a spot-welding operation on the rear door frame of the Volvo Duett station wagon.

First, I was taught, in the backroom, how to weld properly. Easy, just clamp two pieces of metal together and then squeeze the trigger.

This released the current that would melt the metal and make a huge squirt of sparks fly.

I like this. You can certainly see and feel what you are doing.

This job was done with heavy leather gloves and a full cover clear plastic face mask, to keep your eyes safe.

This was the introduction to welding, all done before lunch-time.

"Did you bring your lunch?"

"Noooo, should I?"

A couple of guys took pity on me and shared some of their sandwiches.

Now, the production line. My moment was almost at the end of the assembly of the clear metal, still unpainted bodies.

The car body was suspended from the ceiling and moved by an automatic belt to a holding place. I had to push a button to make the next body move forward to my location. Once at rest there, I had to pick up a rather flimsy frame and fit it in the right place at the rear end of the open body.

I didn’t quite get it right the first times, but my supervisor stood nearby and quickly ground off my first weld.

”Do it again.”

At this time the pace became furious, I had spent too much time welding and cutting off again.

Next. I got that one affixed and could continue with the 20-some welding operations.

I’m good at this.

All the production workers were paid per piece made. The system was set up to encourage you to work faster, finish more activities and earn more.

The union had exactly the opposite idea; Make as few cars as you can and get as much money as possible.

How was the piece rate set?

A “time-keeper” came from the office and stood behind for a while you as you worked away. He would then establish a going rate. That would be your salary per piece.

Now – big conflict.

I was, obviously for the union members, working far too fast. I didn’t smoke and I didn’t take any smoke breaks.

The union boss came and told me, “you must take breaks, sit down and eat an apple”.

Our garden had lots of pear trees and they drop in the fall.

I brought a bag of pears the next day and took my “smoke-breaks”, eating a juicy pear.

We seem to be at peace here; I am not too fast for the union, but still good enough for the production supervisor.

A few days went by in peace. I knew some of my coworkers., We were all locals. I brought sandwiches, made by mother, and life seemed good.

But – what am I doing here, in the dungeons of a dark, noisy and smelly car factory? Am I making any impression on the world at all?

No, I am not. I just anonymously put a piece on the body, which disappears out of my view, only to show up in the street as a brand new car in a few weeks, or so.

How can I ever recognize that cars that I helped make?

I know, mark it.

One of my 20ish weld spots could be on the side, cutting a half-moon out of the metal. That would certainly identify which cars I have made. I would be able to walk down the street, for years to come, look at the rear loading door and see my cut-out.

MY CAR.

Not so fast.

A few days later I had a personal visit by one of the Quality Control supervisors;

“Some of the bodies you welded on have too many welding mistakes. They are very expensive to fix in the paint shop. You must learn to make fewer mistakes.”

And so ended my career as a unionized auto worker. The pay was good, though.

Home again. The darkness of winter closed in.

I had nothing real to do and the city was continually enveloped in the fogs of winter.

I did the laundry. I washed the floors. I took out the garbage and … not much more.

One day, I tried to stay in bed. It was dark and gloomy outside and very quiet in my room, facing the backyard.

I slept on and off all day.

After dinner, I decided to go to bed for the night.

That didn’t work. I couldn’t sleep any more. My body was already as rested as it could be.

The next day, a bit groggy from my sleepless night I decided, this cannot go on.

I am not making any impression on the world.

I went for a long walk in town, looking at all the storefronts. Could I work there? Would they take me?

All the errand boy jobs I had done in younger years had told me a lot about retailing, it is boring and repetitive.

This was the year when our area would finally get Swedish television. A new TV-tower was erected some 100 km away and would start transmitting this fall.

The city was in a TV-craze. It seemed as if everyone was buying a TV.

TV set 1959

That’s new and exciting. What can I do?

“Sure, we need a TV-antenna installer, you are hired. How soon can you start? Tomorrow?”

Yes, I did. I was assigned to work with an experienced installer. He had at one time been a chimney sweep and knew about roofs.

We would assemble all the components, carry it all up many flights of stairs to the attic, and lay it all down there.

Roof antenna

Now, find the roof-hatch and climb out on the roof.

The antenna is to be attached to the chimney. The down-lead goes, properly supported across the roof, down the side of the building. When you get to the right window, you take the cord, drill a hole in the wall and stick it through.

That sounded easy.

Nobody had mentioned that it rained some days, making the brick-roofs unbelievably slippery…

… and …

Nobody knew anything about safety harnesses or how to stay on the roof, safely.

Ohh, did the adrenaline run through my veins, standing unsupported on the roof, holding onto the chimney with one hand and a screwdriver with the other, sometimes five stories above ground.

Getting the supports screwed in at the side of the buildings was no easy task, either. We would have a ladder, almost three stores tall. Get up there and do your job.

A couple of weeks in, on the first page of our local newspaper.

“TV antenna installer fallen to his death.”

This had happened in the next city block from where we had worked that day. Sure, we had heard the ambulance but had no idea.

My mother stepped in, raised her voice, called the store owner, a childhood friend of hers and – my antenna-installer career ended.

The department of labour visited all the TV-stores in town. All installation work was temporarily halted until all suitable persons had received safety training and been equipped with ropes and harnesses.

Safety harness

The costs went up, but no young man had to die for the joy of watching Swedish TV programs after that. (Actually “program”, there was only one channel.)

For quite obvious reasons, I didn’t volunteer for any more installation jobs, my life was too precious for that.

This didn’t make me unemployed. My next job for the company was to deliver TVs. The owner bought a brand new VW van, painted white with a prominent TV antenna sign on each front door.

This sign was designed by my younger sister, she was, after all, the artist in my family.

VW van 1959

Anyone who has ever driven one of those VW vans know how pleasant they are to drive. You sit far up, see well and the steering wheel is almost horizontal in your lap. The abject lack of brute engine power doesn’t matter in town.

I liked to drive that van.

The town is small, but I used to arrange my deliveries to maximize the driving distance, start in the east end, then deliver in the west part of town, etc.

A couple of weeks of this and my joy was curtailed. The owner had a list of where I had been and read the odometer.

“Why did you drive so far, Bengt?”

All future delivery drives were much shorter.

But my military driver training was still of some use. I could back into the most narrow driveways without scratching the van, or could I?

One day I scratched the bumper. The van came in blue from the factory, the white was painted on at the dealer.

I scraped off some of the wite paint and returned with a blue streak on the edge of the bumper.

“You are not allowed to back in anywhere. Just carry the TVs a little farther.

This job became a bit of a routine.

One day we, me and a helper, were going out of town. This was long before the days of seat belts, speed limits, or stop signs. Our day was going well and the load lightened as the hours went by.

Then, in an intersection, it happened. A man came at an incredible speed, could barely slow down and hit the rear of my van.

DKW 3/6 1959, similar to the one wrecked against the VW van

We swung around, the two of us were unhurt, but the van was in the ditch, badly dented.

The other driver stepped out, full of remorse.

“This isn’t my car, I borrowed it for the day and was just testing it to see how fast it would go.”

Obviously far too fast for him to see the road ahead of him. It had spun around and was a total loss, steam spewing from the radiator and gasoline running out the other end, from the broken fuel tank.

The fire department came. They sprayed water over it all, the engine, the inside of the car and the rear end, for good measure.

My assistant was a man of very shady character, I knew that. He stepped out of the van, found out that all were well and – laid down in the middle of the road.

“I am injured, call an ambulance.”

The ambulance came and the attendants put his limp body on a stretcher.

I had to stay with our van and safeguard the remaining TVs, some were slightly dented, and await the owner of the store.

When he arrived, he surveyed the scene but said nothing to me, not a word. We transferred the TVs, I handed the keys to the tow-truck and we proceed home in his car.

That evening, the phone rang.

It was my “injured” friend. He wanted to see me at the local beer hall.

He showed no signs of his injuries of a few hours ago but told me that I would be sued for everything I had for “life-altering injuries”.

I slept poorly that night.

Little did I know that that was the last I ever saw of him, he soon ended up in jail.

The police called me in for an interview the next day and said, in passing, that my colleague had been arrested at his home early that morning. He was wanted for a break-and-entry but had avoided them until he showed up at the hospital.

Coming in as a victim of a traffic accident he had been identified. Since he had no noticeable injuries of any kind, he was told to stay at home for the night.

He hadn’t stayed home, for sure.

My police interview confirmed that I was not at guilt. The other driver had to go to court a few weeks later. He was sentenced to pay 25 daily fines of 2 kronor for his speedy drive.

Yes, for 25 days running, he had to show up at the courthouse, pay his fine and leave.

I wonder what the owner of the car said, it was not insured.

Now, my career in the TV industry had ended, for good. The owner got the van repaired and hired another young man to drive it. Apparently, he must have driven better, that van stayed in town for many years, and looked neither dented nor scratched.

Home again, without any hope or future. What impact on the world have I made?

Next?

By now, I was quite happy to have a little money to spend. I after all had my trusty Russian car to look after. That requires funds for gas and since it was soon winter, anti freeze for the radiator. It never boiled again.

So what came next?

The harbour. This was an important export port for Swedish cut lumber shipped all over Europe on coastal carriers.

I got hired by a stevedoring firm, not to do any stevedoring but even better, (?) to stamp the shipper’s name on the ends of every single plank before it was loaded for export.

This was not a job for the lazy. I started long before sunrise and, equipped with an industrial size ink pad and a stamp, stamped planks.

Everyone had to be stamped, leave none.

It was dark when I started and dark at the end of the day, again. I was fully exposed to the rain and sleet of the season, very cold and, worst of all, it was a totally lonesome job. There was nobody to talk to except during our three short breaks for morning coffee, lunch, and afternoon coffee. I didn’t drink coffee but carried hot cocoa in a thermos instead.

There is no way for me to recall how long that lasted. Weeks, months, years or eons of forever?

Finally, this shipment of wood had all been labeled and went into, or onto, a few cargo ships. My job ended, for now.

“We start again in a week.”

Do I have to?

Yes, I want money, don’t I?

A friend of mine, the son of the chief editor of the local newspaper, mentioned about how hard it was for him to edit the local telephone directory, issued once a year.

You could do that for me this year, Bengt

Sure, I did.

We were two, taking turns, reading the names and numbers out loud from our competitor's telephone book, and checking for accuracy on the printed proof-sheet.

This was inside, in an office with warm, free coffee or tea, surrounded by pretty young things. Paradise?

Yes, it was.

I soon dated one of the girls in the office. We knew each other from High School and got along swimmingly.

She was the cause for me almost setting our home on fire.

Yes, it was close. We were only saved from that disaster when my mother came home and found the melting aluminum pot on the red-hot electric stove. The painted wall nearby was smoking.

This girl had come to my room, for a cup of tea. The tea water on the stove was soon forgotten as we engaged in other, more urgent personal matters. We were just getting out of bed again when my mother came home.

I may have learned about priorities then. First, tend to the pot on the hot stove, then…

Don’t laugh, it wasn’t funny even if it felt good.

The editing job wasn’t forever. Next, I was offered to deliver newspapers.

This certainly offered none of the previous benefits, there weren’t even any pretty girls, this was run by an old, retired newsprint type setter.

I had to wake up at 04:00 to be standing, ready to get my cargo in the office at 4:30 am.

At first, I used my scooter, but it soon slowed to a crawl and wouldn’t run well. After that, I had only my bicycle with a wooden box.

There were about 125 newspapers on my run, all to be delivered before 06:30 am.

Sure, I ran fast up and down the stairs, very few buildings had elevators.

Oh, the characters you meet at that early hour.

Some were shift workers that had to clock in at 07:00. One or two would stand inside the front door and literally tear the paper out of my hand and stick it under their tunic as they rushed to jump on their mopeds and drive to work, leaving a huge blue cloud of exhaust behind them.

There were two building managers, both too cheap to pay for their own subscriptions. They would expect me to put an extra, unpaid for, newspaper in their mailbox.

“I cannot do that.”

The next morning the main entrance was locked, with the caretaker in view. I had to bang long and hard until he, slowly, turned his head towards the door, and very slowly unlocked it from the inside.

“No hard words, but you must understand that it is worth something for you that the door is unlocked at this early hour.”

I understood and put a paper in his apartment door mailbox, as did all the other newspaper boys too. There were three daily newspapers in this 12,000-inhabitant town, and three separate early morning delivery systems, like mine.

Am I making an impression on the world now?

How about my scooter that gave up its breath? It really worried me. I hadn’t driven it much since I got the car, but still.

Parilla scooter 1958

When it got a little lighter in the approaching springtime, I attempted to take the muffler off. It was so full of carbonated soot that it took a long time to chisel it out. Driving a two-stroke engine short distances in the winter will condense part of the exhaust inside the muffler. Lesson learned.

Keep it hot.

I soon had to, because I traded my much-loved Russian beauty for a used VW, and that cost more than I could afford. Bad move on my part.