It’s hard to put into words how furious I was with myself. Why hadn’t I checked the gear properly in the morning? I’d even planned it out: paddle board bag on my shoulders, the rest of the equipment crammed into one big tote bag. It looked manageable on paper, but carrying all that weight through the harbor in Strömstad—even if it was less than a kilometer—was already a slog. And now, here I was in Vettnet on North Koster Island. I’d hauled everything across, pumped the board, slathered myself in sunscreen, set everything ready—only to realize I had left the fin in the car.
The realization sank like a stone. Retrieving it would be a logistical nightmare: wait for the next ferry (whenever that might come), ride it through every stop back to Strömstad, hike to the car, then repeat the whole process in reverse. Hours lost. By then, the sun would be dipping and my window gone. The frustration boiled over. A simple, stupid mistake—one piece of plastic—was about to ruin the whole plan.
And it wasn’t just any plan. Today I was aiming for Stora Drammen, the westernmost point of Sweden’s proper territory: a lonely, uninhabited skerry four and a half kilometers northwest of my launch spot, brushing the Norwegian border. To me, close wasn’t enough—I needed to stand on it.
Getting there by boat would be trivial, but landing on a paddle board was another matter. Stora Drammen lies in the middle of Skagerrak, stripped bare of protection from wind and waves. Vettnet felt calm, tucked in the island’s lee, but I knew once I left the bay I’d be completely exposed—at the mercy of the wind. And here I was without the main fin, the one piece that kept the board steady.
I weighed my options. Give up, fetch the fin, come back tomorrow. Or go anyway. I told myself I’d “just test how it feels,” but I knew what that really meant: unless it proved utterly impossible, I wasn’t turning back. After all, the board had two small built-in fins. Maybe, just maybe, that would be enough.
I checked the essentials—water, sunscreen, life jacket—and shoved off. The thought of capsizing gnawed at me: my phone and car key were sealed in a waterproof pouch around my neck, while my wallet and passport were in the backpack strapped to the board, I trusted my knots but knew seawater isn’t kind to confidence.
To my surprise, the board wasn’t a disaster. Shaky, yes, but balanced enough to give me hope. The bay gave me a soft start, its water glassy and forgiving, but I knew the real test lay just beyond. Every meter forward gave me more belief—and also less chance of turning back.
The harbor and the boat had been buzzing with people. Someone in line for the ferry muttered it had never been this crowded. I believed it; sun brought the crowds out. Some of them, to my surprise, had gone completely naked, sunbathing in the rocks’ protection—not that I was staring, of course.
When I’d debated this plan with myself, I’d promised one precaution: once outside the bay, I wouldn’t stand up. I’d keep my feet low, ready to dip them in for balance. And it was a good call. Because once I passed the shelter, the sea revealed its teeth.
The waves were huge—rolling in from the southwest, an unbroken line all the way from the UK. It could have been worse; had the swell come from the northeast, I’d never have dared, not even with the fin, or maybe then.. At least now the worst-case scenario was being blown toward mainland Sweden, or at worst, north toward Norway. Inconvenient, yes—but survivable.
My plan was to paddle west first, then let the wind help me drift toward Stora Drammen. Easier said than done. Navigation on open water isn’t simple—no clear landmarks ahead. The only way was to glance backward for bearings.
Soon, I reached Små Drammarna, a cluster of smaller skerries guarding the way. The waves slammed against them violently, making any landing there impossible. As I steadied myself, I realized I wasn’t alone. Sleek, dark shapes surfaced around me—seals. They watched me with calm, curious eyes before slipping under again. Their presence was both eerie and comforting, like guardians of this wild stretch of sea.
Despite the summer crowds on Koster, the water here was strangely empty. That worried me: the boat channel ran between Stora Drammen and Små Drammarna, and the swells were so high that, in the troughs, I lost sight of land entirely. If a boat came fast, would they even see me? Who in their right mind would expect a lone paddle boarder out here?
Distances began to play tricks on me. Små Drammarna had seemed closer than expected, and now a smudge of land appeared on the horizon. My phone confirmed it was Heia, deep in Norwegian waters. For a moment, I even doubted whether I was heading toward the right point—was it Stora Drammen or something else? My eyes wrestled with illusions.
And then, almost anticlimactically, I was there. The plan had worked. I had reached Stora Drammen from the west, and it had been far easier than I’d feared—easier even than my paddle to Pysen, Norway’s southernmost tip. I double-checked with GPS, hardly believing it had gone this smoothly. And there it was: the border marker etched into the skerry’s stone. I’d made it.
But new problems arose. The waves crashed violently against the rock. Landing here with a paddle board was a gamble. While I debated my next move, I realized the seals had followed me. Two sleek heads bobbed just off the rocks, vanishing every time I reached for my phone. More of them lounged lazily on the far side of the skerry, basking like they owned the place—which, of course, they did.
I circled cautiously. The kayak small channel that run though the skerry was a death trap of currents; impossible to enter. The south side, at first glance, looked just as bad—but it wasn’t. There, I found a calmer pocket of water. I lifted the board onto the rock, safer than leaving it half in, and finally set foot on the skerry.
The westernmost point of Sweden’s proper territory.
I moved slowly, aware I was intruding. Seals watched me from the water, others stretched in the sun, indifferent to my triumph. A few weeks earlier, this close approach would have been illegal—seal protection rules demand 100 meters between humans and colony. Today, I was a respectful guest.
I sat on the rock, letting the moment sink in. Nobody on Koster, just a few kilometers away, had the faintest idea that I was perched here, balancing on a rock at Sweden’s edge. For me, it was more than a point on a map. It was the culmination of a journey. From the southernmost and easternmost points, to the lowest, to the northernmost, the geographical centers, the odd in-betweens—and now this. The full hand. A personal trilogy complete. Not unique, perhaps, but rare enough.
I celebrated with snacks, watching seals nap in the sun. Clouds gathered above Norway, and soon above Sweden as well. A distant rumble of thunder told me it was time to leave.
The return was easier. With land in sight, each stroke carried me closer. I stayed wary of passing boats but luck was with me. Back in Vettnet, the nudists were gone, the bay quieter. I found a little lagoon I had spotted earlier and rewarded myself with a final swim before the storm. Strömstad’s skies were already dark, thunder rolling faintly.
Of course, my day wasn’t over. I still had to drag the gear across North Koster in search of food—and later, wrestle it all back to the car. But that was just logistics. What mattered had already happened. I had touched the western edge of Sweden, seals as my only witnesses.