Crew

Captain

This is my ship, I guess you could say that. I am the ship’s captain.

In addition to me, the ship has a crew of 11, nine men and two women: two mates, a carpenter, three seamen, a chief engineer, a second engineer, a stoker, a cook, and a ship hostess, who is also my wife. We live and work here,

in the cold waters of the Bay of Bothnia off Kemi.

From this wheelhouse, I steer the Lightship Kemi to its station in the spring after the ice breaks up and take it back in the autumn. Every spring I can hardly wait for the moment we can set off. This spring was no exception; I went to the shore every day to keep an eye on the ice breaking up, looking forward to ordering the chief engineer to start the engine.

Then we just settle down for six months, except for the few times we make a call in Kemi to stock up the coal in the ship. I guess that’s why the tax authorities consider us landlubbers instead of sailors, which is a shame. I have served on ships my whole life, just like the rest of the officers. We are sailors, even if our ship doesn’t travel much.

It is summer now, and the days are long and bright; the sun barely sets. But the winter reaches the far north of the Bay of Bothnia early. We often have to make way for the ice by mid-November and set off towards Raahe, where Lightship Kemi spends the winter. And we return to the land and our own homes for the winter as well, some of us to Raahe or Kemi, some to Kalajoki. Many of us have families waiting for us there, a whole other life. A house that doesn’t roll under us, and soup bowls that don’t slide off the table if we don’t hold on to them.

Chief engineer

The steam boiler is the heart of the ship, that’s what I think. It pumps blood into every direction, makes sure that everything works, that we get food and warmth and security. My job is to make sure that there is always a fire going in both fireboxes of the boiler.

It’s enough to shovel coal at a leisurely pace of every two hours when the steam is only needed for heating and for powering the ship’s appliances – lamps, refrigeration equipment and so on. When the ship is on the move, so much coal is needed at a rapid pace that it’s too much shovelling for one person. And even if it wasn’t, another person has to stoke the embers and remove cinders from the firebox. That’s when the second engineer and I work together on the same shift.

We even develop a kind of a relationship with coal over time. We learn to read it, and to read the fire – what it needs at any given moment to stay content. Still, fire is always fire. We have to be careful not to burn our hands in the flames when we are shovelling coal into the firebox, or not to stumble and fall against the hot boiler.

We need around ten tonnes of coal monthly. But the ship’s coal supply lasts for a surprisingly long time, as the two bunkers can hold 25 tonnes of coal, with the bilge under the food provisions holding an extra two tonnes – we only need to make stops to refuel a few times.

These coaling trips are some of the year’s highlights. That is when we all get time off at the same time. Some make it to their wives’ arms for a short while, but many stay by the harbour, tempted by the pubs.

Second engineer

Most days are beautiful and sunny, and living is easy. But sometimes even in the summer a heavy storm breaks or a thick fog rolls in, at times very abruptly. That’s when we have to illuminate the lighthouse, or as soon as the visibility goes down to 10 nautical miles. And we have to remember to sound the foghorn; the sound cuts through even the thickest fog.

Sometimes we have to keep the foghorn on for days on end. The noise aboard the ship is ear-splitting, and we are tempted to stuff cotton wool balls into our ears. At times we even start to wish that the nautophone would play up again.

After we have listened to the blare of the foghorn for 36 hours straight, the silence feels somehow unreal at first and the sound of the nautophone rings in our heads for several more hours.

But eventually we forget about the noise, as the calm, beautiful summer days arrive and in the evening after work we can read a book in peace, sit around on deck, or do whatever each person wants to: fish leisurely or maybe throw some darts.

We all have our own ways of filling the silence and fighting against the boredom. That, I guess, is the biggest challenge of all here. Anyone can work, but there is no escape from here. Our own thoughts are a constant companion. We just have to get along with them.

Hostess

If on Friday we have pea soup and oven pancakes... on Saturday we could have fried potatoes and sausages, or maybe liver sauce... milk potatoes and herring for one day, also stew... Kissel for dessert at least on two days. Perhaps grapes on Sunday. Buns in milk for Wednesday. Fruit soup was popular last time, we almost ran out of it. And then of course coffee and pastries. Well, we also have to remember to order more groats, oats, semolina and rice, just in case. Macaroni, butter and two sorts of cheese, expensive and cheap, six kilos and ten kilos. At least 355 litres of milk, fresh, and also condensed and powdered, 56 tins and two kilos... 1,500 marks, that should do it.

On Sundays we always have sausage and mash, and on Fridays pea soup for supper, better not change those, the men will only get confused. Routines are important. No one can tell when there will be a storm or when the weather will be beautiful for weeks on end. But anyone can predict pea soup and pancakes on Friday. It creates a feeling of security, that’s what I think.

My job is at its hardest in the kitchen, and especially during a bad storm. Luckily the cooker has sea rails to keep the pots in place, but I still have to be careful not to spill hot soup on myself. During the worst weather, I have had to tie a pot to the cooker with rope. Everyone needs food, no matter what the sea has to say.

My working days are long, over ten hours. But I don’t complain, nor do I wish for anything else. This is where my life is. My job is to take care of the ship’s crew.

Seaman

When I started working on Lightship Kemi, I was afraid during heavy storms. It felt like the ship would not stay upright at all. But soon I learnt that we are perfectly safe as long as the anchor rode holds up. That is our lifeline. A steel chain that is five centimetres thick and at least 60 fathoms deep in the ocean. That much chain already weighs a lot, over 8,000 kilos; when you add the 900 kilos of the anchor, it’s enough to keep the Kemi in place.

We work in shifts of four and six hours. In the evening, we often have a pilot on board. That is all well in the summer when the nights are bright, especially if the ship is becalmed. But in the darkness of the autumn and during high winds and storms, no one wants that shift. We don’t even get paid extra for it. During the wildest of weathers, we all but fear for our lives. The Bay of Bothnia can be fierce.

Even today, the wind has been blowing hard from the south. Around eight, we added more anchor rode. Around nine, we used the engine to lighten the storm’s burden on the anchor. At some point I even wondered whether the wheelhouse might escape with the waves again, like the old wooden hut did once. But this old ship can endure all kinds of tests.

During the worst storms, the waves crash over the entire ship. I can thank myself then for having checked the anchor rode carefully. Because if it breaks, the ship will quickly turn broadside to the waves, and the waves will carry us even faster towards the shoals of Keminkraaseli.

Pilot

When I board the ship, a red-and-white pilot flag is hoisted to signal my presence. There is always something spectacular about that moment. The flag is a sign to sailors that there is always help available, that I am here, the pilot is ready to help ships reach their destinations.

When a flag with the letter G is hoisted on a strange ship, it means I have to go. Although it is rare these days to see old signal flags, as almost every boat has a VHF radio. The world is changing in that respect as well; new equipment appears all the time.

If I receive a signal in good weather, I can jump into the pilot boat through a hatch on the side of the Kemi. But sometimes the gusts are so strong or the wind has gathered the sea into such heavy swells that we can’t pull the pilot boat to the outside of the ship. That’s when I have to grab a rope tied to the boat boom and fling myself through the air into the pilot boat like some sort of a jungle hero. That flinging part is still a little exciting every time.

Watchman

The lighthouse lives by the same rhythm as the sun. If the visibility is good, we can admire the sunset on deck until it’s about to disappear behind the horizon, but before it’s all gone, we must illuminate the lighthouse.

There are specific moments for the right lighting times. I know them by heart, but I always check them in a chart on the wheelhouse wall just in case.

When it’s time to illuminate the lighthouse, I climb the steel ladder inside the tower up to the lantern and remove the protective cover from the lenses. Once I have uncovered the lenses, I turn on the gas and push the welding gun into the bulb. The moment the light flares up is always solemn somehow.

The person on the morning watch then puts the light out. The gas has to be turned off, and later the cover is put back on to protect the lenses. It’s time to let the valuable lenses rest a while.

That is how it goes, every day and from one day to the next.

Once a week, the person on watch gets to clean the lenses. I like that task: dipping a shammy into warm water with a dash of washing-up liquid. I have to be precise and polish the lenses and the windows of the lantern room carefully to make them so bright and transparent that you can hardly see them with the naked eye.

We’ll see how much longer I will get to put the light on and off in the lighthouse. Caisson lighthouses will soon be built on the seabed to replace this ancient lightship, and just as well, as it’s time for this floating museum to move on.