The tiny port of Marienham, Finland was sighted early no the morning of the 16th-- a thin horizon of hope. Those of us who had been fighting the irritations of seasickness since leaving St. Petersburg gathered on the rail, urging the horizon to grow into firm and stable earth.

As we left the windswept expanse of open ocean behind entering the outer islands along the shore, I was taken by surprise. The topography held characteristics of familiarity. The shores were those of northern Ontario, where the Canadian Shield shines proudly through the blanketed mosses upon it. The forests occupying these islands were composed of thick and sturdy evergreens. The wind that danced through their branches licked their tangy scent and carried it to the ship, where I recognized the comforting, tantalizing smell of pine needles. Immediately, memories swelled up in my mind as I indulged in the familiar scent. I was eight again, sitting in the bow of my dad's canoe on a family canoe trip in Temagami Ontario. A humorous breeze laid a cool hand on my forehead and strong rays of golden sunshine warmed my face. Around me was similar scenery; long sloping rocks, gently bathed in the cool green waters that kissed lazily at their bases. Endless expanses of evergreen forests marched methodically to the rhythms of the wind.

As we traveled further inland, the memory trip continued. Tiny cottages painted in obscure colors dotted the new but familiar landscape. The cottages held varying states of cheery disrepair, all depicting a dilapidated coziness, characteristic of family worn places.

As we neared the dock, however, the interesting and foreign assembly of the tiny village shattered the spell. A precariously slim road wove its way around salt and storm hardened buildings, all built in a remarkable and unfamiliar architectural style. The peculiar construction alluded to the harsh reality of living in a costal environment.

We landed on a rickety wooden pier that welcomed the Concordia to moor with squeaky enthusiasm. As we made fast our mooring lines it cackled and swayed like an energetic old man eagerly outdoing its capability by accepting our weight.

Our tragically humorous attempts to make the ship presentable were complete by mid afternoon and we were given the rest of the day off to wander. Jumping at the prospect of free time, a deafening, energetic tsunami of Class Afloat students left the ship and flooded towards the small, innocent town. We spent the remainder of the day lazily indulging our senses, as we saw, smelled and ate our way from one side of Mariehamn to the other. However, with the arrival of six o'clock we discovered a large cultural difference between the money-mad mindset of our own society and the more family oriented occupants of Mariehamn. With astonishing punctuality the shops closed and the streets grew quiet as the resident workforce went home to their families, leaving us, generation consumer, with money in our pockets and nothing to buy. Now filled to the brim on a various array of local cuisines we stumbled back to the ship for an early night.

The following day we were greeted by a hefty, cheerful local who, after proudly declaring a distinction between Alanders (himself and other inhabitants of the island) and the Finnish, kindly escorted us to the countryside where we experienced a traditional Mariehamn farm. Golden heads of wheat bowed to the practical skill devoted in the construction of the red stone buildings. Their grainy time worn surfaces spoke to their many experiences, both regular and remarkable.

We were served a delicious traditional lunch of pancakes and soup in a beautifully built stone farmhouse. After we had eaten our fill (and then some), we were led from the farmhouse to the main building. Our hostess, a toughened, stout Alander, relayed the intriguing personal history and resent tragedy of her farm with a manner of rapt dedication and love. The main building had burned to the ground on Christmas Eve several years before and she had been attempting to piece it back together with as much authenticity as possible. She was doing a remarkable job, but it was slow and tedious work. Our thoughts swirled and consumed her story, leaving us lost in speculation, our active imaginations spurred on by her descriptive articulation.

Awakening to find ourselves headed toward the bus, we thanked our hostess and boarded, all feeling a sense of regret at the prospect of abandoning the serene relaxation the simplicity of the country farm had offered. The bus took us back toward the coast on a scenic route, which wound through tall stands of shady pines. Arriving at a coast park we disembarked to the familiar scent of ocean-infused air. The damp comfort enveloped us in welcome and urged us to explore the remarkable habitat that it regulated. We followed our intuition past the gnarled intelligence of ancient greenery and neutral reliability of lichen-covered stones along the crunchy gravel paths. It was strange wandering near the ocean. Without seeing it you could tell the direction, and uninstructed we all arrived at the shore without previous discussion. There, languishing in the oceans acquaintance, we felt deeply content and comfortable. The water-rounded pebbles underfoot scattered beneath us in brilliant constellations of colour. The ocean had recognized their beautiful potential and revealed it. Now the waves placed tired, consistent hands upon their creation and drew gasping breaths of satisfaction before rolling back into themselves. Too soon it was time to leave and we lost ourselves in the sheep roamed surrounding, once more on the way to the bus.

The following day was spent again with our cheery guide, who further and further embedded the evident inseparable link between the Alanders and the ocean. We examined a maritime museum and then the Pommern, one of the largest and last tall ships used in the days of maritime trade. Every feature and exhibit rehearsed a surreal inclination to the sea. The people here were truly immersed in an utter dependence and love for the sea. It was a union of survival so beautifully harmonized that it sang clearly through the friendly smiles and heartwarming kindness of the people of Mariehamn. They seemed to cherish the ocean to such an extent that they adopted its doctrine of selfless benevolence and applied it to their own lives.

The following day we were to leave. As we boarded the ship for a final time that evening a quiet regret filled the Concordia. Each one of us had in some way been touched by the impossible integrity of the tiny town. Each of us had become lost in this mystical constituent to the sea. And all of us found ourselves sailing away closer to the sea than ever before.