April

The Unholy Departure

In the pallid light of dawn, with the Finnish frost clinging like an unwelcome hanger-on to the sparse hairs of my upper lip, I stood, half-clad, on the stony bank of the Pyhäjärvi. In the heart of the city of Tampere, I declared a silent oath of revolt against the prevailing sense of tranquility that had started to resemble a straitjacket, stifling my spirit.

I squinted against the rising sun, the wild remnants of last night's Koskenkorva still doing a mean tango in my skull, and focused on the monstrous expanse of water. No man in his right mind would look at that icy stretch and think, "Aha! My salvation lies there, in the hypothermic embrace of Mother Nature."

But as the good old Doc Thompson once opined, when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro. And so, folks, here I was, staring down the barrel of a madness only I could fully comprehend. I was going to swim, swim the fuck away from Tampere and all its monotonous promises.

I wrestled my way into a rubber suit that made me look like a reject from a third-rate Bond movie, took a swig from my flask, and adjusted my goggles. Ahead lay a yearlong aquatic pilgrimage towards the coastal town of Pori. They say it's beautiful this time of year, or any time of year really, but that wasn't my concern. The mere idea of this waterlogged odyssey was to outrun the sterile existence that had held me hostage in my hometown.

The only sound was the howling of the wind and the occasional seagull doing its best impression of a Wagnerian soprano. I raised a defiant middle finger to the heavens, shrugged my shoulders, and with the grace of a tranquilized walrus, plunged into the frigid expanse. The water stung like a horde of angry wasps, each wave an icy reminder of the insanity I had willingly subscribed to.

The first strokes were hellish, my body raging against the absurdity, but then, something strange happened. I began to find a rhythm in the madness, a sense of deranged purpose. I was, in my own convoluted way, becoming one with the lunacy.

One month, I told myself, one month of floundering in this unforgiving abyss and let's see how far I can get. And thus, friends and enemies alike, my strange aquatic odyssey began. Swim or sink, there was no turning back. Here's to surviving the first leg of this gonzo pilgrimage!

May

The Break from the Mundane

Into May I plunged, determined to shake off my hometown's oppressive grasp. I pushed myself with a fervor teetering on the brink of insanity. Not quite Jesus on the cross, but the madness held a certain biblical flavor. I swam past Viikinsaari island, the frigid waters carrying me south. The world seemed to blur around me as my arms churned the icy water, each stroke a desperate plea for distance.

And then it happened. The cityscape fell away, replaced by the unfamiliar silence of the open waters. I crossed Rajasalmen silta. Freedom! I was officially outside the oppressive perimeters of Tampere. The ghoulish specters of Pitkäniemi's mental institution seemed almost to cheer my audacious escape. I imagined I could see them waving from the shoreline, their ghostly forms a spectral audience to my grand, surreal performance.

Total distance covered, a staggering 10 kilometers - a victory, albeit an approximate one, for my Fitbit had given up the ghost and ceased logging my deranged endeavor. Nonetheless, the shackles of sanity were starting to loosen, replaced by a liberating, if physically exhausting, sense of purpose.

Just as the euphoria threatened to consume me, a nasty throb sparked in my right shoulder. A brutal reminder of the physical costs of my endeavor. Overexertion was an uninvited guest at this mad party. I pondered the potential loss of a limb with a perverse mix of terror and curiosity. How would one-handed swimming look in this gonzo reality?

This pain was a teacher. My tactics needed adjustment. June would need a different strategy - pace and technique. The backstroke would have to be mastered. Pain or no pain, the march - or swim - of the absurd, would go on. I was no longer just a man. I was an idea, a mad fish-man, cutting through the chilly Finnish waters, one ridiculous stroke at a time.

June

An Unexpected Odyssey

June took me into uncharted territory, past the Nokia Eden spa. A testament to the human predilection for confinement and mediocrity. Their pools and jacuzzis and waterslides were a mockery of my relentless journey. Their laughter echoed in my ears, but I was free, swimming with reckless abandon into the heart of the Nokia city limits.

Ah, Nokia, the town named after a river and not the phone. The shadow of the tire factory stretched across the water, a monolith to a time when they churned out tires for the world, while their cell phones turned into pocket-sized golden eggs, stolen by the rest of the globe for their own glory.

Post Tehdassaaren silta, the current took hold, and I floated along Nokianvirta river's languid flow. Here I was, suspended between the sky and the water, lost in the flow of time and river.

And then it appeared. The Melo power plant, an unexpected, looming threat. A dive would be necessary, a daredevil's plunge through the industrial maw. With a gulp of air and a silent prayer to the gods of gonzo, I dove, navigating the turbulent flow beneath the monstrosity. Surfacing on the other side, I gasped in both shock and triumph. Another milestone achieved.

The remainder of Nokianvirta was a dream, the waters leading me towards the expansive beauty of Kulovesi. Siuro shimmered on the north shore, a beacon of civilization I resolutely ignored. They didn't deserve my absurdity, not yet, not until they too felt the tug of the water's endless call.

June concluded with me in the middle of Kulovesi, having covered a staggering 16250 meters. The grand total stood at about 29.5 kilometers. As the twilight bathed the water in a glow that reflected off my goggles, I found myself questioning the boundaries of mortality. Was I still a man? Or had I transcended, becoming a god of my own absurd creation? The answer lay further downstream, beyond the next bend in the river and the ones after that.

July

The Madness Continues

With July, Kulovesi beckoned, and I heeded the call, plunging into the depths with a renewed sense of destiny. Obscure landmarks whispered secrets as I passed them by—the Leukaluut handcar station on my north, a symbol of something perhaps not even the gods understood.

The landscape grew more rural, more honest. Fields, forests, remote farmhouses, and estates created a panorama that reflected the increasingly bizarre nature of my journey. The false archipelago posed a fork in my path, a dilemma of madness wrapped around Kutalansaari and Salonsaari. The latter hosted the absurdity of Ellivuori Ski Center, its slopes devoid of purpose in the heat of July. I wondered what lunatics might attempt them on bikes or horses or emus. A nightmarish vision indeed.

Choosing the southern route, I pressed on. The shorter way, the sane way—if sanity had any remaining relevance.

Rautavesi welcomed me, the waterway opening up like an embrace. Ahead lay the Kokemäenjoki, a tortuous winding path that would eventually lead me to Pori. The realization was startling: This madness would work. I wouldn't perish. I was nearly 50 kilometers away from Tampere, and the dream was alive.

There in the middle of Rautavesi, with Vammala on the horizon, a new scent permeated the air—the unmistakable aroma of autumn. Questions loomed like shadows on the water. What would I do when the waters freeze? When would the Kokemäenjoki succumb to the icy grasp of winter?

I had no answers, only the determination to keep swimming. Pori was a goal, but was it the end? Could I stop even if I wanted to? These thoughts swirled with the currents, drawing me onward into the unknown, where sanity and reason had long since drowned.

August

Into the Depths of Madness

August. The name sounds like a promise, but as the days stretch on, it feels more like a slow, foreboding descent. Winter's shadow creeps in, not with a biting chill, but like a suffocating fuzzy blanket. One that blurs the days and casts a haze over the water. It's the kind of cold that finds its way into your bones, into your thoughts, latching on and refusing to let go.

Routine is both my savior and my prison. Twice a week, I embark on my watery sojourn, punctuated by bouts of terrestrial mundanity. Life has become a dizzying circus act: swim, breathe, juggle the rest, repeat. The waters have carried me almost 14 kilometers away from Tampere this month. Progress, albeit slow, thanks to the maddening meanderings of the waterway—a cruel reflection of my increasingly erratic mood.

Silently, I pass beneath the looming Vammala bridge. I picture the town's bourgeoisie, blissfully sipping their lattes and nibbling on pastries at the Tyrvään Pappila terrace, unaware of the lunatic swimmer and his relentless quest just meters below. As for the Tyrvää hydro-power-plant, it’s yet another testament to humanity's need to control nature. Another dive—right beside the roaring machinery. The cold, dark underbelly of the structure engulfs me briefly before I break the surface, gasping, into the openness of the Sastamala fields. Here, it's just the sky, the water, and me.

Why bother with roads, I muse, as I glide beneath road 44 at Kiikka. Water is everywhere, a highway stretching in all directions, free and unclaimed. It's the ultimate path of resistance, the path of the mad, and the path of the enlightened.

But even in my madness, there’s a haunting reminder of the encroaching chill. As August melds into September, I find refuge on the east shore of Haukkasaari. Laying on its banks, I feel the first tendrils of autumnal cold seeping from the waters. A harbinger of the winter to come, and a testament to the undying fire of my insanity.