Biker Gangs and Red Hot Dogs on the Strangest Swedish Booze Cruise

I don't know what it was.

Part of it was a godlike inspiration that emanated from being in the presence of Poseidon. Maybe it was the feeling of power and freedom that comes with sitting atop a vessel that effortlessly moves across difficult terrain, like when you plow through a traffic jam riding a mean dinosaur. Within an hour of boarding the commuter boat to Helsingør, the lyrical content of "I'm on a boat" by Lonely Island became really relatable: I'm on a boat motherfucker take a look at me / Straight floatin' on a boat on the deep blue sea.

Tura, as it is called on the Swedish side, is when you get on one of the ferries between the Swedish city of Helsingborg and the Danish town of Helsingør (known for the castle Kronborg, where Hamlet is set), and stay aboard for hours to eat and drink while going back and forth between the two ports. The ticket is $4, and a roundabout trip takes about an hour—an affordable alternative to a Caribbean cruise. "We usually take people from the Northern parts of the country to Tura when they come to visit" says a woman named Sara who has been turing since she was little. "It's always appreciated, and we show them our tradition of Two Reds and One Green."

The first order of business after I boarded one of Scandlines' ferries was to get Two Reds and One Green. It may sound like chugging two Seconals and taking a hit from the bong, but it refers to two red Danish sausages and a bottle of Tuborg Grøn (green). This is about as Danish as you can get gastronomically; the equivalent to Japanese sushi, Indian curry, and American hamburgers.

The red Danish sausage, rød pølse, came about when Denmark was an impoverished country in the late 1920s. Sausages that were about to spoil were taken to the Meat District in Copenhagen, where they were dyed Carmine red carmine to indicate the meat's poor quality, and sold on the cheap to the poorest segment of the population. The red sausages were eventually popularized and became a prominent dish in the Danish culinary identity. (Thankfully, contemporary rød pølse is not made from stale meat anymore.)

From the looks of it, people from all parts of the social class spectrum were represented on the boat. Big spenders had reserved tables in the restaurant and dressed to match their wallets. Just outside the restaurant was the bar area, which was heavily crowded by 7 PM. The ambiance was like a popular pub at midnight on payday. A large group of young women drank cheap cocktails around a small standing table. Scattered trios of middle-aged men in semi-formal clothing were talking loudly and drinking Tuborg. Bikers, lonely truckers, duck-faced MILFs, and men too young for facial hair mixed together on the bar floor.

I approached two burly, bearded men—one in a sweater with "PUSHER" printed on the back, and the other in a T-shirt with the Confederate flag—and asked to take their picture by the bar. They agreed, but an unimpressed tough-guy-attitude lingered.

"I'm writing for VICE's food channel, MUNCHIES. Have you heard of VICE?" I asked, hoping to lighten the mood by referencing something familiar to the crude dudes.

"Nope. Is it a gay magazine?" responded PUSHER.

Not feeling quite compelled to answer, I snickered nervously and scurried away, leaving the heavies uninformed.

"Where the hell are we?" asked a thin man in his 40s, his checkered shirt well tucked into his blue jeans, who had materialized at our table while I had been away.

"We're in Helsingør" said one of my companions.

"Really?" said the man. "You can never be too sure where you are when you're on this goddamn boat."

He was right. Half the time I had no idea which port we were bound for, but it only seemed to matter if I wanted to buy tobacco products or alcohol in the boat's shop. Due to tax laws and regulations, customers are not allowed to buy tobacco on Danish waters, but limited quantities of cigarettes and snus are available to reduced prices on the Swedish side. The conditions for purchasing alcohol are similar but reversed. If you are an average Swedish person and happen to go tura, chances are that you'll end up in the boat's booze shop before leaving.

Sweden has one of the oldest government controlled alcohol monopolies in the world, instituted in 1855. Beverages above 3.5 percent alcohol are sold at Systembolaget (The System Company), with the sole purpose, "To minimize alcohol-related problems by selling alcohol in a responsible way, without profit motive." The monopoly has been criticized by the EU, and changes have been made to improve Systembolaget's customer service and availability, but Swedish governments have yet to be convinced that a free market model on alcohol sales outweighs the public health benefits that heavy regulation entails.

Alcohol served in bars must be consumed within the perimeters of the establishment. Thus, if you want alcohol for private consumption in Sweden, you have to go through The System. Most Systems close at 6 or 7 PM. In Helsingborg, however, you can beat The System and legally buy alcohol at anytime. The ferries to Helsingør sell alcohol in accordance with Danish law, unaffected by the Swedish monopoly. This allows for cheaper prices, and opening hours for as long as the boats are in service, i.e. all the time.

"Many Swedes shop [on our ferries] after The Systems' opening hours, but we don't have the impression that anyone is systematically boarding just to buy alcohol" says Jes Svare, Marketing Director at Scandlines. "We have 7.7 million passengers a year, so I can't dismiss that it happens. But most people shop [for alcohol] in combination with tura, they don't tura just to shop." His observation is confirmed, with few exceptions, by the Helsingborgers I've been in contact with. Somehow Helsingborg has managed to keep its citizens from completely degenerating. Had the same loophole existed in a larger Swedish city, the boats and their crews would surely have been subjected to massive havoc every night, caused by rival packs of raging alcoholics.

At 9 PM sharp, the ferry docked in Helsingborg, and suddenly, the bar was empty. Only two companies stayed: mine, and PUSHER's. When we left the boat two hours later, I noticed that my camera was missing. One of my companions insists that it was used after the PUSHER-gang left the bar, but I can't abandon the notion that PUSHER managed to snatch my bag after an unexplainable mist filled the entire ship and caused prevalent unclarity to all details.