Its one of those shimmering Swedish afternoons when everything seems to glow from within: the boathouses on the harbor, all pulsing vermilion red; the wind rippled bay, glittering like a million suns; and the chalk white houses of coastal llbacka, luminous under the Nordic sky. Laughter and ships bells echo off the town marina. One could walk a half mile out to sea just by hopping across schooners and yachts. (In western Sweden there is a boat for every man, woman, child, and dog.) On the waterside deck at Restaurant Matilda, a rowdy crew is singing Swedish folk tunes, knocking back aquavit and ripping into platters of cray fish. There is barely enough space to move. If you are Swedish you will register this scene with deep satisfaction and also, perhaps, a twinge of anxiety.