The scarcely believable story of the world’s oldest cruise ship

For the past six months, a shipyard in the Belgian city of Ghent has been reading the last rites to what might be the most storied merchant vessel in history. The 79-year-old MS Stockholm, prior to its retirement the world’s oldest cruise ship, has witnessed death, disaster, political crisis – and at least one close call with nuclear war.

Once upon a time in Sweden

It all began, as the name suggests, in Sweden, where the newest liner constructed for the Swedish American Line (SAL) was launched into Gothenburg harbour on September 9, 1946. Even here, though, there was a strange back-story.

This MS Stockholm was the third vessel of the same name commissioned by the company in the space of 10 years. The first caught fire in mysterious circumstances on December 19, 1938, just a few weeks short of completion, at the shipyards in Monfalcone, in north-east Italy. The second, launched on March 10, 1940, was quickly sold to the Italian navy – and sunk by British bombers while moored in Trieste on July 6, 1944.

Initially, at least, the third iteration of the Stockholm slipped into the calmer waters of peacetime – and into a glamorous role. War had changed the world, but SAL was a throwback to a more innocent era – a specialist in Atlantic crossings which had been founded in 1914, just two years after the loss of the Titanic.

While only a third the size of that doomed liner (with a gross registered tonnage of 12,165), MS Stockholm was soon charting a similar course, embarking on its maiden voyage between Gothenburg and New York on February 21, 1948. At that point, it was the largest ship ever built in Sweden, capable of carrying a total of 395 passengers across two classes (first and tourist). A full overhaul in 1953 increased that capacity to 548.

Echoes of the Titanic

As with the Titanic, the Stockholm would find trouble in the north Atlantic – although it was fog, rather than an iceberg, which precipitated the tragedy. On July 25, 1956, the ship set off from New York, bound for home – only to collide with the Genoa-based SS Andrea Doria in poor visibility just south of Nantucket.

Launched in 1951, the Italian liner was younger and bigger than its Swedish counterpart, but suffered critical damage – capsizing and sinking over the course of 10 night-time hours. This was all that prevented the situation from becoming a catastrophe on a par with the awful events of April 15, 1912; 51 people died, but there was enough time to rescue the majority of the Andrea Doria’s 1,134 passengers and 572 crew; four other vessels – including another liner, SS Île de France – rushed to the scene. The Stockholm would limp back into New York carrying 572 rescued souls, its bow visibly crumpled by the force of the crash.

The inquiry would result in a confidential out-of-court settlement, a tacit admission that both parties had been at fault. The Andrea Doria had been travelling too fast for the foggy weather; the Stockholm was sailing 20 miles north of the recommended route for eastbound shipping, effectively into westbound traffic. SAL would absorb the $1m cost of the repairs, but could not offset the damage to the liner’s reputation. In January 1960, Stockholm was sold to an unlikely new owner – the East German government.

A footsoldier of the Cold War

At a stroke, the ship went from being a polished vestige of the disappearing era of transatlantic sailing to a footsoldier of the Cold War. The Berlin Wall was erected 19 months after the sale, and MS Stockholm found itself trapped. It had been rechristened almost as soon as it had arrived at its new base port of Rostock – re-emerging into the Baltic as the Völkerfreundschaft (“Friendship Between Nations”). It had a new job as well – as a propaganda pawn in the grand pretence that citizens of the German Democratic Republic (GDR) could travel as freely as their cousins in the West.

The ship’s acquisition was part of a new GDR policy, officially introduced in May 1961: carefully controlled state-operated cruises on government-owned ships that would carry East German holidaymakers to sunnier climes – and then, crucially, carry them home again.

But the Politburo had reckoned without the inevitable consequences of their boats docking in non-communist countries; notoriously, a cruise to North Africa and Portugal in January 1962 saw 24 passengers defect when the Fritz Heckert visited Casablanca. An urgent rethink was required. By the end of the month, it had been quietly decreed that East German cruise ships could only call in on other Soviet-aligned nations.

A dance with armageddon

In the autumn of 1962, laden with East German and Czech holidaymakers, the Völkerfreundschaft sailed into the Atlantic, and into the midst of one of the 20th century’s most dangerous political flashpoints. Its destination was Havana, just as the Cuban Missile Crisis had the world teetering on the brink of nuclear armageddon. Too far into its journey to turn around, the Völkerfreundschaft blundered on, crossing the blockade line, before being escorted on its way by a US destroyer. Its stop in Havana for fuel and supplies was unsurprisingly brief.

Remarkably, this was not the only time the ship flirted with turning the Cold War into something hotter. In 1968, it collided with the West German naval vessel Najade, which was attempting to rescue a defector who had absconded from the liner’s deck. In 1983, it repeated the trick, running into West German naval submarine U-26 in a rough Baltic Sea.

Perhaps these dicings with death were too much even for East German nerves. In 1985, the GDR sold the Völkerfreundschaft to a Panamanian company – which renamed it the Fridtjof Nansen, and moored it in Oslo as accommodation for asylum seekers. It seemed the ship’s story had reached a drab conclusion – but a third chapter beckoned.

Strange echoes and random misfortunes

Salvation would come from an unlikely source: Italy, and the new cruise operator Star Lauro Lines, a precursor to the present-day MSC Cruises. Purchased in 1989, the ship was finally towed from Oslo to Genoa in 1993 – to a hostile reception. Genoa had been the home port of SS Andrea Doria, and the Ligurian media had not forgotten, describing the liner as “la nave della morte” (“the ship of death”).

Nonetheless, the former MS Stockholm was in sufficiently good shape for its conversion into a modern cruise ship to proceed. Its interior was gutted and renovated, its aft decks and stern were significantly remodelled, and a new bridge was installed. It would sail for its new owners for eight years, under three names – Italia I, Italia Prima and Valtur Prima.

However, strange echoes and random misfortunes seemed to follow the vessel. It would find itself stuck in Havana in September 2001 as the 9/11 attacks made the world, again, hold its breath. In 2005, it was bought by Classic International Cruises, a British-Australian company whose strategy was to acquire and operate refurbished luxury liners.

Reflagged to Cyprus and renamed Athena, the now-60-year-old ship was soon back in peril in a familiar location – the Atlantic. Sailing west in September 2006, it fell foul of two hurricanes – Florence and Gordon – on the same voyage. The stormy conditions killed a British passenger (Dr Michael Bedford, a retired GP, who fell down a flight of stairs), and when Athena finally lumbered into New York, it did so to another burst of criticism. Recalling the sinking of the Andrea Doria, the New York Times did not pull its punches, comparing the ship to a “convict sentenced to 50 years for murder who completes his sentence – and revisits the scene of the crime.”

Pirates and pensioning off

However, these hard words were nothing compared to the frightening scenario that unfolded on December 3, 2008. En route to Australia, the Athena was encircled by 29 east African pirate boats as it tiptoed across the Gulf of Aden. It repelled the attack via the use of water cannons, and with the timely assistance of a US naval patrol plane.

Further sales and rebrands followed in the early 2010s, until a final transfer, in 2014, to Essex-based Cruise & Maritime Voyages (CMV), and one more name change, to Astoria. Perhaps inevitably, however, it was the pandemic that brought down the curtain. Covid-19 condemned CMV to insolvency, and left its oldest vessel ownerless.

Even for a ship so prone to mishaps, its last days were undignified. Put up for auction in December 2020, with a reserve price of €10m, it would eventually be snapped up by scrap merchants for a mere €200,000, bringing to an end an epic seafaring tale.

[Source: Daily Telegraph]