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LOGBOOK #3: wordly K.O.
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Here's the news, here's the news...
The sky is a thin shield, vanishing: it fascinates the void, the nothingness, it's
seductive.
The dark side comes forward, goes high, blinding.
Steals my eyes and I was blind already..... [poem by G.L.Ferretti - Ed.]
Finisterre.
Yes ok, I'm not yet at Finisterre.
Still, I suspect Giovanni Lindo Ferretti has never set foot in La Coruna (I don't know how to put a tilde over the N, so get over
it)
Premise: a couple of months ago in Milan, happily showing off while walking in the park near
Porta Venezia, I was claiming that no people can be sadder than the Galitians, or
Gallegos.
Nobody can beat a people who elected as their typical dish small pieces of paprika-laced octopus
tentacles, the "purpo gallego" (tastes good, by the way).
The people of Finisterre, the end of the land.
Rather bold thought, for one who has never come here before, but that's it.
And this morning, after another night at sea, the last one, the third in a row, rather
complex, they wake me for the mooring, when we are still in the entry channel to La
Coruna, and I look around: Genoa by comparison seems like MIAMI!
I get tears in my eyes when I think of the little cove where we did NOT anchor because we would have arrived there in the dark, of the plunge I will NOT take, and of the anti-climax we give to the Tough Passage #1 (350
miles. #2 will be 500 miles, more or less).
Three days...
Hell, three days!
The first one was heavy, helming with wind and sea still
"Dynamic-Duo"-style and shaking us a bit: ease a bit, luff a bit,
haul, reef (reeefing! that is, reducing the mainsail size, a rather annoying exercise that at this point I can do
easily, while I SWEAR), after a while it becomes clear that it will not continue like that for long and we hand over the helm to the wind pilot.
Basically, it's freezing cold, and we spend the day in a competition of putting layer over layer of
clothing.
It rains, then it stops, then it rains, then it stops, then it SHOWERS, then it stops
againg, bla bla bla.
A couple of dolphins make a very short apparition, but that's all.
At night the wind strengthens and I helm until midnight and then die.
They will see me only the next morning.
Late morning.
A bastard of a second day, wind blowing for a quarter of an hour at a time, and after a while we stop falling for
it: we start motoring here and there. Nothing special, except at night when the wind seems to be strengthening a bit and we fall for it a couple of
times.
I'm beginning to hate sailing, and by midnight I'm in my bunk, believing this will be the last such night.
Day three, seven a.m. ...
- Dolphins!
- ....mnnnnngh!
- no, tuna!!
- ....gotohell!...
- no, dolphins!!!
- MNNNNNGH!
- Dolphins AND tuna!!
- ....I'm coming...
Obviously, I didn't see neither dolphins nor tuna, but I'm awake now and I realise two
things:
first, there is NO WIND (so much so that some hours later we will have lunch on the fully-dressed cockpit
table) and therefore we are merrily motoring at a bit over six knots
second, it's beginning to be WARM!
Spain is getting near, then!
I make a half-hearted attempt at getting a suntan and then, when my scalp is getting roasted I drop belowdecks to read Erodotus
(honest, Erodotus!).
Around 5 p.m., while I'm still below chatting about french wines with the whole greek pantheon due to a sun
blow, I hear the she-Commander shout, with her subdued voice:
LAND, LAND!!!
Spain!!!
....hell, it's still far away!
Ok it's far, but it's there, the crossing is coming to an end, we begin to feel it's over: the atmosphere is
relaxed.
In fact, there's very little to do, just have a look around every now and then
(officially, that's for safety, but in reality it's to do something), read something or bang your head on a
bulkhead.
Six p.m., I'm quietly minding my business below-decks (the sun was absent since some time, so no suntan and cold
again) when the she-Commander shouts:
OVER THERE, IT BLOWS!!!
I discover to be the son of Ahab's sister and jump out to watch Moby Dick.
S*it a whale!!! Not well seen, PERCEIVED rather, but a good 50 feet of a beast.
Just three blows, and it's gone, pity.
No show for your favourite deck-boy?
Nooo, don't worry; while Yours truly was behind the weel, rummaging about the being and the becoming and waiting for midnight (i.e.
sleep-time: after that, they have the right to awaken me only for sudden and heavy
maneuvres. And they do it, they do it often. Tonight, although they complain a
lot, I didn't close an eye, sniff) he looks around and hears a strange splash on the
left: nothing in sight, though.
Bah....
Splash.
Something....
Splash.
Dolphins!! Wow, it's my turn now!
They seem to be a couple, they play for a while around our stern and then go towards our bow.
I go forwards to watch them for a while.
Two?
THIRTY!!
And it's showtime for half an hour!!
I don't know where I was at the time: it was only them.
Midnight comes, I go to my bunk, they wake me up three times (to reduce sail, as
expected), then I try to snooze until the arrival.
Today!
The view is the disappointing one I was describing before, but the marina looks
clean, the staff are capable and kind, and above everything else it's LAND, the Commanders go to have some
sleep, I take some photos and then go to shave.
Once done, I wash my face and put my spectacles on: oh, what a mess, it really needs mopping up all the splashes I
made!
Here, a good deal of kitchen tissue and then oooh there, let's squeeze it and down it goes in the
toilet!
The paper ball flies in slow motion towards the bowl, zum zum zum zum zum zum
zum.
A hand, undeniably MY hand, starts pumping energetically on the toilet handle and
unavoidably: plump.....sluuurgh.
COMMANDEEEER! Lorenzo has jammed the toilet!
(spy of a she-commander, damn her!)
Swearwords, fumbling, levers that do not move....
No No, I will spare you the gory details and will jump to the conclusion: Lorenzo with diving mask and
fins, a wetsuit, a torchlight and a screwdriver in his hands.
....do you mean, a dive?
YES, A DIVE IN THE PORT'S WATER!
My first dip in the Atlantic ocean takes place here, this morning, in the ice-cold waters of La Coruna
port.
BLEAH ! ! !
I spend half an hour in what we will charitably call water (so my hope to have a swim within today has been
satisfied, damn it!), rummaging with the screwdriver like a drill in the exhaust
hole, while the Commander gives instructions and the she-Commander pumps, and we finally make
it, sblop!!
Nearing hypothermia I raise from the....water and while the Commander keeps me away with a - ice-cold - shower spray, I remove the diving suit and expose myself to the polar breeze that is gently blowing since some time.
Around four o'clock I decide to indulge in a lonely city tour (I will talk about it next time, suffice to say it's really cute beyond my
expectation, I made a lot of random photos), until I reach the main beach: I did not intend to do
anything, I had rescheduled a bath for tomorrow, buuuut.....
URGH!
The irresistible lure of Galitian sands (I'm not yet in Finisterre, but G.L.Ferretti did never reach La
Coruna) made me fly back to the boat!
swimming trunks
blanket
'pair of slippers
and
CommandersIwouldstayawayforawhilewithoutcellphonebutdontworryacoupleofhours
andIwillbebackintimetogoprovisioningbyebye!!!
Aaah, how much flesh in sight!!!
Yes, without my glasses I could not see much, and after a while I focused more on swimming rather than on all bronzed flesh around me, but there was much of
it, yuppeee!
This, for the benefit of my male readers.
Who now may go on drooling while marching towards the nearest travel agent
(boys, there is an airport nearby, it's a moment!)
In the meantime, I address the young ladies: my beloved friends, follow the
droolers, there is a lot of stuff for you as well!
Yes I know, spaniards are genetically macho's, but here, despite my newly acquired karate-player
muscles, I felt definitely beaten!
Hell, what kind of people!!!
Probably that's because, unlike our places like Jesolo, or Rimini, Riccione and the
like, this is a town and people really lives here and therefore, they swim. ....a
lot.
More the boys, I suspect, than the girls who in fact tend to be a bit fatty, but
well....
By the way, the Atlantic is REALLY cold! And leaves on you something, a powerful shiver that is missing in the
Mediterranean.
Fever, probably, or pneumonia.
I believe I wrote far too much, but three days are a lot and then, these diaries are more for myself than for you and I reached a good
point, as far as I'm concerned.
Lore
p.s.: octopus restaurants, I didn't see ONE! All in Barcelona?
p.p.s: I love these p.s.'s!
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