Passeggiata
The man lay slumped over the wheel in the cockpit of his sailboat; he lay utterly exhausted, salt-encrusted, and his body trembled from cold and hunger. He had just completed the crossing from Marseilles, France to Portofino, Italy in late October, a decidedly foolish thing to do given the weather forecasts, and perhaps all the more foolish as he'd made this journey on his own. But soon after leaving the old city, the crossing had turned into a procession of winter storms as cold fronts backed-up to the arctic came barreling down from the north, dumping snow in the Alps and gale force winds across the Mediterranean basin. The man's boat, a heavily built sailboat of some forty feet, had been up to the task, but the man had hardly known what he was doing in a boat six months ago, and wasn't as yet what most people would call an accomplished sailor. About eight hours out of Marseilles, when the first gales slammed into his boat, the man began to question his own sanity; his erstwhile friends back in Connecticut had been asking that question for well over a year.
The boat's deck was now a tangled mass of water-logged lines; the cockpit was no less a shambles. Hatches and port-lights, long dogged to seal out the weather, remained closed; the scraps of a half eaten sandwich lay smeared in the corner of a cockpit seat beside the man. Not long ago, just moments before the sun rose that morning, the boat had sailed into the little harbor and the man had taken up a mooring ball; now exhausted, the man had then hoisted his yellow quarantine flag, stumbled back into the cockpit and promptly fallen asleep. Now, two hours later, just as a blue Customs launch pulled alongside, the man was in exactly the same place.
The uniformed man in the launch held out his hand to stop from hitting the American's yacht as he pulled alongside, then he tied-off to one of the mooring cleats while he looked at the sleeping man. The man was snoring like an old Fiat in need of a new exhaust; sharp metallic notes dripping with exhaustion filled the empty harbor, and the official could almost feel sorry for the man, for the sea makes brothers of all men.
"Eh, excuse me," the official said. "Sir! Excuse me!"
The man didn't react at all, except to turn his head a little and snore a bit louder.
The official hated to do it, but he simply had to wake the fellow up. He reached down and picked up a compressed air horn that produced a nice heart-attack generating horn-like screech and pulled the trigger. The effect was instantaneous, yet not quite what the official had hoped for.
The sleeping man launched upwards and smacked his head on the awning covering the cockpit, then without skipping a beat he stumbled backwards and tripped over the aft coaming and rear-somersaulted into the water. The man hit the water with a loud slap that, to the official's practiced ear, sounded rather like a large fish leaping from the sea. The man sputtered to the surface and looked around with wild-eyed astonishment while spitting water from his mouth; the official hurried over to lend a hand -- but was as quickly pulled into the water. He too landed with less than graceful form, and he too popped to the surface looking somehow both indignant and embarrassed. The two men swam and sputtered, a small crowd gathered on the promenade pointing at the sight and laughing, and then both men started laughing as they treaded aimlessly about the still morning water.
"Who are you?" the sailor asked when he finally caught his breath.
"Customs and Immigration. May I see your passport, sir!" Both men started laughing again. Another launch from the harbormaster's office came out and helped them back into their boats.
The official leaned over to the man, now in his boat. "Sir, perhaps you would meet me in that building there in about an hour?" He was pointing at a small building on the waterfront with a flag flying over the front door.
"Yeah, I think I can manage that. About an hour, you say?"
"Si. Now, excuse me, please. I must go and find some wet clothes."
The man looked at the official just as he caught his words; they looked at one another and laughed again, then the official took off. The man looked around his boat and shook his head.
"Ain't life grand!" he said as he pushed open the companionway hatch. He disappeared into the cabin below, whistling a Gershwin tune.
+++++
Later that October day, Tom Goodwin left the mooring ball in the middle of the harbor and backed his boat down into a small space between two sailboats right along the harbor wall, under some overarching trees. It was a choice spot, and open now only because it was no longer 'high season'; all the mega-yachts and beautiful people were gone with the change of season, gone to St Moritz and Davos or Tortola and Antigua. Portofino had survived yet another season of tourists and high intrigue and was even now reverting to type, becoming just another sleepy seaside village peopled by families who have known each other for generations, families bound by tradition as music is bound to the soul. Goodwin tossed two sets of lines to a couple of kids on the stone quay and watched as they expertly made them fast; Goodwin then walked forward and tied off the bow to a pair of mooring posts set in the water about fifty feet off the wall. He finished, then turned and looked around.
The Mediterranean pastiche that came to him now held him in deep embrace. All was pastel ochre and pink, ancient rooflines of terra cotta and the hotels and shops and market stalls hovered under turquoise awnings, while white umbrellas shaded sidewalk cafes like tall daisies. Tall, slender trees stood just behind the village, all still tinged with the green fullness of summer. Chestnut-forested hillsides dotted with palms beckoned from the surrounding hills, and rococo villas hidden within these forests stood perched on cliffsides as if ready to take flight and soar above it all. A little scooter, pink and sputtering, emerged from an unseen alleyway, and the girl rode along with her impossibly long brown hair streaming behind; she turned a corner and disappeared, another story untold. Cool breezes rippled across blue water like the heartbeats of these villagers, carrying scents of pine trees and garlic frying in olive oil and basil, of life and love adrift on currents of endless time.
"I'm in heaven," the man said. "I've died and gone to heaven."
"Maybe, maybe not, but enjoy it while you're here," said an unseen voice that came from the boat to his right. English accent, he guessed. Educated. He turned to look, saw a little man, white haired and at least seventy years old, sitting in the cockpit of the other sailboat.
"Sounds like good advice," Tom Goodwin said. The man was setting out a teacup next to the newspaper rolled up on the cockpit table, a plate of scones and preserves rested on the table already.
"That was quite a show you put on this morning. Afraid you might not have been too happy with your reception here."
"I was dead tired. Were you watching?"
"Oh, anything new around here this time of year passes for entertainment. Quite a crowd, actually, I'm sure you'll be on Youtube. Where'd you come in from?"
"Marseilles."
"Oh? Kind of stormy out, wasn't it?"
"Yes it was. One right after another."
"You alone?"
"That's a fact."
The old man whistled and rolled his eyes. "Bet that was fun."
"Took the words right out of my mouth."
"So, before Marseilles; where'd you come from?"
"Oh, well, Connecticut, in the States, then Bermuda, Gibraltar, and Barcelona. Left last April."
"And alone? All of it?"
"Yes indeed."
"I see," the old man said, though he really didn't. The trip just described was difficult enough -- he'd sailed the same route himself many times over the years -- but to do so without crew to back you up was almost suicidal. "Well, where will head from here?"
"Going to winter over here, then head east."
"East?"
"No real itinerary yet."
"I see. What's the name of your boat about?"
"Springer? Oh, just a dog thing." Goodwin thought the old guy was asking a lot of questions, but maybe he was just curious, or worse still, lonely. He didn't want to ask a question himself and get the old fella started if that was the case.
"Oh, really? Mary Ann! Come on up here! We've found you another Springer nut, and right next door!"