Salt Water

by Josep Pla

  “That’s typical of us,” Mascarell observed, “her sentence typifies our way of being, which always aspires to keep its feet on the ground.”

  “Perhaps. In any case, there is poetry in our literature that, in my view, is some of the best that’s been written about the sea. Like the poem by Don Joan Alcover entitled ‘Miramar’ that goes like this:

  I’ve always lived by the sea

  but got to know it only today;

  suddenly, in Miramar,

  it showed its face to me.

  Seemed to smile and breathe

  like a sleeping maiden,

  seemed to flow from one world to another

  like an impetuous current.

  “The final four lines are apparently simple but contain a wealth of knowledge. When Alcover says the sea seems to ‘smile,’ he’s embracing the solar world of the Greeks before the sea, perhaps the Homeric moment, because it was Homer who said those words that are so beautiful: the sea’s ‘ineffable smile.’ The word ‘breathe’ contains the whole Romantic tradition of the sea, the idea that it is a blind, cosmic force in perpetual movement, in the eternal movement of breathing and living. And the last two lines,

  seemed to flow from one world to another

  like an impetuous current.

  inevitably bring to mind the figure of Ramon Llull, to whom we owe one of the most beautiful, most profound, most modern things ever written about the sea:

  The sea, current of the world…

  “Things must be seen, if at all possible, in their time and place. The usual adjectives the ancients use to describe the sea are ‘cloudy,’ ‘foggy’ and ‘dark’ – the most precise meteorological adjectives – because the Mediterranean, as a result of the predominantly southern winds, often appears this way. On the other hand, their knowledge of the sea’s expanse was limited, so that to venture beyond a few capes – beyond finis terrae – was to enter an unknown world, pure darkness.

  “But at the same time, divine, ideal marine moments come now and then. This is especially the case in June, when, luminous and placid, the water’s surface, rippled by a breeze, under a dazzling sun, is flecked with glinting white foam, like a broad, ineffable smile. The people of Majorca call it the blossoming sea. It happens on days when the weather’s straightforward, when a northwesterly picks up just as crickets in pine groves on the coast start to sing, and that dry, cool scent is in the air. It can even happen at twelve thirty, with the sun at its zenith, when a blue southwesterly blows. The two adjectives used by the ancients ring exactly true. Just as the notes given by Ramon Llull and Alcover couldn’t be more precise when you gaze at the sea from a great height, panoramically – in a word, from Miramar. Then the sea appears like an immense current, like an unbounded flow.

  “Mysticism about the sea exists in the countries of northern Europe and is particularly reflected in Scandinavian novels. Faced by its astonishing power, northern Europeans tend to endow the sea with spiritual might – a force of something infinite. ‘This dark, blind power,’ says Conrad, ‘knows no feeling of generosity.’ In the Mediterranean, terror before the sea has led men for twenty or thirty thousand years to imagine divine protectors who are able to save us from its ever imminent attacks. As a result of successive layers of cultures, the Phoenician Astarte and the Greek and Roman Venuses have each been displayed and represented in old hermitages along our coastline.”

  The compass watch pointed to five p.m. It was at that point, on the dot, that Rufí began to pitch. We were so used to calm that when the prow dipped, then surged, it took us all by surprise. Martinet handed the helm back to Joanot and positioned himself on the prow, where he stood and observed the change with one hand on the jib halyard.

  “What’s happening, Martinet?” asked Mascarell, intrigued.

  “Choppy swell to prow, Senyor Mascarell…A heavy, fast swell.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means that the wind pushing it, driving it, will soon…”

  “And which wind might that be?”

  “From the way the sea is turning, I’d say the wind we could well do without.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I mean it’s a head wind that, if I’m not mistaken, is the mistral.”

  “So what must we do, Martinet?” asked Mascarell nervously.

  “I think we should keep quiet for starters, then see how it develops…”

  Martinet ordered Mascarell to take charge of the tiller. He, Joanot and I tried to put some order into things on board. Everything not thought indispensable was stored and shut up in the hold. The mainsail was taken down and secured. Just in case, Martinet hoisted a small storm jib. We tightened rigging and ropes. The deck was quickly clean and tidy. We put a blanket and tarpaulin over the engine.

  “What frightens me most,” Martinet whispered to me, “is that a shower of seawater will soak the engine and stop it. If that happens, we’d soon have to decide what to do…So that’s really important.”

  “Do you reckon we’re far from Barcelona?”

  “No, we’ve made average progress. We must be off Garraf.”

  We filled the gas tanks and carried a jerry can of oil to the stern just in case we needed it. Sailors believe that if you spread oil over the sea, it will reduce the strength of the waves and they won’t hit so hard. And it’s true enough.

  Apart from the swell, the weather was as usual: the same opaque air and stillness. Martinet kept a sharp eye on the area of sea in front of the ship’s prow. If it had been clear, we’d have had a perfect view of the coast. But the horizons were quite invisible. It was a real pity not to be able to see the Montserrat mountains, which are so magnificent from out at sea! When we’d secured Rufí’s small lifeboat, we all went to the poop deck. Previously, Martinet had ordered Joanot to bring him bread, a bottle of wine and a slice of dry sausage and to store it there.

  “Have you people got oilskins?” he asked.

  Mascarell looked at me; I looked at him and we both laughed. I’d brought a raincoat; Mascarell said there was a heavy-weather coat in his cupboard. We were ill prepared.

  “If the weather turns rough, please do your best not to get wet,” Martinet advised us grimly. “If you get soaked, it will make life even more difficult. Please stay inside the cabin.”

  At the onset of twilight, the swell got choppier and more violent. Occasionally there was something like a breath of fresh air. In any case, the wind was taking its time to settle in.

  “We can’t be very far…” said Martinet, untangling his oilskins. “When the wind kicks in, it will blow all the stink from the sewers in port…You just wait and see.”

  And with that – it was a quarter to six – a bright-green eye appeared on the horizon ninety degrees west. This eye described a perfect arc – an arc of light that first showed as a narrow, flattened crack in the dense, opaque haze and then gradually spread. A quarter of an hour after that crack appeared, the whole of the northern horizon had cleared wonderfully. A metallic-green sky had emerged, across which blackish-purple streaks of clouds sailed, driven by the wind. Garraf surfaced, the lower coast of Llobregat, Montjuïc, too, and much hazier, the Montseny mountains in the distance. We thought we were so close to Barcelona that we would have heard the buzz of the city, if it hadn’t been for our boat’s engine.

  All of a sudden, the sea began to turn green half a mile from Rufí’s prow. Beyond the swift-moving, undulating green, we could see a line of white that was also advancing. Martinet – now suitably dressed – had taken charge of the helm. Joanot was at his side, also adequately attired. Then came the first gust, followed by a second and a third. They were relatively gentle, though they came as a shock to the system after nine or ten hours of becalmed sea and left us nonplussed. Then calm returned followed by a lashing wind that hit the boat like a round of grapeshot. The mast be
nt; Rufí heeled over. That whiplash of wind brought the first waves, squelching with foam that the wind blew away. A huge shower of water fell on Rufí’s deck, which the scuppers struggled to sluice away. Mascarell was drenched. I’d have been too if I’d not sheltered behind him. Martinet was scowling.

  “Senyor Mascarell, get below decks! Stay in the cabin…And you, senyor, if you want to stay on deck, put your coat on. And don’t make me have to repeat that!”

  Mascarell disappeared, looking fed up. I went to get my coat. Our small craft was tossing and pitching like a nutshell. You had to grab the first thing at hand to walk a single step. The way the prow dipped deep into the collapsing waves was disturbing; Rufí’s stern rose, showed its ass and screw in the air. All the craft’s timbers began to shake and vibrate like the leaves of a tree. Then the prow rose up, casting down two huge beards of water that bubbled and frothed ferociously. I had to crawl to the cabin. When I stood up, Rufí suddenly pitched over and sent my knee crashing into the side of the bunk; I saw stars. I looked awful. Mascarell, who’d struggled to take his clothes off and was lying on his cot, asked me: “What’s wrong?”

  After a while I went back on deck and walked over to Martinet. I found him in fine fettle, flexing his muscles, face tensed. He half laughed – though it seemed slightly for show. Joanot was observing things with total indifference. He was used to trawlers riding out a storm.

  “How’s it going, Martinet?” I asked the second I reached his side.

  “Shout or I won’t hear you…! The wind blows everything away. Speak up!”

  Squalls of water continued to hit the deck, flooding the sides, washing over the decks, and spray and rivulets soaked our faces. The salt burned our eyes. Now and then you had to wipe your eyes with your elbow to see anything.

  The onset of the wind had cleared the haze in a flash. The sky was limpid and bright – a September sunset, autumnal, cold and bluey gray. To the west, over Montserrat, the horizon was a spectacular yellowy red. Only small blackish wisps raced over the open expanse of sky, the typical ragged streaks blown along by those winds. The coastline stood out and Barcelona’s urban sprawl could be felt behind Montjuïc. Factory chimneys in Clot and Badalona stuck out in the distance.

  “I smelled the stink from the port sewers…Did you, senyor?” asked Martinet, with a laugh. “Can you see Martell? It’s clear enough.”

  No, I couldn’t make out Martell. Over Rufí’s prow you could see watery spray scattering over the sea. Sometimes there was a clear spell and you got a vague glimpse of something. Generally, the spray stayed dense and opaque. The gusts came thick and fast; on each side of our craft they swept away the crest of foam like gleaming feathers. The swirling, roiling sea boomed thunderously.

  “The wind,” remarked Martinet, “is blowing real strong. Our only hope is that it won’t last long. Sometimes if it’s strong, it soon dies out.”

  “And what about Rufí? Will it survive?”

  “She’s a brave little boat. Look at her prow pitching! She’s a real boat! But really too small for this kind of squall. When she’s hit full on by a blast, she’s paralyzed…And that’s natural enough.”

  With a north wind or mistral, the sea’s surface is unmistakable. The wind speed makes the water surge like a swollen river, bubbling, splashing, rushing. Beneath that flow comes a series of long, tall waves, with deep troughs and high crests. The waves make boats pitch and heel, raising and lowering them as if on a set of scales. The sea’s current and the wind’s force heave boats one way or the other, depending on the direction of the gusts. Thus, if they sail into the wind, boats sway as they edge forward, like a wheel leaning this way and that. Martinet gripped the tiller tight trying to steer Rufí through the eye of the harshest, most unnerving onslaughts, but the blows from wind and sea were harsh and dramatic, and everything was beginning to suffer the pressure of the unleashed elements.

  It all seemed a matter of patience. It was all about reaching Martell eventually. We were level with Llobregat. To reach Martell we were dependent on our engine. If the engine was fine, we could assume we’d reach the harbor mouth, though, obviously, we couldn’t be sure when. This was the lay of the land as Martinet saw it. It was true to his mariner spirit.

  I tried to persuade him that along with what you might call his frontal tactic there was another strategy that was possibly dangerous, but might be more sensible and practical. I was used to sailing in even smaller craft, and my experience had taught me that sometimes being pig headed, turning things upside down and trying to pass through the eye of the main hurdle didn’t work.

  “Martinet!” I said.

  “Out with it!” he replied, wiping away the water streaming down his cheek.

  “You’re intending to head straight to Martell, straight into the wind and sea?”

  “That’s right. What would you do in my place?”

  “I see that. But we could also sail closer to land and seek shelter from the coast.”

  “Don’t talk to me about the coast. Ships need water.”

  “I agree. But the closer we are to land, the less we’ll feel the wind and the sea.”

  “No, forget it. I don’t want to lose this boat. I’m not familiar with the sandbanks. What I want is water.”

  “Fine. You’re in charge. Just think, on the other hand, that if the engine breaks down, we could reach Martell along the coast simply by using our sail a bit.”

  “You’re suggesting something that fishermen do,” he answered curtly. “And you know only too well I’m no fisherman.”

  “I won’t mention it again. You’re the boss.”

  Martinet, who was already – one might say – organically immersed in the situation we were confronting, seemed obsessed with a single thing: the purr of our backup motor. But at a quarter to seven – I remember it well – after a buffeting from the sea that rocked Rufí, the motor missed a beat, and after a few spasmodic splutters, it stopped altogether. Perhaps it was soaked. Perhaps it stopped because of the beast’s inherent evil, because one thing you can predict about a motor that’s up and running – especially in circumstances like that – is that it will stop. Once Rufí had lost its driving impetus, she was like a feather at the mercy of sea and wind, which were carrying her away at top speed.

  Martinet didn’t think twice – and his was a saintly reaction, for any attempt to sort out the motor, or simply to tarpaulin the cover off, would have been effort expended in vain; he turned the tiller and gave our poop a tail wind. For the moment, any idea of reaching Barcelona was dismissed.

  “Are you hoping to make it to Garraf, Martinet?” I asked.

  “We’ll see…”

  “Maybe Tarragona?”

  “For the moment let’s just try to keep our heads down.”

  Martinet ordered Joanot to hoist the storm sail. When the wind hit the small sail, Rufí started speeding apace. It’s not easy to sail with a tail wind, and it’s not without its dangers. But Martinet showed himself to be a mariner with lots of experience and skill. Rufí sailed well; the small sail we were carrying in the prow seemed to raise its head and allow the boat to float energetically. The vessel slipped over the water like a seagull, lurching from side to side, sometimes leaning to starboard, other times to port. That twisting and turning, leading the boat to heel over this way and that, forced Martinet to keep the rudder tight, and created such a swirl of water it sometimes swept over the stern and soaked the boards where we were standing. Meanwhile, dusk fell. After half or three quarters of an hour sailing with a back wind, sight of land had almost vanished. Streams of white light from the Montjuïc lighthouse punctured the air.

  Martinet gave the tiller to Joanot, cut a slice of bread and sausage and took a swig of wine. He seemed much less nervy and uptight than an hour earlier. Making an escape always brings a degree of mental peace. A shower of water occasionally hit the backs of Joanot and Martinet,
who were sitting in the poop. The water thudded against their hard oilskins and streamed down them.

  I went down to the cabin. Mascarell was lying on his mattress. He’d managed to pull a blanket over his body. He looked pale and sickly. I told him what had happened, and when I confirmed what was going on – namely, that we were heading back – he listened in total resignation. I was expecting him to tell me he had to be in the office in the morning, but he said nothing.

  “Aren’t you well?” I asked.

  “Don’t you worry about me. I’m just feeling under the weather. This craft is too small. I must buy a bigger one.”

  “Don’t get worked up. It’s unpleasant, but nothing we can do about it. Just bear up.”

  “Will you believe me if I tell you I’ve never suffered so much mentally?”

  “Of course. It’s only natural.”

  I went back on deck. Martinet was holding the tiller again. Joanot struggled to light the two sidelights – two sad fireflies that at least made us feel we were in good company.

  As there was no way to light the compass binnacle, I couldn’t work out the route we were taking until the stars appeared and I located the polar star. I was rather astonished to see we were heading sharp southeast, over the Menorcan channel, to be precise. Martinet had given up on Garraf, Tarragona and Sóller as possible safe havens. He must have decided: “As we’re in flight, might as well do it as quickly as possible, the best way the wind and sea can take us.” One theory is as good as another.

  Rufí was making progress like a steamship – to use a sailorish cliché. Wind and sea were driving us forward. We always sailed in the same style: suddenly lurching and heeling over. Fortunately, it wasn’t a cold night; it was dry and the stars were twinkling. Martinet didn’t budge from the stern the whole time. He ordered Joanot to go and get some sleep until midnight and I stayed at his side. I later stretched out on my bunk, and his son took my place.