Seeker

by Rita Pomade

  We spent a week in Pylos gorging on olives and watching truck after truck arrive in the harbour to fill those enormous tankers with wine. Wine was more plentiful than water in this part of the world, and to Bernard’s delight, it had become cheaper at each port. He was indulging more. I wasn’t concerned because it seemed to relax him, and that helped me relax.

  Our week of self-indulgent leisure put enough distance from our near collision to restore my will to go on. When I saw how close we came to annihilation, my energy had drained away. Bernard never berated me for my sloppy handling of that night watch, but I knew I shouldn’t have drifted off to sleep. I waited for his reproach, but it never came. I think he had been too stunned to bring it up, and I certainly wasn’t going to. Under the warm sun of Pylos with its easy lifestyle, the angst of that night faded away. Bernard seemed to have revived as well.

  One morning he went ashore in search of a packet of Gitane tobacco, and returned more animated than I had seen him in a long while. “I was talking to some sailors,” he said. “Calabria is only two days from here, and there’s a sheltered port with nobody there.”

  It was the most he had spoken to me all week. I felt relieved and absolved of guilt.

  “There’s a big industrial harbour with a defunct factory. We’ll have the place to ourselves.”

  That afternoon, we set sail for Calabria, a fertile region of Italy located at the bottom of its boot.

  Chapter 28

  SENSUAL PLEASURES

  Autumn1984: Italy

  With a contented stomach, your heart is forgiving,

  with an empty stomach; you forgive nothing.

  — SICILIAN PROVERB

  Sailing from Pylos to Reggio Calabria was a two-day pleasure ride under a gentle breeze. As we entered the harbour of the city, I felt the fragility of our small yacht, eclipsed as we were by an immense empty pier, towered over by a cavernous rusting structure that may at one time have been a factory or warehouse.

  The deserted landscape had all the elements for a blood-curdling thriller where the good guy and bad guy shoot it out, but I liked the fact that we had the place to ourselves. As soon as we stepped ashore, Bernard took my hand as he had done in Fira. At a small kiosk a short distance from the harbour, I discovered the creamy ecstasy of gelato, the most sensually satisfying ice cream I’d ever eaten.

  “Do you want whipped cream?” the vendor asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  I’d never had an ice cream smothered under mounds of freshly whipped cream. I loved the rich excess of it. With our ice creams in hand, Bernard and I walked along the sea, and stopped to rest at an outdoor café. We lingered over tiny cups of espresso, and had fun commenting on the local inhabitants who passed by.

  Reggio, already a flourishing city before the time of Christ, was a melting pot of many cultures, each one leaving behind some of its influence in spite of several devastating earthquakes. Statues of dour-faced saints shared the city with nubile nymphs and anatomically correct gods, and hinted at the diversity of its cultural legacy. Remnants of ruins were another reminder as was the archaeological museum stuffed with the remains of what was left after the quakes.

  But neither of us had any interest in exploring Reggio’s past. We craved sensual pleasure more than culture. The juicy taste of fresh fruit, the aromatic scent of flowering trees, the feel of grit under our shoes — these sensations took priority over the edification of the mind. Had we stayed longer, I might have had a change of heart, but we were only there for two days. Our destination was Mallorca in the Balearic Islands. We’d heard it was a haven for yachties and one of the less expensive spots in Europe. We hoped to winter there.

  On the morning of our third day, Bernard and I left for Sicily, our destination Palermo, where we planned to pick up provisions before leaving Italy. We didn’t know as we sailed into the Strait of Messina that high cliffs bordering this narrow body of water separating the toe of Italy from Sicily created a wind tunnel. High winds swept down on us and shredded our mainsail. We struggled against the wind to get what was left of the sail furled, and then turned our attention to the mizzen and stay sails. Luckily, they had weathered the blast of air, and Bernard was able to stabilize the yacht. Once out of the Strait, the smaller sails proved adequate for sailing, but we still had to find someone who could repair our main sail.

  “Why don’t we take a break on one of the Aeolian Islands?” Bernard suggested. He had a chart of the area spread out on the table. “They’re close by. It doesn’t matter when we arrive in Palermo.”

  We were in the sun-drenched Tyrrhenian Sea north of Sicily. With a clear blue sky above, rolling waves beneath, and the luminous Mediterranean light transforming our surroundings into a pastel world, it was hard to conceive we’d been through a hair-raising episode less than an hour before. Lingering a bit longer in Italian waters seemed like a great idea.

  “Sure,” I said. “We’ll probably never pass this way again.”

  Bernard showed me the Aeolian Islands on the chart, and pointed out the seven main ones, two of which were still volcanic, Stromboli and Volcano. We opted to sail for Lipari, the largest and most developed of the group. At another time, Stromboli with its active volcano that spit fire into the night sky would have captured my imagination. But I was still under the spell of the sybaritic pleasures that seduced me in Reggio Calabria. Stromboli would have been more rugged and exerting.

  Lipari, by contrast, was tourist friendly with its endless ribbon of hotels, restaurants, outdoor cafés, and cheesy tourist gift shops that followed one after the other. I could see its appeal for anyone in search of a beach holiday, especially with its azure water lapping the shore. And perhaps, if I held a job and needed a break, it would have appealed to me. But sailing into this man-made vacationland made me wish we had chosen Stromboli because of its singularity. I’d been to many resort towns, but I’d never been close to a fiery volcano.

  My one shot of adrenaline on this serene island was the local car scene. Lipari was the only island that had cars, and the people drove insanely. They followed no rules, but had extraordinary reflexes. My most memorable experience during our stay was car gazing and watching the drivers — fast, precise, reckless, and alert. In Lipari, driving seemed to be a sport much like hockey in Canada.

  In the afternoon of our arrival, I visited the local archaeological museum with its impressive collection of Greek theatrical masks, some dating back to the fourth century BCE. The early inhabitants of Lipari belonged to the cult of Dionysus, the god of theatre. He was also the god of ecstasy and intoxication, but it looked as though the locals had managed to put out that early passion — except behind the wheels of their cars.

  I had seen too much antiquity and too many beaches over the years, so nothing seemed fresh or out of the ordinary as I made my way back to the Santa Rita. Yet, having said that, I still have shards of obsidian and feather-weight balls of pumice that I picked up along the shore. The dry, tactile feel of the pumice takes me back to Lipari, and in spite of my jaded response at the time, I feel nostalgia for the island. It’s in retrospect that I’ve embraced the uniqueness of experiences that I will never have again.

  In Lipari, we tied ourselves to a row of four or five small yachts strung out like peas in a floating pod, each one carelessly tied to the other. The first yacht was attached to a tiny pier, and to reach land, we had to climb across each of the other yachts. During the evening, the wind rose, and the first yacht came loose. Being the only ones aboard our yacht at the time, we spent hours running our engine to keep the row of boats, with us tied at the end, from drifting out to sea.

  When a few of the owners returned to their crafts, we helped them tie up more securely and were finally able to get some sleep. Had we not been there, that little group would have drifted out to sea. I couldn’t believe how casual these Sunday sailors were. They would never have survived our adventure unless they learned quickly about how unpredictable life at sea could be. Bernard and I agreed t
here wasn’t much to hold us in Lipari, so the following afternoon, we decided to set sail for Palermo. It was time to see about having that mainsail fixed, and Lipari was too small a place to find a sail maker.

  We dropped anchor in Palermo early the next morning. Bernard asked around and acquired the name of a Frenchman with a workshop not far from the port, who repaired sails for a reasonable price. The Frenchman told us that our sails were worn out. If we wanted to do a major crossing, we’d have to refit the Santa Rita with new ones — an expense we weren’t prepared for with our funds dwindling.

  Bernard was concerned. He told the Frenchman he was thinking of taking the trade winds across the Atlantic to North America. His comment surprised me. We had talked about selling the yacht in Europe. He had even written his brother to find where a good market might be. It was one of the reasons we were heading for Spain’s Balearic Islands. Now it seemed he was having second thoughts. I didn’t question him about it. We were in one of the happier interludes of our journey, and I didn’t want to break the spell.

  Bernard was living impulsively, changing his mind from moment to moment depending on the circumstance and how he felt at that second. In retrospect, I wonder if this was due to his having no parameters that defined his life, no boundaries that channelled him into any direction. When he held a job, he was disciplined and super responsible to the people who worked with him. Do we need defined boundaries in order to make decisions? What happens to commitment? Inside me there was a growing knot of unease.

  While we waited for the sail repair, I visited Palermo’s outdoor market, so vast it seemed to take in the whole city. I’d never seen such variety of fresh produce in my life. Stalls overflowed in a patchwork of every shade of green, purple, red, orange, and yellow. Only the colour blue was missing, but the Mediterranean sky made up for that. It was the first time I had seen green and yellow cauliflowers among the white, or carrots in a riot of colours, or many odd-shaped veggies I had no name for.

  We ate every meal off the yacht, and our indulgence bordered on the obscene. In the various countries we had travelled through, each had its gastronomic specialties, but here everything was a treat for the palate. I had my first taste of hand-made cannoli stuffed with ricotta, now a common restaurant entree, but back then mostly confined to Italian homes. And I discovered Sicilian pizza with its thick satisfying crust, still hard to find in North America though many places offer a poor imitation. I miss the stuffed rice balls or arancine that were sold on every street, and would love to re-experience the joy of eating there, a pleasure enhanced by the vibrant culture and warmth of the people. Sadly, food seems to lose something outside its country of origin. We eat with all our senses, and environment heightens the enjoyment of eating.

  Sicily’s location as a crossroad between the Middle East and the West not only gained gastronomically, but its blend of cultures gave a unique character to Palermo. The jumble of architectural styles — Byzantine, Arabic, Norman, wedding cake Baroque — interwoven with stiffly sculptured saints and sensuous, naked nymphs frolicking with naked gods (a paradox we also noted in Reggio) gave an interesting texture to the city. I wondered how the people came to terms with their historical legacy of sensual indulgence and religious restraint. Unfortunately, we weren’t there long enough to indulge in all the city had to offer. With our mainsail repaired, we quickly departed though I hoped to be back one day.

  With Italy behind us, I looked forward to Spain’s Balearic Islands, our resting place for how long I didn’t know. We’d heard stories about Ibiza’s popularity with the rich and famous and tentatively picked neighbouring Mallorca as the better choice for our modest lifestyle. Each island in the Mediterranean offered something different.

  “We’re going to pass Sardinia,” I said peering over Bernard’s shoulder. He had just unrolled a nautical chart and was plotting the course for our sail. “We could make it a stopover on the way. What do you think?”

  The prospect excited me. I had wanted to visit Sardinia since my university days when an anthropology professor gushed over the island and told me she imagined me there. At the time, I had no idea where Sardinia was, and here we were, so close. I thought I was fated to go there.

  We anchored off the south side of the island, where there weren’t many yachts and none of the large luxury ones Sardinia was noted for, only to discover we needed boat insurance. In all our years of sailing this was the first time insurance was mandatory. It brought home how much more regulated the West was than the East. On our way to the insurance broker’s office, we decided to pick up fuel for the boat and discovered that, in Sardinia, wine was sold out of the same type of gas pumps that are used to fuel cars. Bernard was ecstatic.

  “We’ve got to come back with jerry cans,” he said.

  I felt my stomach tighten and push up into my chest. My stomach was a barometer that always foreshadowed when something not good was about to happen. I tried to dismiss the sudden spasm as over-reaction. I’m a high-strung person, I told myself. I worry too much.

  Later that day, I watched with dismay as the price on the wine meter barely moved up. Bernard filled two jerry cans from the converted gas pump, wine in Sardinia being cheaper than water. Over the past few weeks, Bernard had stopped drinking heavily and our relationship improved proportionally. I couldn’t tell if his better mood was because he felt more at home in Europe or because he was drinking less. I feared the latter. I knew it wouldn’t be long before I’d know for sure, but my body told me I already knew.

  To my disappointment, Bernard didn’t want to see more of Sardinia. He was happy with his purchase, and wanted to move on. I wish I had insisted. Had we explored the island, I might have met Chiara Vigo, the woman who spun silk from the saliva of clams to weave into bracelets as protection against bad fortune. She gave them to anyone who asked at her door. Perhaps my anthropology professor was thinking of someone like her when she oriented me towards Sardinia. I wondered if she saw something in the earthy, mystical energy of the island that related to my nature, or sensed I’d be in need of a lucky charm, or maybe she only sensed my longing for the exotic and the unknown.

  I didn’t know why a professor’s offhand remark so many years earlier had such a hold at that moment. I only knew that I felt a strong pull towards the island when I saw how close we were. I wanted to know what this teacher saw in me that I didn’t recognize in myself.

  Each country we visited had its unique character, and each brought out a different facet of my personality, in the same way that different people did. A subliminal dialogue is always at play between ourselves and our environment, and if we pay attention, it can lead to greater self-knowledge. So perhaps some undiscovered part of myself was awaiting me on Sardinia.

  Living so many years at sea with no roots and no permanent community gave me a wealth of experiences, but constant adjustment without a goal made it difficult to internalize and process experiences. Bernard’s identity came from being a sailor, but it was too narrow and claustrophobic for me. I had wanted an independent life, free of constraints, but with some sense of direction that would ground me. Instead, I found myself the handmaiden of a small yacht at the mercy of an unpredictable sea and in a precarious relationship.

  Sardinia, with its primordial energy, felt rooted in the sea, and had a power that held its own against whatever onslaught the sea delivered. It felt stable and eternal whereas I felt adrift. Perhaps this awareness of what it felt like to be rooted was all I needed from Sardinia. It shocked me into finally acknowledging that Bernard was comfortable with drifting while I wasn’t. I didn’t share my thoughts with Bernard. What could I have told him? He was thrilled with his wine purchase and in a good mood as we sailed towards the Balearic Islands.

  Chapter 29

  RESETTING MY COMPASS

  Winter 1985: Balearic Islands

  There is nothing more enticing, disenchanting,

  and enslaving than life at sea.

  — JOSEPH CONRAD

  Afte
r a two-day sail from Sardinia, we arrived in Mahon, Menorca’s capital, just as the sun was rising. Palma de Mallorca was still our destination for the winter months, but it seemed a shame to sail past this smaller island without acknowledging its presence. A short hike to the nearby beach revealed the same white sand as the beaches of Italy’s Lipari, but the ambiance had none of the buzz. Instead of chic outdoor cafés and boutique hotels, Menorca offered basic, motelstyle lodgings with good value for the dollar. The beach swarmed with British and German tourists on family vacations. A nice place to bring kids, I thought, but not very interesting.

  Before leaving for Palma, we decided to eat at a small waterfront restaurant. Our lunch of omelette bocadillos, fried egg sandwiches with mayonnaise on French bread, was interrupted by the restaurant’s chef.

  “Mayonnaise comes from Mahon,” he solemnly announced after a quick inquiry as to where we were from and an assurance that we liked his bocadillos. I’d never given mayonnaise much thought other than to assume it was invented by the Hellman’s Mayonnaise Company in a food processing lab. “Don’t let anyone tell you differently.” The chef looked at me accusingly. I wondered if he could read minds. “This salsa is Spanish, not French.”

  A mayonnaise war, I learned, has been fought between the two countries for centuries. Menorca had such a small footprint on the world stage; I wondered why the French couldn’t let them have this victory. I assured the chef that I would spread the word.

  After lunch we sailed the short distance to Palma de Mallorca, and tied up along the Paseo Maritimo, a sprawling waterfront walk crammed with high-end yachts and luxury motorboats. Bars, restaurants, clubs, outdoor cafés, and a gigantic Continental Hotel faced the moored yachts, while the Seu Cathedral and a castle overlooked the bay. “Quite a contrast from Menorca,” I said to Bernard.