Liberty
THE REASON
A rolly night at anchor off Isola dell’Ogliastra in Sardinia, then thirty hours of open water to Favignana, a small island off the west coast of Sicily. S/V Spindrift came into the port and found the bay nearly empty. One painted ketch, the fishing fleet, and us. As usual, I dove the anchor to make sure we were pinned to the bottom. Nobody has told this port what year it is. The stone is the color of bread crust, the old tuna works sits quiet at the water’s edge, and the loudest sound was our own halyard. The tourists had gone. It was just us and the locals. After a passage like that, Sarah and I had earned liberty. We went ashore for fish and supplies.
S/V Spindrift at rest, 0737. Thirty hours of salt on her and she still catches the sunrise. Bare aluminum, no paint. Hold that thought.
The fleet. Hauled out and tied up in every shade of blue Sicily sells. That is S/V Spindrift in the middle distance, under the chimneys of the old tonnara.
Rush hour. One man, two oars older than I am, and not a ripple he didn’t make himself.
The morning shift. Yellow oilskins, a black bucket, and a mooring line that has grown its own reef. The harbor was flat enough to show him twice.
The harbormaster. He inspected the Leica at close range. No fee was discussed.
Our only neighbor. Her hull is painted bow to stern with faces, and she flies more flags than we carry. Should we paint the boat? See frame 1.
Kiosko. Maria and Giuseppe run the beach bar. It’s called Kiosko, because that’s what it is.
Opti sadness. The Optimist pram is where most kids learn to sail. We used to call it Opti madness. This is Opti sadness.
The fastest thing in town. Wool sweater in the October sun, brooms in the basket, and a brass horn on the handlebars he did not need.
The fish market. I never got a clean shot of the fish monger. I got this instead: shrimp, squid and anchovies, fried and handed over in a paper cone. It did not survive the photograph by long.
The guards. Posted outside the butcher shop, both asleep on watch, with the getaway bicycle parked out front. Photo by Sarah.
The butcher. Antica Macelleria Bianco, cutting meat since 1969. That is our costata coming off the rack. The guards outside never stirred.
The lights come on. Glasses down, tables set, and the whole town walking to dinner. We fell in.
Liberty, officially. A Negroni for me and a white wine for Sarah, at a mosaic table the size of a compass card.
Dinner, presented for inspection. She introduces each one by name before it meets the kitchen: John Dory, sculpin, squid. I take the squid, Sarah the pasta alla Norma. Osteria del Sotto Sale.
THE MANIFEST
One costata, which is what a rib eye answers to here
One cannolo, which made it back to the boat but not much further
No fish. All of it was consumed on site
One anchor, still where I left it
One open question about paint
Fair Winds – S/V Spindrift
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