A quiet stretch in Trapani, a long ride down from Erice, and a lesson about the toilet seat
Sarah flew to Denver for parents weekend with Sam in Boulder. I would rather have been there with them. That wasn’t in the cards. Somebody had to watch the boat and make the repairs, so I stayed in Trapani with S/V Spindrift and made the best of it.
It turned out the best of it was pretty good. Trapani is quiet, and I like quiet.
Trapani is not a yachting town, but it is a sailor’s town. Ships have worked this harbor for thousands of years, carrying out the salt from the pans south of town and bringing in the tuna. In the fall of 2005 it even hosted America’s Cup racing: Louis Vuitton Acts 8 and 9, the warm-up regattas for the 2007 Cup in Valencia.
The harbor is still very much at work. It is as much commercial as it is transient, with work boats of every size coming and going all day. One of them is a monster, the Normand Vision. Next to her, S/V Spindrift would look like somebody’s dinghy. There is enough oil in the harbor water that we can’t run the watermaker, and the water on the dock isn’t fit to drink. So it’s been the boatyard’s outdoor showers, and I have to say, they’re great.
Almost nobody here speaks English. My Italian covers ordering a coffee and saying sorry. Google Translate does the rest, and it has never worked harder than it did one morning at the marina toilets.
The Seat
As I walked out of the men’s room, the cleaning lady met me. She was not happy. She let me have it, fast and loud, in Sicilian Italian, with hand gestures that made the general idea very clear. Just not the specifics.
I typed “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian” into my phone and held it up for her to read.
She read it. Then she kept going. Louder, if anything.
So I did the only thing left. I held out the phone and asked her to speak into it. She leaned in and gave Google the whole speech.
Even Google couldn’t keep up. What came back was a jumble of English words that made no sense at all. But two words came through loud and clear: toilet, and seat.
I added up the rest, hand gestures and all. I had left the toilet seat up.
I stood there and had a moment of real clarity. For years I have lived with three women, Sarah and our two girls, and for years I have heard about the seat. I always figured it was a house rule. Maybe a family tradition. Possibly three perfectly capable people who could put a seat down themselves and simply chose not to.
I was wrong. A woman I had never met, on an island in the middle of the Mediterranean, who does not share one word of my language, holds exactly the same position. It isn’t a house rule. It’s international law. Somewhere there is a treaty, signed in every language Google knows, and I was the last man on earth to hear about it.
I put the seat down. I’ve put it down every time since. Somewhere, three women are nodding.
The Days
With no passage to plan, the days found their own rhythm.
An early ride on the Brompton out to the fishing boats, to buy something fresh or just to roam, and another in the evening when the light goes gold. A swim on the ocean side of town, where the water is clean and clear. At the fish market I point, the fishmonger tells me what it is, and I carry it back to the boat and try a recipe I’ve never made before. The fruit and vegetable stalls. A gelato, occasionally. And most evenings, a Negroni at my favorite bar, right on the water, as the sun goes down.
Erice
The best day was Erice.
The old town sits on top of the mountain behind Trapani, about 2,500 feet (760 m) up. A cable car runs to the top, so I rode it up with the Brompton folded at my feet. The views from up there are out of this world. Trapani and the salt pans spread out below, and the Egadi Islands sit out on the water.
Then I unfolded the bike and pointed it downhill.
About five miles (8 km) of winding road, 2,500 feet to lose, and nothing to do but steer, brake and grin. On a folding bike with small wheels, that is about as much fun as a 64-year-old man can legally have.
The List
Watching the boat isn’t a vacation.
The forward head macerator pump had to go. Getting to it meant cutting an access panel, the kind of decision you think about for a day before you pick up the saw. New pump in, and it works. I washed her top to bottom, lubed every block and tackle aboard, and spent a good share of my time upside down in the bilges, which is where boat ownership really happens.
The Crew
Every working dock has cats, and ours has a crew of them. No names. They aren’t pets. I’m fairly sure they’re on the payroll, hired to keep the rats honest. I fed them anyway.
Turning the Page
Then I drove to Palermo to pick up Sarah, and the quiet ended, in the best way.
Now we’re waiting again, just a different kind of waiting. A Scirocco is blowing up from Africa, and it’s right on the nose for where we’re headed. When it blows itself out and a westerly fills in, we’ll run east along the south coast to Licata, and S/V Spindrift comes out of the water for the winter.
It wasn’t where I wanted to be. But it was a good few days, and I made the most of them. Ask the cleaning lady. She’ll tell you I left the seat up exactly once.
The Bromptons, parked on S/V Spindrift’s transom and ready to roll.
The Normand Vision, one of the harbor’s working giants.
Buying straight off the fishing boats. The gull is waiting for his share.
Pistachio. Occasionally.
My favorite bar for a sundowner, right on the water.
The Negroni. Every sundowner should come with this view.
The Brompton, folded and ready for the cable car up to Erice.
The view from Erice. Out of this world.
A member of the dock crew, on his break. He likes sardines as much as I do!
S/V Spindrift
Trapani, Sicily · 38°01’N 12°30’E
Next: east to Licata, and the haul-out
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