We
called ourselves the “Haightful Eight.” We thought “Hateful Eight”
might suggest a far more darkly sinister and angrier mood than
was so clearly the case with our lighthearted group. No, this group would
be far too merry, too mirthful to be bothered by any negative vibe.
We thought “Haightful” more reflective of a euphoric era, one now
laced with unending gallons of wine, beer and rum if not certain
leafy herbs of days gone by. Together, we would walk, dine, drink, swim,
dance and laugh our way down the Croatian coast. Our vehicle?
The 50 foot catamaran, the “Indian Summer” which somehow
I kept referring to as the “Endless Summer.” No harm there.
To
assist us in our journey, the wonderful Sanja (“Sah-nyah”) and,
at the
helm, Ivan (“E-vahn”). The former served as an amazing jack-of-all-trades:
cook, adviser, guide, Croatian language instructor, and occasional
disc jockey. Ivan, the steady hand at the helm, would perform
his duties as easily and without fanfare as one might open a wine
bottle, if I may use that as an analogy. Our group? Eight friends associated
by random streams of shared personal histories some dating
back forty years and, in one case, more than sixty years. We gathered
from California, Montana, Colorado, New York, and South Carolina.
What a fabulous blend!
We
would sail the azure blue waters of the Adriatic from Brac to Hvar
to Korcula and other destinations which, I must confess, at this moment,
I simply cannot remotely recall. On a daily basis we would
stop at a variety of locations and experience the beaches of Croatia.
And, what about them, these beaches? They are singularly beautiful,
but, if I may say so, lacking in one meaningful way. It seems
Croatia was near the back of the line when they passed out sand.
What we have instead is a spectrum of rocky beaches some of which
boast stones as smooth as a baby’s bottom and others clearly designed
by the Marquis de Sade. None that we encountered were especially
foot friendly. But, we didn't care.
At
these beach stops, we would simply jump off the boat, take off in any
direction, sometimes aiming for the shoreline, sometimes not. If we did
reach the shoreline, we would mostly sit (gingerly) on the rocks, gaze
out at the sea, drink in the secluded beauty, and decide which smooth
stones were worthy souvenirs. We would agree to disagree whether
the waters of the Adriatic were “bracing” or “refreshing” or “chilling,”
but we could all agree the waters were crystal clear and “invigorating.”
One
of our stops was Hvar. We would toodle around the island but finally
make landfall at Hvar Town. I felt a special connection to this
place because it was a decade ago that I visited this place with Jesse
and Alex. At that time, we hiked up to the fortress overlooking the
small city so that we got a rapturous panoramic view of the city below
and the shimmering sea beyond. I remember thinking, as I looked out over
the ramparts, that it was like looking at the gates of heaven and I
always wanted to return here. Sanja had advised us that over the intervening
years, Hvar had become quite the tourist destination. She
referred to it as the St. Tropez of Croatia. And, indeed, the place had
become quite trafficked and blanketed by one cool cafe after another
serving smartly dressed men and women. But, I didn’t care. We
hiked up to the fortress where I put on my headphones to listen to
Per Byhring’s “Mr. Wednesday,” a tune that resonates with me like
no other. Staring out at the sea and listening to this tune had been
an ambition of mine for years. My bucket list is now a tad shorter.
I
cannot let our Hvar visit pass without one more story line. When I was
here with the boys long ago we happened upon a restaurant that featured
what we all thought were the best mussels on planet earth. Mussels
perfectly cooked in a broth rich in tomato, garlic and enough
spicy heat to make it interesting. Perfect for being soaked up by
a crusty bread. Here I was ten years later standing outside the very
same restaurant. And, did I go in to re-create that epochal culinary
experience? No, I did not. Why, you ask. Truth be told, Sanja
and Ivan were about to pick us up and serve us lunch featuring a
spaghetti carbonara with lobster crafted by Sanja. When we advised
the boys that I had passed up this shot at mussel heaven, they
were aghast. What? You travel thousands of miles and go to a place
you are likely never to revisit and you pass up the best mussels ever
created? Are you mad? Ahhh, I will never live this one down, and
I will graciously accept the criticism that has not yet ceased to be
piled upon me. (P.S., the carbonara was awesome.)
Back
on the Indian Summer the party continued as we sailed between
islands. Hours would pass as we read, swam, chatted, stared
at the beauty of it all, ate and drank. And, what would we talk about?
Well, we would delve into the momentous issues of the day of
course like, what’s the difference between a mule, a donkey and a burro?
If only males can be jackasses, would a female be a “jill ass” or
a “jackie ass?” Sometimes we would delve intensely into the riveting
and earthshaking ramifications of a Brad and Angelina break up.
And, then sometimes it seemed the group might add to the list of nicknames
for me. At varying times I was referred to as Rasputin (even
though I disavowed any physical resemblance) or T.C. (trans century)
for my alleged simultaneous resemblance to Rasputin, Marco
Polo, and Einstein. Or, sometimes it was merely Yeff.
In the evenings, we would go ashore to find ourselves some dinner, often following Sanja's recommendations. One such evening, we were in Trpanj, not far from Dubrovnik. (Yeah, Trpanj is spelled correctly, I promise. Just another funny example of this vowel deprived language!) In a town of 871 people, it was not terribly hard to find a place called the "Tuna Beach Bar." Here, we enjoyed epically good tuna sashimi and carpaccio among other fresh morsels. What followed was a spontaneous eruption of dancing joined in by our whole group. I mean, we held nothing back. It was fabulously enthusiastic if a bit spastic, but since there were literally no other people at the Tuna Beach Bar I can't say we fell prey to embarrassment. Michael Jackson, the Stones, the Pointer Sisters and other icons led the way with Sanja excelling as disc jockey. Since we were the only patrons at the place, we sometimes asked the manager if he wanted to close it down for the night. He would shrug and tell us he was obliged to keep the place open until 2 a.m. anyway. Good to know!
Poor
Sanja. She was so earnest in her efforts to teach us some of the rudiments
of the Croatian language. But, seriously, how does one try
to learn such things when vowels appear about as often as sand does
on Croatian beaches? Take the days of the week, for example. How
about Monday, Wednesday and Thursday, to name three. What we
have is: Ponedjeljak, Srijeda, and Cetvrtak. And, let’s not
forget Sunday:
Nedjelja. Really? In this vowel starved universe we were severely
challenged. But, Sanja persevered and occasionally would connect
with our less than graceful attempts at compliance. Sadly, whether
it was Sanja’s howls of laughter or ours that accompanied these
tutorials, we made little progress.
Upon
arriving at the boat at the outset of our journey, Randy surprised
us all with a gift of t-shirts to commemorate the occasion. On
them, it said, “Eat, Drink, Sail, Repeat.” A few days in when we were
threatening to consume about 15% of the world’s wine reserves,
Randy suggested a slight revision: “Eat, Drink, Sail, Repent.”
He
knew what he was talking about.