Eat, Drink, Sail, Repent!

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.