Nine Summers by Rina Huber

Author:Rina Huber
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Allen & Unwin
Published: 2016-07-13T04:00:00+00:00

chapter six

To be tied up along the quay in the centre of Milazzo, during the 1990 World Cup, when Italy was hosting the event, was an unforgettable experience. From dusk to dawn, cars and motorcycles roared up and down the esplanade, blaring horns. In the crowded trattorias and cafés along the harbour front, the mood mirrored the exploding fireworks. And above the pandemonium, Luciano Pavarotti’s voice soared, ‘VINCERA, VINCERA!’ The entire length of the marina was in celebration mood, toasting and singing. None of the yachties emerged on deck until late the next morning and instead of moving on, we stayed another three days to recover.

The Dutch couple on the boat next to us had come from Yugoslavia.

‘It’s such a tense place,’ they said, ‘we decided to spend the summer in Sicily instead. The political situation there is bad, the country seems to be falling apart.’

We’d heard how tense the situation was in Yugoslavia from a number of yachties. Most put it down to living for 40 years under communism and, now, its anticipated disintegration. Still, as we’d made arrangements to meet friends in Dubrovnik, we planned to move on.

Like Steve in Ischia, they also warned us about storms in the Golfo di Squillace, the waters south of Calabria. In case of a rough passage, they suggested we sail into a port that didn’t appear on charts. In fact, theoretically, it didn’t exist. ‘But you can’t miss the entrance. It’s marked by a rusting, dilapidated yellow crane. The coordinates in case you need to go in there are Lat.38 19.54 N Long.16 26.04 E.’

We cast off from the quay at the crack of dawn. The purring of our engine broke the night’s silence as we motored past moored container vessels, black silhouettes against a dark grey sky. A lone sailor stood on deck and waved. As we crossed the entrance lights to Milazzo’s harbour and headed for the open sea, a streak of pink lined the sky, and soon the sun’s arc appeared above the eastern horizon.

The wind, which had blown all night, now registered 25 knots dead on the nose. We set a course for Capo Rasocolmo and Capo Peloro, the most easterly tip of Sicily and the dogleg entrance to the Strait of Messina. On both sides of this entrance are steep mountains from which notorious squalls blow. Once we were inside the Strait, we sailed past modern swordfish-fishing vessels moving slowly up and down. This was swordfish season, and as we’d discovered in the markets, they fetched high prices.

In spring, swordfish migrate through the Strait in a southerly direction, but in June they travel north. They sleep or move very slowly during the day, which makes them easy targets for harpoons. Boats with massive steel lattice masts and a bowsprit longer than the length of the boat trawl for them. The captain steers from a perch in the crow’s nest at the top of the mast, while men with binoculars scan the water. My stomach heaved as I watched them sway 90 degrees back and forth.

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