Mediterranean Summer

by David Shalleck

  To fill the silence, I stammered some unintelligible stream of nonsense about the day, realizing too late that my hard-earned knowledge of formal Italian had suddenly failed me. I looked up only to see Alex watching la Signora through the hatch above.

  She dipped a finger into the oil and touched it to her tongue approving my choice. I helped her get the burners on the stove started and adjusted two flames, since the pan was large and the stove was small.

  La Signora started to cook, placing a little of each oil in the pan while contemplating if she should add more of either. The onions and garlic went into the pan to heat with the oil, then simmered slowly to soften and release their aromatics. She slowly tossed them with a wooden spoon, giving this initial step a lot of concentration to seemingly find the place where a cook becomes focused on the pace of cookery. She added some of the drained tomato water to the oil to help braise and soften the onions. After tossing them around for a couple of minutes, she scraped out the pulp from each piece of onion and removed the remaining outer layers from the pan, voicing her theory that onions should not be visible in a dish since the solids are hard to digest. I had never seen anyone do this before. No wonder she cooked with low heat and asked me to cut them into large pieces.

  Then she added the tomatoes and chiles to the pan. As the tomatoes heated up and the liquid around them came back to a simmer, she carefully crushed them to release more juice. At the same time, the tomato pulp began to blend with the oil in the pan. Then she added the lobster—claws, knuckles, and bodies first with any of the water that had fallen to the bottom of the bowl. After four or five minutes, while she tossed the pieces in the oil, she added the tails, all the time keeping the heat at an even simmer.

  I had no idea if I should be making any conversation, and I certainly didn’t want to correct any of her cooking, so I found it easier to just sit at the edge of the mess table bench and watch. In fact, she didn’t need my help. She cooked with a confidence that impressed me, not only her handling of the ingredients but what her eyes and hands were telling her. But even better than how she cooked was the way she looked—calm, always in perfect posture, every movement and task methodical and precise. It was clear she’d done this before.

  Finally the silence got to me, and out of left field I asked her a question: “Just curious, signora, how come there are no women in the crew?”

  She chuckled and made a gesture toward the fo’c’sle. “With those conditions, do you think a woman could stand it? There’d be too many problems.”

  She checked for seasoning, added another chile, and pulled the pan from the stove when the lobster meat in the tails turned opaque. She kept the bodies in the sauce for a short while longer, gently crushing them with a wooden spoon to get as much flavor out of them as possible before discarding them. It was hot and humid in the galley, the air thick with the smell of cooked lobster and simmering tomato sauce. I noticed a light mist of perspiration had formed across the back of la Signora’s neck and shoulders.

  “Bene,” she said, smiling at the results as if just completing a painting, “now I leave the rest to you.

  “Just before it goes to the table, roughly chop the parsley and add on top of the pasta. And make sure you taste some of it,” she said, indicating with a look that if I could improve it I should. I noticed she had left without a touch of sauce on her bright white towel. On the way through the pantry she asked Rick in perfect French to give the five-minute call to table so that everyone could be seated.

  “It’s incredible,” he said when he came into the galley to inspect her culinary prowess. “She speaks better French than I do. Make sure you save a little for me, too, d’accord?”

  I tasted the spaghetti with a morsel of lobster. Should I have been surprised? Like everything else about her, the dish was elegant. No one ingredient overpowered the others. Even the chile pepper, so easy to overdo, was strong enough to make the sauce hot but not spicy. The lobster was succulent and tender and had just enough briny sweetness to retain its noble status. Obeying my chef for the day, I roughly chopped the parsley and sprinkled it over the pasta to add a little herbal freshness that cut through the rich sauce. My only regret was that I couldn’t add a note to the platter expressing my compliments.

  The next morning we set sail, heading toward the southern side of the Sorrento Peninsula, our destination the Amalfi coast. Our first stop was to be the small harbor of Marina del Cantone. It was a leisurely three-hour ride that took us to what many believe is the most beautiful coastline in Italy. Before we got to the tip of the peninsula, Mount Vesuvius was in constant view in the hazy distance. I was grateful to be on deck the moment we passed the tip of the peninsula, for high up and long abandoned sat the Church of San Costanzo. I had visited it when I worked at Don Alfonso. Except for a single tree, it sat alone guarding the high point of the peak of the peninsula, remote and stark. I can only imagine what the eyes of this church had seen over the centuries, with its unobstructed view of the open sea. I remembered Alfonso telling me that along the winding road that leads up to that landmark grows peppery rucola selvatica—wild arugula. Out of respect to the foragers who brought it to market, la rucola is served on virtually every local menu.

  When we arrived, a nice perk was in store for us. The owners invited the entire crew to celebrate la Signora’s birthday at the popular restaurant Lo Scoglio in Marina del Cantone, a quaint little seaside encampment huddled next to a line of waterside restaurants where we dined among locals and the well-heeled visitors that flock to the coast. A table for fifteen waited for us on a shaded deck reaching out over the water’s edge.

  All of us in the crew sat to one end—perhaps a force of habit since we weren’t directed that way—a group of seven men in Serenity uniforms, white short-sleeved button-down shirts with blue shorts and dock shoes. Il Dottore and his friends were in pastel shirts and khakitype shorts, somewhat conspicuous in the fine leather loafers they wore without socks. The yachtie saying “You can always tell who is who on the boat…the one with the Swatch is the owner, and the one with the Rolex is the crew member” rang true since apart from his uniform, Kevin proudly wore the fancy new chronograph he picked up just before leaving France. The ladies came onshore with their de rigueur casual style—brilliant-colored sheer blouses over their bathing suits with sarongs or pullover short dresses, all sporting plenty of jewelry. It was amazing how they could carry on with all of the hand gestures that accompanies the Italian language and not be impeded by their large and ornate bracelets, watches, and necklaces.

  La Signora ordered for everyone: involtini di melanzane—rolled eggplants filled with mozzarella; antipasti di pesci—various marinated fish and seafood; frittelle di frutti di mare—crisp shellfish beignets; vegetable dishes; pastas; whole roasted fish entrées; Neapolitan pastries like baba au rhum yeast cakes soaked in rum syrup and crispy ricotta-filled sfogliatelle.

  We were all having fun until a dock attendant passed word that Serenity was dragging anchor and starting to drift. Kevin immediately excused himself to deal with the emergency. To those of us who knew him, the look on his face showed what he was really thinking: Patrick should have been the first to jump upon hearing any news about a boat emergency. But Patrick sat still, and off Kevin went while the rest of us finished lunch with ice-cold shots of homemade limoncello—a local cordial made with lemons macerated in grain alcohol and sugar. The alcohol content must have been really high, for after a single glass my movements slowed.

  A couple of hours later, we motored along the magnificent coast to Positano, arriving just before dusk. Patrick had slowed the boat down to a crawl as we approached the anchorage in perfectly still air. We were the only ones, about a hundred yards offshore, where we’d stay at night for the next short week. I had grown up with a vague idea about this fishing village turned upscale destination, having been told stories of wonderment from my parents. And from working at Don Alfonso, I knew this was where expensive boutique hotels and rental homes were embedde
d among the multigenerational neighborhoods of the locals. As sunset turned into evening, the colorful glazed majolica dome of the Church of Santa Maria Assunta just behind the center of the beach gave way to an expanse of small white lights adorning the buildings on the two hillsides that flanked us.

  The next day I was getting ready for lunch service when Rick came down below, seemingly excited. “La Signora is in a very good mood and is holding court. The drinks are working extra fast today!” he shot out, preparing another round.

  Amused, I asked, “What’s going on up there?”

  “They’re doing what they always do—talk about all the people in the gossip magazines!” Then he flashed his mischievous grin. “But soon it will shift, and then it will be over.”

  “What will be over?” I wasn’t sure what he meant.

  “Yes, finito. There are two things I’ve noticed that tone her down,” he said before sharing his theory. “If we’re sailing hard, she doesn’t ask for much and only looks at the water. And while out in the sun, after a second drink, she’ll take a nap on deck for the rest of the day.”

  When la Signora and her guests took to seclusion, there wasn’t much for him to do. Now I understood. Rick was after a little downtime.

  He looked like a mad scientist as he began to assemble another tray of caipirinhas, a spirited Brazilian drink made with cachaça—a clear distillate made from sugarcane—shaken with slices of limes muddled with sugar and ice. Earlier in the season, il Dottore had instructed Rick how to mix this potent cocktail by making it a little strong, almost a double.

  “Time to party!” he said as he left with a full tray of filled rocks glasses. “Then maybe I’ll have the afternoon off!” I wondered if la Signora appreciated how often Rick became the instigator of a good time for everyone.

  My only downtime—very early morning or late evening—book-ended each day. A cappuccino among locals onshore in the morning and a whiskey after service on the foredeck at night. Alex, a smart pedigree hunting dog, also knew where to go for a late-night treat, for each night I put leftovers from the owners’ meals in a dish for him. Why not? I’d look at him and remember an Italian proverb, “Si lavorato come un cane”—to work like a dog. I thought about this as I watched him lick his bowl clean and lie down near my feet. Alex lived like a king while I worked. Now deep into August I found myself working più d’un cane—harder than a dog. I am sure Alex somehow understood, as suggested by the tilt of his head, when I lamented about the heat and hours.

  In a resort town where it seemed most folks dined in restaurants, called for room service, or were served on private terraces, procurement became its own problem, especially for fifteen. By now, I no longer cared about the inflated food prices and readily told Patrick I needed more money. But still, I had to find the food. There was no open-air market, so that was out. Eventually I realized I would have to make do with a cache of boutique shops for fruits and vegetables, a small alimentario—grocery shop for other things—and a fish shop near the beach that actually wasn’t bad. The wife of the fishmonger was proud to have us as a customer, noting how beautiful the boat was and even asking about the cruise. I think she was taken by the romance of living on a boat—going somewhere, eating well, and coming back to the anchorage at night. And Serenity did look attractive from the shop’s front door while at anchor just offshore.

  Of course, she was also surprised that Italians who could afford such a large boat would have a foreign cook. But eventually we became friends, and on my last day in port she gave me a gift of homemade limoncello. It was another one of those very genuine Italian gestures.

  I returned to the galley to find Scott peacefully reading at the mess table, sipping his comforting cup of steaming tea. The engine room door was wide open, and the heat just about knocked me down.

  “This climate is brutal,” I said, lifting my marketing bags onto the counter next to the stove. Scott didn’t offer to help as I began to unpack.

  “We’re going to the Galli islands tomorrow,” he finally said a half minute later, never looking up from his book.

  “Where’s that?” I asked.

  “They’re just down the coast,” Scott answered. “We passed them the other day. Didn’t you see them?”

  I hadn’t, probably because I was in the galley.

  I sat down, relieved to have a momentary diversion from dealing with the stores, and looked at the book in Scott’s hands. Homer’s Odyssey.

  A little heavy for a summer read, I thought to myself. Scott turned the book around to show me a passage.

  “Here, mate, read about the Sirens. That’s where we’re going.” He finished his tea in one enormous gulp and walked out, leaving the dirty cup on the mess table, and also the book, facedown, open to the page he was reading.

  I pushed the cup away, slid into the mess bench, and started reading. A particular passage caught my eye, the section, I think, that Scott was referring to. It was the part where Circe, the sorceress, warns Odysseus about the Sirens at Galli:

  But if you yourself should wish to listen to the Sirens, get your men to bind you hand and foot with ropes against the mast-step. In this way you may listen in rapture to the voices of the two Sirens. But should you begin to beg your comrades to unloose you, you must make sure that they bind you even more tightly.

  The next day I heard the guests and the crew splash in the cool, deep waters at the anchorage between the three small islands of Galli while I continued to slave away in the galley. It slowly drove me nuts. It may have been my imagination, but something about the place seemed to pull me. Maybe Homer was onto something.

  Ten

  Emerald Blues

  Sardinia and the Emerald Coast

  Marathoners know the feeling. It’s called “hitting the wall.” It happens as mile twenty approaches, when all the training and grit that have carried the runner this far suddenly flags. Sports nutritionists understand it in terms of body chemistry. The runner’s glycogen reserves, the storage of fast-releasing glucose granules that provide fuel for all muscular activity, have been exhausted. Once these go, the only remaining fuel is the slower-burning fatty acids. So the body begins to shut down, with exhaustion acting as a defense mechanism to avoid permanent physical damage. Add dehydration, over-heating, nausea, and bleeding nipples to the mix and you have the makings of a miserable end to an event that began with such bright promise. At mile twenty-six, those witnessing the spectacle are treated to a procession of contorted, grimacing faces as runners, from the earliest-arriving champions to those gasping last stragglers, limp across the finish line in pain. Life on board Serenity was about to hit the wall.

  It was high season, when most civilized Europeans were on holiday. I didn’t think I would become sour, but twenty-plus days into August, the ferie was getting to me. I began to wallow in self-pity, telling myself I might not make it if the fatigue got any more numbing, my gimbal-less stove any more annoying, or my galley any hotter. I calculated that since the owners had moved on board, I was working about 112 hours of the 168 hours in each week. When not shopping, prepping, cooking, or cleaning up a galley hot enough to fry an egg on any flat surface, I was on deck, lending a hand to the crew, hoisting sails, coiling lines, or helping with maneuvers. That left me a grand total of fifty-six hours to myself, something like eight hours per twenty-four-hour cycle for all my own needs, of which sleep took six. Although I was getting sounder sleep, I wondered what had changed about my bunk. I recalled tossing and turning on it through many an interrupted night during my early months on board. Now I fell asleep within seconds of my head hitting the pillow. I guessed that if you work a man hard enough, a stone slab will feel like a king’s feather bed.

  We remained at anchor in front of Positano for a couple more nights before heading west to the island of Sardinia. After calculating it would take us thirty-five hours to cross the Tyrrhenian Sea, we planned to leave on Saturday evening, allowing for a dawn arrival on Monday. For the first time, we would be making a two-
night passage with owners and guests on board.

  Rick and I were excused from daytime watch duties so we could prepare and serve, should the owners need us. By early evening, the owners and their six guests had finished their meal and were lounging around the cockpit enjoying the ambient glow of looming dusk that covered the open sea as we headed toward the setting sun. From what Rick was able to understand, the talk was about taking it easy and the next night, repairing to bed early in order to awaken upon our arrival at one of the near-deserted white sand and clear water coves that can be found all along the Costa Smeralda—the Emerald Coast—the name given to Sardinia’s exclusive northeastern coastline. As I washed the last pots and pans and tidied the galley, Rick joined me at the mess table to share the few end-of-day minutes that we had to ourselves.

  We motor-sailed for this passage, meaning we used the engine with a few of the sails up to give us extra propulsion and, at the same time, lessen our fuel consumption. Once the boat was far enough offshore, the evening sea breezes gave some relief from the August heat. But it was not just the break of the heat that was so welcome. When under way, you feel as if you are cutting through the sea with the sharpest of knives, and I was savoring the smoothness of the ride as well.

  The rest of the night and the whole of the next day we carried on with our duties to keep the boat in transit, the hum of the engines constant below deck. The owners and guests took on the slumbered look of a long voyage, didn’t ask for much, read a lot, and I am sure got something from staring at nothing but water and the horizon on all sides for hours on end. It’s amazing how seductive that view can be. A couple of times we watched dolphins swim with the boat and frolic in the bow wake. La Signora’s only request for the meals was to keep things molto semplice—very simple—a directive I welcomed. And my friend Alex spent most of his time out of the sun in the chart house.