It was hot.. Even in the stone gate which usually funnels a draft the air was not moving. Painting 2.5 meter works steching ower them to reach in something like a dance I was perspiring. Z was sweaty and behaving like a fly distracting me.. I was preparing the phisicaly biggest free standing work of my life for one of the squares in split, intending to have the opening next week. But it was hot. I would have preferred to be a cow in a filed with the only job being waging my tail and swatting the fly.
Just as we where speculating how it may be an idea to go swimming Trough stone gate appears Tuta. We had not seen in months. “When are we going to take the boat?” I probe cheekeley.
“Right now” he answered “We have come to pick you up. There is a nice soup cooking on the stowe. Its Peros birthday. Are you ready?”
Z and I looked at one another in a recognition of our prayers having been answered. The little angel on my shoulder poked me to stay and paint fro the exhibition but the devil was stronger.
The annoying part of the tradition which always kills my inertia is the ever preceding vine, cigarettes for them, the forced relax mode which gets installed upon my adrenalin and kills it, waiting for the different time zones people live by to unite and when one finaly gives up, wants to get out of pub, and thinks aobout going back to paint, they ask so “Girls what are you waiting for? “
Tutas resin pet was tied up in the little port outside of the house, as promised a lamb soup was cooking in the enormous port that swung left and right in synchrony of the boat’s chug-chug encounter with the afternoon breeze maestral. Unlike the Sweeds we have no laws which forbid drinking on shore as we have grown up in a town where drinking and slow waddle-driwing along coastal roads is quite normal, never the less, alike the sweedish the boats are gerneraly abundentley stocked with alcohol when we set out, and the second we mount everyone naturally starts stripping. Seconds post entering the girls where in bikinis dragging their feet in the sea, and the boys where in shorts, all had a half full glass of in hand as they where initially as ever thirsty to embark.
We anchored in Ciovo the island across the bay close enough for it to be the favourite family bathing spot. Scubadived. Saw some grand crabs the size of those discovery channel in alaska. Played the game of improvisation where one must jump of the boat imitating the shape, of a hover, a fridge, a penguin, an iron, anything silly and hard to imitate. The boat was full of fishermen but we ate lamb soup and meat. The boys could not stay too long as they had spent the morning preparing for their mounteenerng trip to mount Velebit, and where leaving with the rest of the mounteeners society at 4 am the next day. On the way home, as sun begun to turn the sky in the west of the bay into a crimson orange spectacle and twiglight curtained us with a few stars, we decided to stop and catch supper. It was the squid season after all. And there where so many on the boat how could we miss a squid?
To catch the squid one must have a funny fake fish as you may encounter in a contemporaty art galley being a piece of art work, this one ties to a line with a hook and a weight attached. Than one releases the line until it is close to the bottom of the sea, and pulls up and down trying make the fish look alive and the fool the squid to come to dinner. The sea must be lit up with an electric lamp faking a moon. There where seven of us, looking right damn ridiculous exercising our arms up and down, and the longer we did not catch anything the stronger was our caprice and influence of the American movies to “not give up”. Until by miracle I felt a tug and pulled out one single fat squid moustache. “ It must have a been a giant squid to have had such a fat moustache.” But the squid got away. I played with my triumphant moustache offering to fry it and share it between us. Discovering to my joy how the little suckers rather stick well to the leg and make a pleasant ripping off hair sound as one tries to pull it off, perfect waxing for ladies obsessed with all organic.
It had passed un noticed that the anchor had unstuck and the boat had floated miles down current quite close to the peninsula Marjan ready to crash. Also unnoticed went the fact we where rather quite totally out of fuel. Woops. Or Oh-Oh as telly-tubbies would say. This became the right time to try squeasing mobile phone fuel and find someone to pull us to shore. Mostly we failed. Than a positive reply from some guy that he is at a beach concert in Split and he is coming to get us.
Attacking the last of the wine, we turned on the Saturday night radio Dj., and the volume up to maximum as if we where a yacht with blue lights and not a shoe shaped boat with a squid lamp. We started dancing rock and roll, spinnig and forgetting our troubles so by the time our rescue came we where out of alcohol and rather full of it in a very good and thirstey mood. Our rescue capetain was a fat man named Tony, who obiousley loves mirthfull life, and his boat was packed with smoked ham-dalmation prshut which is the best and the first thing one offers to guests when one is hosting, and well stocked with vines, beer, and rakija. Paradoxicaly his only pasangers where a muslim man, and a vegitarian girl. He had generousley prepared a feast but his guests did not want a share in it so it rather dampened his own appetite. When he neared our boat his face lit up as if he had seen a light house in a storm, it was quite obvious we where rescuing him and not the other way around. Despite the eardrum destroying sound that was heard on the shores the whole of the 10 kilometar bay his guests decided to sleep in the belly of his boat whilst Tony tied up his wooden vessel to ours side to side and a right old ball begun.
The boat became slippy from the dancing, and laughing, and somewhere around 3 am we began throwing ourselfs in to the black oil coloured sea squealing.
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