When the 5 octipi ,where, boiled, diced, seasoned and devoured, the Mexican was ready for anything but sitting around talking in a broken English that automatically reverts to Croatian every few sentences.
I tried to explain how even I don't understand everything that S was saying. For centuries one could get by across the whole of the Mediterranean coast beat-boxing the old Lingua Franca, mixing any words one knew of any Mediterranean language, it was spoken free-style differentiating from one person to the next, and islanders continue to speak thus, measurements of Croatian, French, Spanish, Arab and Greek dosed in a matter of preference, and quite un comprehensible to anyone from the continent.
Though what is understood by all as good manners and a matter of course, is the necessity to drink vine and spend hours in making one another laugh. The procedure is as necessary as smoking and part of the coastal bon ton. My dearest Mexican and I do not smoke, but she goes as far as pushing away anything more than a glass of vine where a bottle per female head, and 2-3 per male, is absolutely essential to arrive at the level of relaxation and fine tuning to the humour of pursued conversations and posibley singing.
We where two new, young girls arrived upon the territory of the cove and restaurant owned by Stipe. Like a bull faced with a red cloth he charged all his macho how wonderful he is stories at us, the shark he just caught, the perfect salt he collects from the rocks him self, the capers he picks and pickles, the quality of fish he catches, the pure way he makes the octipi salad which we ate and he caught. better than any restaurant on the island,… Whilst they where funny I got tired of translating them. So did Mexican of my translating, Tuta being usually the male with the stories was exhausted with this new alphas blabber. “Lets go throw the nets” He suggested.
Stipe haggled. “They are all cumbersomely knotted up. We can’t”.
We all drunk more vine, obayed listening to more stories. When T peeps” Lets go throw the nets’ .
I was content both going and un-going as I know its cold out at sea at night and have thrown nets before with no actual fishy award won for it. With Tuta. I actually have never caught but a single red fish with Tuta, and have tried several times with his boat, using several methods in several different parts of the coast.
Tuta insists. Tatiana insists. I begun to put my weight to that side of the scale. Frane suggests we can all un knot the nets. With a bit more pushing from the majority Stipe announces a reluctentley he is persuaded” But women have to wet their hair in the sea, otherwise we shant catch anything!”
Women are unluckey on boats is the male Dalmatian belief, and no fish will be caught if women go, but we did not wet our hair in the 1 am sea. Stipe did in fact want us to do the annoying icky job of un tangling 2 miles of wet nets, folding them neatly, and tying them together at commands squeezed trough his James Dean tight lip grimace of holding a cigarette at all times.
It lasted an hour. I was almost sorry we embarked. And than a confusing, untying, hollering, ruining, left and right on the boat from Stipe with cigarette in mouth who jelled at me, to take the wheel and be at the gas. “Bottom of the shaft. Press button! give gass gentley. Reevrse gentley. Now forward. More gass.” My heart started to beat faster. “Go all the way with the gas don't be frightened, I’m here.” The boat reared up, dug its rump in to the black water and 55 horses began to kick a real fucking foam up.
The thing jumped and landed, slashing the sea into two, lifting in to the sky and landing on the black wave himalayas. It was amazing. I was instantly turned on. Everyone else had to hold on to the sides with both hands for their life. Apart from Stipe. Hair flying backwards, red amber of the cigarette lighting up his eyes, he opened up a bottle of wine and offered it to me so I don't dry up. I wondered why he had made me driwe the boat as these Dalmatians usually only trust other men. “At all times, check the pressure going to the engine to be between 3 and 4. The engine’ is clogged up. Haven’t cleaned it in a year” Did he say it and the engine began to peep an alarm and shut off. A look of , thank God passed the mexican’s face as the b. I waited, started again, Kicked up above the wawes into the blackness. It was the best feeling. Hard to compare anything to it. My frist time on a speed boat in the night. After years of claiming otherwise I have to admit the feeling on a speed boat beats sailing with sails. We where heading towards Korcula. Boats in Dalmatia are seen as female and when the engine shut down in my hands a few times I gave her back to her captain, he knew how to be gentle with her.
The sky was indigo and a bag of sugar crystals stars had spilled over it. The sugar crystals where reflecting in the black sea and falling all over the place making it hard to avoid tripping up and making a wish. Blue green neon fireworks where turining on for instants in the foam the boat threw, planktons that's used to live in the sea by my house when I was little. Tati looked much more relaxed now her fate was in the hands of the captain, her dress fluttering beneath his jacket..
We arrived somewhere in the middle of the sea, there where two siluets of little islands waiting for us and as we neared the entire community of seagulls rose into the air to salute. “That is where they sleep, no predators” The boats light revealed a neon turqoise shallow sea. We slowed down and Tuta got up to throw the nets. Of course they got caught and Stipe had showed him how to . Red nets slipped trough his hands, and we wowe the miles of them around inbetween the isands. As the last poured in to the sea S drowe around slowley and screamed at F to make noise. Using a long piece of wood with a wide flat bottom F slaped the sea’s surface. It frustrated who swore all vuglaritty fishemen have then got frustrated and showed how the right force applied the wood makes a sound like an explosion. The aggression of the sound was frightening. There we where driwing all around the nets hitting the sea making a hellish racket accompanied by fast aimless torch light that in combination was just supposed to frighten the fish, make them loose their senses and get stuck in the nets. T and I huddeled on the seat frightened like two little fish. Not so hardy. Two little painter girls after all. The men splashed, beat, drowe us and fish in circles and than spent ages retrweing the net. Which to their egos frustration, and my somewhat relif was eamptey the whole 2 miles of it but for 5 little fish. Of course they in retrospect knew they would catch none this night, too much moon, the girls, the tide, pleanty of swearwords. ..
On the way back , S insisted we should not go before we see.. And rode us to the southern edge of Hvar. We faced an amasing red clif face. The seemingley flat surface of rock camouflaged a deep crevice and a sea cave which burrowed deep and high in to the edge of the island. S gigeled lighting another one. “I have brought girls here.. And when the police has chased me I hid in here a few times. They had no idea where I dissapeared “ Wind jacket around the ears, the salty wind rough hair and cheekbones, made him very much look like a real Dames Dean. “You have no licence” laughed Tuta remembering the older alike minded fisherman “Krivi spent years telling me about his licence, and than once we just threw the nets near Pakleni when a police boat appeared, you should have seen him; Krivi sudeny turend white, and very seriousely said lets get out of here fast." “I was borne by the sea.Replied S I grew up catching fish in front of my house. Who has the right to fuck me with licences. I have gone out to sea and caought fish every day of my life and will do it for the rest of my life and I will never get a licence.” Proclaimed S igniting the engine and cruising west towards his bay.
We neared the shore the rock circled bay and S hit the gas hard. The girls where both hypnotised by the alpha of the group.The boat lifted on to its ass and roared forward like the tazmanian devil. Wind of inertia slapped our faces so fast the salt scratched the skin. The lights of the houses that seemed dots a moment ago started to grow in to real big fire flies illuminating the solid shape of the growing buildings which seemed to be falling towards us. “You idiot stop the boat” screamed F. “Don't fool around ” screamed T . “Turn it off” the men circeled and pushed S like sharks trying to stop the boat themself. S was possibly deranged, it appeared we where about to fly into a concrete wall. American cop film with a real life splat. We tore pass tied up boats in the bay, and came into to 20 meters of the house, the beach infront, at full speed and all the horse power boat was capable off, S sudenely janked the jostick into to a zero and and stoped the inertia by reversing a touch, than he giggeled to a stop.
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