In the ferry reigns excitement, for the Vis regata is on. The passangers are made up of: wifes and children too small to ride the winds with the fathers upon the backs of squealing sailing yachts. Old people set to investigate if there are olives to be picked this year. As well as the odd turist, the self satisfied kind, who come without company, but you keep meeting them everywhere, eager to be adopted, they look at you with big wet eyes like street cats, please invite me for a home made meal "wow", made with organic "oh my god", vegetables from the garden, and sloshed over with "increadible" family made olive oil . Alongside all those, sits a lady, with her four boxes, in each a cat, each cat sitting upon the head of another, all polite and quiet until a co-passanger dog approaches to have a sniff when, the boxes begin to spit, threaten and writhe.
Bypassing the ferry at speed, are sailing boats of all sorts, laden with madmen who enjoy provouqing the winds. They rock and pull ropes. Lines snap. All are thrashed by the waves, which drench and mock them, all are wet to the skin, cold and salty and smelling of sweat and adrenalin. Faster than the ferry they race- ther's wind enough for a biblical tale, proper melodramatic wind. Men and women race the whole course, but only just before they arrive to port, and find them self in font of that red bouy which marks the end, a real ramapage explodes. The ultimate battle, the boats push and shove, ripping muscles, carbon slamming , giving it all, just to be faster than the one boat which has until than ridden in front.
The whale opens its mouth, passangers roll off on to the shores. A gush of win lifts the new arrival's hair, to the sky. Tourists have arrived. How nice it is to be tourist. You can lift my hair up all you like,
The riviera is full of the plankton turning into people. Yet the all push and gather once more, moving as one, and one as all, and into the doors of the hotel for free grub.
The Vis regatta is the highlight of the year for the island Vis. It is a clear sign, the official end of summer working season , and and end has to all tourist visits. The prices are very much set up for foreigners, for this years last manever of releaving the tourists of cash.
Yet it all constitutes the island fairy tale. You want capers? These capers of ours which grow on the rocks? These organic capers have not been touched by pesticides or a human hand once during their growth, so if you want these capers, than my fiend flash more than they are worth of cash.
But those capers are sold with so much charm, and hunger for conversation, for the islanders know once the tourists retreat, they will not have any one left to talk to. They will be forced to socialise with the neighbours with whom they will most certainly fall out with at least a hundred times during the winter.
So the bars are packed. 155 sailing crews, journalists, wives, children, grandmas, locals, everyone migrates to the bars. The town is engulfed in a cloud of coffee and vine. All apartaments are full, the grandmas which rent them are orgasmic, raising prices sky high for every nook and cranny. The restaurants are roasting lamb, fish, bringing out the liquors, vines, whilst working staff sing quietly to them slef "Oh yeah summer has come to an end."
When at the end of the weekend the boatmen, sailors, captains, board the boats, and that gas trumpet is sounded, PAAAAP PAAAP troughout the bay. With a rustle of wings and sails the seagulls, and boats lift off, and the Vis Riviera is deserted. The island turns into a paradise.
The waitors than do not shake crumbs off the tables, but from their teacloths shake the onto the guests for daring to stay another day. The rental-hags bang on the doors, "summer has ended, go away, no you can not wait here until the ferry arrives!" Its the firs day of winter, first day of winter, a chef hollers out of his restaurant, to the guests and neighbours, its over, we are closing! Cycles, scuters, which had been rented all summer, are abandoned on the street without the presence of their owners, for no one cares any more, The winter has begun.
When the regatta withdraws, and the last tourists return on the ferry, the island sinks into sea mists, silence, and a soft hidden sun.
Other than to the olive harvesters, Vis simply disappears off all sailing charts until spring. When the islanders have had a good winters sleep, and wake up to realise that they could do with a bit more cash, they open up their shutters, and dismiss the mists, turn on the lighthouses, and heat up the coffee machines, like fires of old, around which they gather , to decide, when the island will appear up again on the gps chart, and than they call the port in Split, and request, the port authorities " Do start the ferries, and send us again our tourists"
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