◉ 065 | Bouvardia

Sailing

has been on my mind

lately.

“Stavi prst u more

i povezan si sa cilin sviton,”

we say on the Dalmatian coast.

Put a finger in the sea

and you are connected

to the whole world.

True.

When I think of sailing,

two people come to mind.

One of them is

my uncle,

barba Pero.

His family

had a sailing boat,

thirty-something feet long,

named Bouvardia.

It made sense.

They were

in the flower business.

Two families on board.

Four plus three

on a yacht that sleeps six.

The three kids

in the bow:

me, my sister

and my cousin.

My mum and dad

on one side of the saloon,

my auntie on the other.

Barba Pero

in the tiny berth

next to the engine bay.

At night,

we roll at anchor—

hot as hell,

the smell of diesel

everywhere.

By day,

we sail from bay to bay.

The boat heels so far

I pray

the keel holds.

Wind and sun

rough you up.

Salt spray crusts

on your skin.

Seasick

more often than not,

vomiting overboard

straight into the sea.

I swear,

I will never set foot

on this boat again.

You dream of a shower

and a bed that stays still.

You want to go home.

But when the sea calms,

you heal yourself

with a sandwich:

Mesni doručak

on torn bread,

tomato

with a pinch of salt.

And a peach.

Dolphins appear,

jumping in front

of the bow.

Home can wait.

On the way back,

the swell is serious,

the hull slamming

against the sea.

Waves break

into the cockpit.

Barba Pero

reefs the mainsail.

Dad steers us

through the weather.

Almost

home.

We lower the sails

and motor slowly

into Zenta marina.

I jump off the yacht,

the ground still moving

beneath my feet.

Before it stops,

I am already dreaming

of the next time

we raise the sails,

turn off the motor

and hear nothing

but the hull

slicing through the sea.