Groaning: The International Language

Day 45:



The water was flat, at times glassy.  I could see in it the clouds and the mountains swaying back and forth.  I could see in the east a place where there were no clouds, a place where the sun showered its glory on the sea.  It looked like a good place, a far away place.  Closer and to the south there was a small opening in the cloud cover, and a great ray of sun poured through, as though angels might descend in the heavenly light any moment only to discover whether or not they could swim.



Towards the end of my day I was paddling along an exciting cliff face, made mysterious bythe occasional sea cave.

There were several other fishermen on small motor boats in the area, this could have been a good sign, as in “This is a good place to try your luck Dov.” Or a bad one “Ha ha, you have no chance of competing with real fishermen.”  At one point I saw a bunch of fish splash from just beneath the surface, so I circled over the area.  There's no way the fish didn't see my lure.

Fish:  “Hey, I don't remember seeing you around here.”

Lure:  “Bite me.”

Fish:  “Fine, be a snob.  We'll see how fast you make friends.”



Cloud cover aside, it was a great day to kayak.  I pulled into the small port inMonterosso.  A few fishing boats and a lifeboat shared the small harbor with me.  One of the sides of the inlet had a low wall and I pulled up aside it to get out.  It was an easy exit, but after a good day’s paddle there’s nothing like a series of death groans to give satisfaction while debarking.

“ughhh, uoowhth.  Egggggahhh.”

“You kayak from Barcelona?”  The man asked me.

What man, where did he come from.  And could he tell how far I had come just by the quality of my groans?  No, the boat club I had stayed with the night before knew I would be coming here and had called ahead.

A former Olympic paddler who now runs a hotel here was happy to let me stay in one of the rooms free of charge.

boat location: 44.145097,9.646966

Stepping Out of the Shower

This morning I woke up in a house surrounded by the feel of grandparents. Not my grandparents, but somebody's, and the house felt like it.

Day 44:

Today some sneaky little punk stole the sun some time before dawn. God, in an effort to buy time while he was looking for it, threw a sheet of clouds over the sky hoping that nobody would notice the absence. Having recently spent a good deal more time under the heavens than most people, sensitive to the slightest abnormality, I have not fallen for this simplistic ploy.

It was a cold dark day, if day you could call it.

I trailed my new lure, hoping that god would be too busy looking for the sun to notice I was fishing. Maybe today I would catch something. But it would seem that the force against me is greater then divine, no fish for dinner tonight.

I paddled to Sestri Levante. My host from the night before told me that while I was at sea he would contact the paddle club here and ask them to meet me at 3:00.

The distance was not far, though it would have been to the next port, so I was there at two. And nobody met me at three at the spot I had been told to wait. But at 3:15 as I was ready to move on, I saw another paddler out on the water moving at a good clip. That was odd, I thought. You'd have to be crazy to be out paddling on a day like today.

I called to him, but he did not hear me. I followed him and eventually got his attention. Yes, he was looking for the crazy kayaker from Portugal.

“Barcelona.” I said. It was wonderful to meet him and he seemed happy to meet me. Tonight I'll sleep in the clubhouse of the Leaga Naval Sestri Levante. I met a bunch of them and they're super cool folks.

I was slightly surprised when I stepped out of the shower into my bedroom, and found a class on navigation beginning there.

current location 44.270003,9.393868

I Saw a Goat

Day 43:

This morning I searched Nervi for a chart, a toothbrush, and gas.  I have now left my old chart.  I am almost out of gas for my stove, and I had lost my old toothbrush in Switzerland.  I found a toothbrush and got directions to a store that would sell me gas.  The gas store was closed since it's Monday.  The Marine shop which I hoped would sell me a chart was closed for the same reason.  “Monday is a reason to be closed?”  You might ask.

I don't know, but it sure makes shopping a task.



Today I paddled from Nervi to Rapallo. The sun was out, and I basked in it.  I haven't paddled under the sun in a long time.  The mountains where bright and the hills were alive with the sound of music.*  It was a nice day.

 



I paddled around a large scarcely inhabited peninsula.  Once on the outside of it the headwind picked up, but itwas not intolerable.  Large cliffs overflowing with green woods shot above.  Interesting stone formations were everywhere.  Atop one rocky peakthere was an old tower with a great view of the sea, and shortly after there was a tiny village at the base of a mountain.  The buildings in the village must have been very old and I got the impression that the only access to this place was sea access.

Later I saw a goat.

The next tiny village, maybe five buildings including the church and the castle, was flying a red cross flag and had a few tourists wandering about.

 

What's that?  More about the goat?  OK.



At first there was only one, a white fellow with mighty horns and a wise face.  He had a beard that looked kind of like mine only a lot better.  I imagine that this was no ordinary goat, but a goat king.  Lord of all the goats of the peninsula.

The other goats that appeared one at a time afterwards were neat looking, but none so impressive as the first.  They were climbing along the cliff face and eating from the grasses and plants growing from the rocks.  I noticed them when I stopped for my own lunch and was staring at the cliff, only to realize that there was a goat in front of me staring back.

Paddling around the second corner of the squarish peninsula I fought against a wall of wind, and once past it the wind calmed a little but the surf became fairly rough for a while with waves frequently spilling over my deck.

Finally I was approaching the town of Rappalo.  I kept my eyes open for the kayak club.  I had a phone number to call when I got there.  The number was given to me by Banjo, and whoever was at the other end was expecting my call and would hook me up with a place to stay for the night.  I thought I saw another paddler in the distance, it looked like another row boat of the sort I had seen the day before but I wasn't sure.  The boat disappeared behind some rocks, not to reemerge.

I asked a fisherman for directions to the club.  He was sure it was somewhere around here, but didn't know where.  I approached a port, and from around the corner came two kayakers.  Their boats where small and unadorned.  The sportsmen were a couple in their golden years who spoke not a word of English.  They were headed to the kayak club, so I followed them back the way I came.  They showed me to a changing room and when I was done helped me move my boat to a safe place.  They invited me to sleep over.

* I don’t think he means that literally. ~ ed.

Back on the Water

I'd like to add one last thing about my little break.  I got to spend time with a real friend; I haven't seen a real friend in a long time.  That is the hardest thing about this trip.

I spent the Sabbath couch surfing just outside of Genova.  My host was extremely friendly and a kayaker himself.

Day 42:

By the time I got to my boat and had it in the water it was noon.  So today I paddled to Nervi.  The weather was just as I'd left it, cloudy with a headwind.  Though the headwind wasn't as bad as it had been.

There is a seawall running parallel to the mainland for several kilometers in front of Genova.  It effectively creates a long wide lane of calmer water for large cargo ships.  I asked one of the mooring men at the port I was leaving if this lane had an outlet at the far end.  He assured me that it did but said that it was closed to smaller vessels and that if I went that way the Coast Guard would have a conniption.  He reiterated several times that it would be dangerous for me to take the path.  So far* I hadn't been able to attract the Coast Guard’s attention, even when trying on my radio.
I launched. Passing the entrance to the path, I thought it wouldn't hurt to take a look.  The lane was wide enough for two tankers to pass side by side and still leave room for a kayak.  I took the lane, and it turned out to be the biggest mistake I made today.

What started off as a weak current against me quickly turned into a strong one.  The large concrete walls effectively created a wind tunnel effect, so that while I was not paddling directly into the wind, as far as the current in this place was concerned, I was.



But other than my slow progress and my industrial barbed wire view, it was fine.  A boat did come in the opposite direction, but it wasn't much bigger than mine.  At the first opportunity I was out of the lane and onto fairly flat open waters making much better time, though my view of land was still of a large seawall.

There are many moored tankers in this area, and the view of the seawall and Genova's towering industry behind it made this to be a less pleasant place then most others.

I forgot to set up my new lure today, so naturally there were lots of fish splashing around.  At least one of them was a few feet long.

A whole school jumped over my boat, or at least tried.  Many of them thunked against my hull and fell back into the water.  One of them hit my arm, and a few lucky ones made it over.  I wonder if this was the kayaking equivalent of hitting a deer on the road in the night. If so, I'm terribly sorry.



Finally past the wall, I was rewarded with a great view of the residential section of Genova which is very pretty.  The Italian pink and yellow old homes atop short cliffs and old stone walls were very scenic.    Frequently beaches with many paddle and sail boats promised me a place to pull over as the day began to come to an end, but I wanted to make it to a port where I'd have a shot of getting some gas and a chart tomorrow morning.**

I had seen that Nervi had a port on Google maps, but I hadn't plugged it into my GPS and it wasn't on my chart, so I asked an old fisherman on a rowboat for directions.  It was the first old school rowboat I have seen on this trip, and I thought there was a certain comraderie between us non-motor mariners.  But he didn't speak English and started paddling away as I attempted to question him about the area in Italian.

Finally I got to the port I had been aiming for.  I would find the offices, tell them my story, and maybe score a place to sleep and a shower.  Except the port was almost empty of boats.  There would be no office or showers, this was a public port used only by a handful of fisherman this time of year.  The port was surrounded on three sides by Nervi.  Cliffs with small staircases winding up them or bars and restaurants.  At one end it was fed by a stream.  Atop one small steep boat ramp there was an old stone arch and open gate.  On either side of the arch a kayak was mounted on the side of the rock face.  The gate was open.

I found in the kayaking club a couple of kayakers who had just finished an afternoon paddle.  They kindly invited me to use the club’s showers and sleep here overnight.  The Nervi kayak club rocks!

Later I attempted to find an Internet cafe, asking in a bar if they had

“Wi – fi?”

I was told “This is Italy!” rather rudely and I couldn't expect people to speak English.  In my defense, I had looked up on-line how to say “Wi-Fi” in Italian and was assured that it already was.  Apparently the woman didn't know about wireless Internet.  It seems to me that obnoxious people should be required by law to dunk their heads in a bucket of cold water.

*One notable exception.

**Everything is closed on Sundays.

Bucket List

I realize the last blog was a little vague. I will now open up to questions.

Q: Can I have your autograph?

A: Yes. Questions about my trip please.

Q: Is it true that the girl who sat next to you on the train gave you her phone number without being prompted?

A: umm, yes. How do you know about that?

Q: Heh heh.

Q: Where were you headed on Tuesday?

A: Good question, I was headed to Geneva, Switzerland. I spent a few very pleasant hours exploring the snowy city. I enjoyed walking along its picturesque waterfront, a tree-lined street above an enormous blue lake. From there I got on another train to Morgins, Switzerland. I spent Wednesday and Thursday skiing in the Switz Alps.

Q: While skiing, is it true you fell …

A: Yes.

Q: … off of the ski lift?

A: ummm

Q: Twice?

A: If you already know then why are you asking. Maybe I had better just tell my story.

Q: If you must.

Flashback:

I was in math school. It was my last year and I had by then unsuccessfully asked out all of the girls who were showing up to the senior courses. This class was Measure Theory. The professor wrote on the board, line after line of proof and there might have been one student in the first row who was able to follow. Not only did she have a boyfriend but she told me this as he was sitting next to her in the library when I made my move. My mind wandered on to daydreaming on another subject.

There was a new chick sitting behind me to the right. Oddly, I hadn't seen her before. How to go about it? The professor droned on, and occasionally I would make a vague effort to figure out what was happening up at the board, but it was hopeless. I would have to learn the material on my own some time later.

The class was over, and I heard her talk to another student, in English! Nobody ever spoke to each other in English. She didn't speak a word of Hebrew, not only would this give me a conversation opening “Hi, I'm Dov and I'm American.” But it would mean that helping her translate things would give me an excuse to spend endless time with her. There is not a lot of English in undergrad courses at Hebrew U.

And so it was. While we never did hit it off romantically, Pocahontas and I are still good friends. Pocahontas is not a native American but a Swiss exchange student, and while talking amicably one day I learned that her parents had a country home in the Alps. I was invited to spend a week there skiing with her if ever the opportunity should present itself. A vague sort of invitation that I filed in the Cool Stuff to Remember part of my mind. (A much better place to store things then the Important Stuff to Remember section.)

I skied quite a bit while growing up in Albany NY, downhill and cross-country, and while I never got to be any good, I was adequate and I loved it. This was over a decade ago, I have not been skiing since I moved to Israel in 2001.

About a year ago we made plans. I would go with her to Switzerland for a little over a week during winter break and we would ski. They had all the equipment I might need and their cabin was a five minute walk from the lift. But it was not to be. At the last minute, the plans fell through.



Now, passing through Geneva, I remembered these plans. I might never be closer toSwitzerland than I was, and Pocahontas was there too, visiting her family. I was invited to go skiing with her Wednesday and Thursday. So I took the train and blogged last while on it.

On the train I was thirsty. I had with me my water bottle, but my lunch was in it. I don't like to be thirsty. I found the restaurant car and asked if I could get free water. No, I was being silly. If I wanted water I could pay four euro for half a liter of it. Their were sinks in the restrooms on the train with signs saying “not for drinking”. I tried tentatively, tasting the water first. It tasted fine. I wondered why the train would have undrinkable water on it. Where would they get the water from to put on the train? Was their soap in it? I didn't know, but I was thirsty. I drank.

 

The next day Pocahontas and I put on our skis, and took the lift up the mountain that overlooked the little village. The lift was a bench with a back suspended from a wire. It had a bar that came down in front, and a second bar to rest the skis on. The weather was in the upper 30's and the mountain was covered with snow. The view was stupendous.

 



I was confident I would remember how to ski. Coming off the lift I discovered that I didn't. Seeing my predicament, Pocahontas suggested we start with the bunny slope. I was pleased, only to discover that this “bunny slope” was a Wild Descent of Death. Nothing like the gentle bunny slopes I grew up with. I made the descent twice and felt confident that I had a handle on things and was ready for something a little more challenging. After that bunny slope I could handle anything.

 

Good god, I was both right, and wrong. I had a lot of fun, but Pocahontas's idea of easy was harder than anything I had ever done before in my life. And I learned to ski. By the end of the day I had not only reclaimed my previous skills long untouched, but I may have been skiing better then ever before. I had to.

 



One trail after another on the top of the mountain, the runs and the rides back up werefairly short. At the end of the day we took one long narrow path through the woods and along cliffs until we found ourselves back at her village. It was fantastic.

Pocahontas' family is very nice. Her father, a neuroscientist at the University of Geneva assured me that alcohol does not kill brain cells while they are in your head. On a petri dish, sure, but not while they're in your head. My reason for not drinking was thus fantasy.

Her sister just finished medical school to decide she wanted to get into film. Following a dream is something I can appreciate. My own had just got me a day of skiing in the Swiss Alps, a day I will remember for a very long time.



The next day we were on a different mountain. The trails were not so wide and open asthe day before. Longer and not as hard, it was even more fun, though I might have thought that impossible. Through the woods, over bridges, and down the mountain. We sped* down great white slopes from Switzerland into France. We had a view of the tallest mountain in Europe and admired the occasional old cabins and tiny villages that dotted the white peaks. Some of the cabins had been turned into restaurants for the skiers.

Most of the lifts were not chairlifts on this side, but long poles that came down from cables. At the end of the pole was a small disk you put between the thighs and it serves as half a chair. The cable would pull you forward as your skis found their way along the snow. It was like skiing up.

Sometimes, if there was a sudden hill you might find yourself airborne for a moment, a scary feeling that was not meant to be. Other times a sudden jerk might pull you quickly forward, or a little to the right or left. Occasionally it would stop and I once found myself slowly lowering with my rear almost meeting the ground before my skis went backwards and I was again standing.



My skis went along the tracks as I was pulled up and I looked, a little concerned, at theledge to my right. It was very close to the tracks my skis were moving along. I tried to steer a little to the left, and was then pulled back to the right over the ledge.

“OH SH*T” escaped my lips as I dangled perilously in mid air. Pardon my French. I tried to hold onto the pole but I was dropped down to beneath the path and beaten against the snowy side I had just fallen from. I let go and found myself on a ski slope. There was a fair sized crowd of people who had stopped to watch the spectacle and were laughing at me. Pocahontas had heard my expletive and came down to get me. We skied down to the lift and tried again, this time and for the rest of the day she was behind me in case I fell again.



The weather was just right and we stopped for lunch at a pleasant place a ways down themountain that still had the amazing view. We sat on our skis to keep the snow from freezing our bums. She told me how in the summer she would come hiking in this area, and about how beautiful the now white lakes were. Their were a fair number of dogs at the slope, I think they belonged to the people working there. They walked around and seemed to be enjoying themselves as much as everybody else. One man was sledding with his.

Up on the mountain there were people snowshoeing and cross-country skiing and snowboarding. Their were many different kinds of skis, and the ones that I had, borrowed from the neighbors, were apparently the latest and the greatest. They were much shorter and wider than the skis that I had grown up with. While Pocahontas was a master, when we were on the lift people assumed that I was the expert of the two of us. We spoke to each other in English so others assumed we didn't speak French. Thus we became privy to there conversations about us.



I was on a different lift, much like the one I had fallen off of, when a little girl in front ofme fell. They stopped the lift until she was back on and gave a thumbs up. It started again. Farther up the lift pulled us on a small path through the woods when I lost my balance and went down. I forced my skis back under me and made a miraculous recovery, only to fail at the last moment and go down again. Rather then pull myself upright, since I couldn't seem to stay there, or continue to let myself be dragged up on my side, since I didn't think this was good for my coat, I let go and scurried off the track into the woods.

Pocahontas, the ever patient, was soon beside me wondering what we were going to do. We could ski down through the woods, probably not a good idea, or go up. Up was a short ways, and with my cross country experience I might even have been at a slight advantage. Fifteen minutes later we were at the top.

 

We skied all day and almost never skied the same trail twice. The lift at the bottom of one path would take you to the top of another. It was a truly amazing time, and a wonderful thing to have on my bucket list. I can't check it off though since I want to do it again.

*I was the slowest person out there, but Pocahontas waited patiently for me.