Ponza, like the human body, is 90% water. But while we humans tend to focus on the minority fleshy stuff, it would be a mistake not to keep one’s attention firmly focused on H2O when considering Ponza.
And how to best appreciate the wet stuff that surrounds the rock that is Ponza? By gazing at it, watching the sun set over and into it, by splashing in it and by floating upon it. For the past five summers we have relaxed on the rocky beaches of Ponza, been soothed by the lapping of those waters, plunged into their cool, crispness and fed on the creatures that lurk below their surface. And each summer we have treated ourselves to renting a small boat, sometimes con marinaio, sometimes piloted by ourselves. We have circumnavigated the island numerous times, stopping in secluded coves, wading onto quiet beaches, tying up for a few hours and enjoying a fresh seafood lunch in our bathing suits (why there was seafood in our bathing suits, I’ll never know) and generally enjoying the sun, the breeze and the smell of the sea for one memorable day. Not much changes on Ponza, yet despite doing the same trek over and over again, it never gets tired. Such is Ponza.
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Our first naval outing took place on our second visit to the island, this time in the company of our good friends Pete and Nancy with whom we were excited to share our island discovery. Having done some basic reconnaissance work on our first trip, we were ready to really dig into the island and enjoy all it had to offer. So it was off to the harbor to find a boat for rent and to discover what all the fuss was about. Pete and I walked down from the hotel to the lively harbor to a series of stands and tables manned by the representatives of the various flotillas for rent. And stretching out in the shallow water were dozens of small boats, some inflatables looking very seaworthy, but most of them longer wooden vessels, painted white with blue stripes or in brighter colors, each outfitted with an outboard motor. As opposed to the inflatables, which are essentially a life preserver with a motor, it was difficult to look at the wooden boats without picturing them bow pointed skyward as it slipped quietly into the murky depths of the sea. Preferring to stay on the breathable side of the water we decided we would take an inflatable and pretend to be Jacques Cousteau.
That is when we learned our first lesson about boat rentals on Ponza. You don’t get to
choose. The Ponzesi, particularly those who spend their days along the wharf renting boats to tourists, have an incredible ability to say no to everything, while still engaging you and keeping you happy. It is the opposite of “the customer is always right” mentality. Here, along the quay the customer is always wrong. And the customer never gets what he asks for or wants. But much like a parent who knows best, these Ponzesi do seem to know best, or at least good enough, and things always seem to work out well.
So our dreams of renting a Cousteau inflatable were immediately deflated. “None available today,” we were told, despite the fact that dozens of them were tied up within a few feet of us. In fact, I can’t recall ever having seen one rented or remember coming across one during our island circuits. Perhaps they are just props. Props with props.
So how about having a captain take us around the island? No, you can do it yourself and it is not necessary (despite the fact they have routinely taken the opposite position in subsequent visits, claiming that it is impossible and ill advised to go alone). It is better to go on your own, we were told. To demonstrate how easy it would be to circle the island on our own the fleet commander then took a tourist brochure that had a foldout map of the island on the inside front page and started circling the dangerous, rocky areas that we must avoid, his pen nearly running out of ink. That’s all there is to it, he advised, offering at the last minute as if he had almost forgotten to tell us, the cardinal rule of circumnavigating the island – “you must go in this direction,” he sternly (no pun intended) warned, his gesture pointing in the exact opposite direction we were inclined to go. “And just outside the harbor turn right and then beware!” You should go through the gaps in the towering rocks ahead (rather than around them), but by all means, keep to the left side when you pass through. Avoid the right! Or so I was pretty sure he was telling us, as he and his colleagues were not only speaking in rapid Italian, but in a dialect that made every fifth word or so recognizable. But what’s the worst that could happen, we thought to ourselves as images of the Titanic and Andrea Doria danced in our heads. Our adventure took place, of course, before the Concoria.
Armed with up to date nautical charts (the island map with some huge circles drawn on it in pen by our safety instructor), we went back to the hotel to collect the women for our adventure. The walk back to town was an exercise in the most subtle wordsmithing and diplomacy as we didn’t want to reveal too much of our failure to land a seaworthy boat with a captain. When we arrived back at the wharf we let our Ponzesi hosts work their magic on our wives, convincing them that a self guided trip around the island was so easy even a couple of American men could do it.
If memory serves correctly, we were off in a flash, after a nice young Ponzesi boy pulled the starter cord for us. And in another flash we were drifting powerless in the harbor, having somehow killed the engine and being unable to restart it using the same pull cord he has successfully used just moments earlier. After that short false start (and a restart and starting lesson by our Gilligan) we were on our way. For a three hour tour.
Once you relax and realize that the worst that can happen to you is drowning (there are
very few shark attacks in these waters), captaining a handmade wooden boat is really quite simple. If you want to go to the right, you pull the rudder to the left. If you want to go to the left, push it to your right. Desta – sinistra. Sinistra – destra. To go faster, rotate the handle toward you. To go slower, rotate it away. Keep a safe distance from the rocky shore. And when you pass through the first rock canyon, keep to the left. Or was that right? Quick, check the map. Hurry! Oh no, the pen markings have all washed off! I’m pretty sure it’s left.
Well it was left and as we emerged through our first obstacle you would have though we had just landed on the moon. There were no cheers or celebrations (that would have caused a bit too much suspicion on the part of the women that the men didn’t know what they were doing), but inside it was like Mission Control back in 1969, with a bunch of white men in buzz cuts and white short sleeved dress shirts and ties (with pocket protectors) jumping up and down and pumping their fists in the air. The Eagle has landed.
Armed with that success we knew we would have no trouble making our way around the island and we were right. We had chosen a day of fairly calm weather and mild seas. It was sunny and delightful. And after about 15 minutes we decided to stop and drop anchor and try out the water. I can truly say that about the only thing better than rising from a beach chair at our favorite Pontine beach (la Caletta) and plunging into the clear, chilly waters is to leap into the Mediterranean from a boat that you have piloted to a secluded cove. If one eats with one’s mouth, nose and eyes, one plunges with one’s body and one’s ego.
Pulling up anchor after a half hour or so of swimming, floating and soaking up the sun, we were thrilled to find that the secret our little Ponzesi friend had shown us about kicking the motor into the start position before pulling the cord did indeed work. And so we were off to find another cove and another plunge. This wash, rinse, repeat continued the entire day and, I daresay has continued for these years. For there is nothing quite like seeing an island from the water and being at one with it.
