The moon peeks over the mountains to the east, mainland Croatia, Bosnia, Turkey, Afghanistan. It is two days past full. One edge of the circle is obscured just barely. The moon's face is smiling north. It's a knowing grin. The glimmer tells northern Europe just how beautiful Croatia is. Bur that's a message only understood by the few who can read the faces of moons.
The Adriatic stretches before us. Its waters lap calmly at our feet. Friendly, warm, a bit of a tickle, like when my dad's dog, Max licks my feet for some reason perhaps only he and the moon know.
I tie a line around the top of the Lambrusco bottle we picked up in Italy four days ago. I gently nestle it among the pebbles and cool waters, tying the other end of the string around a rock on the shore.
We sit in silence and trace the constellations in the stars. I remind Annette how to use the big dipper to identify the North Star. As she traces a line from the end of the dipper, a brilliant shooting star flies across our path. Our excitement is audible. We often have seen shooting stars, but never the same one at the same time.
After some time of admiring the stars in silence, we open the Lambrusco. Despite being cooked in the car and jostled in the waves of passing boats, it opens with a pop and no foam. It tastes like the warm sun coated vineyards of northern Italy. We take turns drinking from the bottle like a couple of teenagers who sneaked out of the house with most full bottle we could find in mommy and daddy's liquor cabinet. But the Lambrusco tastes better than anything teenagers could find.
A boat motors by in the distance – a sound with a red, green and white light attached to it to suggest its shape. The path of a light from an island across the water is obscured for a moment by the passing boat. The moon has risen now in the sky, casting our shadows long and crisp on the rocks and water. I can see the label on the Lambrusco has peeled and chipped from its brief time among the pebbles and salt water.
Another boat passes in the darkness. I wonder about its size, its purpose, its captain, where it is coming from and what brings it toward this marina at this hour. I watch the waves crawl to shore. “Whichever way you look, it seems like the waves are coming from that way,” I observe aloud.
“Wow. You're right. That's cool,” Annette responds peacefully. She rubs my back and kisses my neck as I point the bottle of Lambrusco toward the big dipper with a final sip.
“Do you want to walk?” she asks.
“Sure. Which way?”
“Oh. I was thinking toward the campsite, but let's go further down the beach.”
“Ok. Let's take the path.”
We scurry three meters over some rocks to a trail. While we were sitting several people passed – a family with children excited to be out with their parents in the dark, two teenage boys and a girl shouting excitedly in a language I don't know enjoying the freedom and adventure of being a teenager on summer vacation at the beach. But nobody had passed in at least twenty minutes. Nor had anybody returned. For now it seems we have the moon and the trail and the sea to ourselves.
Annette leads. The moon lights the way. The trail winds along the water, under fig, olive and pine. I am sure people have walked this trail for thousands of years. To our left, the moon climbs in the sky, watching over our peaceful sliver of the planet. To our right, white rocks reach out to the calm sea. I think of Steinbeck cataloging marine life along the great chasm in the sea off Monterey. These rocks must shelter so much marine life that I don't see in the darkness and shadows. Mollusks, barnacles, any number of species of fish.
As we walk on in the moonlight, the path opens onto a pebble beach 100 meters long. Two fishing rods point to the stars, mounted in the rocks. A man underneath a lean-to watches the water while talking with his friend in low tones. He fidgets with a pot and a stove. There are no fish in sight, just a beautiful fishing camp.
We walk on, south. A bonfire glows and crackles below us to the sounds of a few young Croatian men and women celebrating life.
We walk on for another ten minutes until Annette stops in a clearing. I look to our right. Two meters below us, smooth rocks stretch their stomachs into the water. I flash on my headlamp to check the footing and climb down to a comfortable perch in the moonlight. Annette follows. “It is beautiful, isn't it?”
“Absolutely. So calm and peaceful.”
We sit in silence for some time.
“We should go swimming,” Annette suggests.
“We could,” I say hesitantly. “If you go, I will go with you.” “Skinny dipping,” I add, after a moment of puzzling what to do with the car keys, money and other belongings in my pocket.
“There's no good reason not to. Full moon. Clear water. Nobody around,” Annette adds, as if the decision to swim had been decided as our fate long ago in the stars.
We strip and scramble towards the water. Annette is completely naked. I have only a headlamp and sandals. I shine the light on the water. The ripples and waves glimmer and dance. I can see the rocky bottom but it is impossible to tell how deep it is. Could be two feet. Could be ten. So I lower myself in slowly. The water is cool. I am up to my shoulders by the time my sandals touch ground again. I swim out a bit and shine the light back for Annette. She attempts to back into the water but abandons it in favor of a belly flop and a squeal of excitement when she hits the water.
We swim away from the rocks. I can see my toes through the clear water in the moonlight. The water feels great.
Tomorrow, I am sure the sun will wake us up to a cloudless sky by 8 am. as our tent becomes too hot to sleep. And we will navigate our way off of Krk Island toward the tumbling waterfalls of Plitvice Lakes National Park. We will return to the crowded roads of Croatia, fingers crossed the traffic passed with the long weekend in which Europe celebrated a Monday holiday whose name I don't know. Tomorrow, we will drive past more roadside vendors with cheese wheels stacked in display and olive oil, honey and wine for sale in recycled bottles and jars. We will pass roadside restaurants with whole pigs on spits. But that is tomorrow. This is tonight. And tonight is perfect.
Soooooo romantic!
ReplyDelete