postcard 37: out to sea

Boating around Split with buddies.

I’ve already put in eight hours behind my computer screen when I crack an energy drink and we point our wheels south. Istria’s olive groves and vineyards give way to lush mountains, which peter out into the scrubby hills of Dalmatia. It’s after 10pm when we pull into Split, but the town is still lively, the warm air hanging in between the ancient buildings.

Topher maneuvers into an itty bitty parking space and we greet my friend Ben and his fiance Furhan with tight hugs before we’re led into the maze of Diocletian’s Palace in search of gelato. We wind through tourists and past a club with a bouncer, bass thumping into the narrow street. It’s a little shocking to find so much life here and we marvel at it as we eat ricotta and fig gelato under the yellow streetlamps.

While summer has just begun up north, it’s well under way here, I muse, as we follow a road through scrubby trees. It’s hot and muggy and the hike I’ve chosen is more of a road. We stop at a beach club and they don't take cards, or allow Hazelnuts. The next bus isn’t coming for an hour, so we give up and order an Uber. He shakes his head regretfully and tells us he’s allergic to dogs when we slide open the door to the van. There’s a tense moment of back and forths and then we speed away down the street, leaving Topher and Hazelnut behind. Halfway down back to the Airbnb, I realize Topher still has the car keys so we can’t even stage a rescue. We slightly guiltily enjoy Hugo spritzes on a patio while they make the long trek back to town.

I’d called ahead to order the peka, a large format dish consisting of meat and vegetables cooked under a cast iron, bell shaped dome in the fire. When we try to order fries to go with it, our server reproaches us and convinces us to get a salad instead. We’re dubious, one can never have too many potatoes after all, but then the massive platter comes out heaped with juicy lamb, potatoes and carrots. The potatoes are swimming in lamb fat and melt-in-your mouth delicious. We concede.

Topher and I are truly terrible at European restaurants. Neither one of us seems to possess enough assertive energy to be able to flag down the waiter for the bill and most times we feel totally invisible. Furhan, on the other hand, is a pro and he’s teaching all three of us his ways. Since breakfast he’s taken turns assigning us checks to get, or people to talk to and when we channel him, suddenly we’re seen. It’s revelationary.

We’re all thoroughly stuffed with meat and potatoes, but Ben is determined to keep his three-a-day gelato streak up. This time I order a mandarin cone that tastes like the orange Tootsie Rolls and we eat it as we walk back, drips running down our hands.

There’s four bottles of wine stuffed into Topher's backpack, snorkels hanging out of mine and I’m carrying an extra large doggy lifevest. We must look like the ultimate tourists, applying sunscreen liberally as we wonder if each boat that docks is ours. Finally, the smallest one yet pulls in with a matching number on the side. “Oh good, he’s 14,” Furhan says dubiously as our young-looking skipper attempts to park the boat. Someone on shore helps him moor it and we all clamber on board, lifting Hazelnut down the steep drop from the marina as the boat rocks intensely. I double check that everyone has taken a Dramamine.

Once we’re out of the marina and he opens up the throttle, the ride smooths out and Hazelnut lifts her nose to the wind. She’s completely unfazed by this turn of events and rests her chin on the side until she gets tired and falls asleep on the floor between us as we motor to our first destination.

The shallow water of the aptly named Blue Lagoon is the most stunning shade of aquamarine. We drop anchor and snap Hazelnut’s lifevest on, and then I follow Ben into the water with an ungraceful splash. It feels freezing at first, but as we paddle around I warm up quickly. Hazelnut isn’t so sure she wants to come in and we call to her encouragingly. Finally, Furhan picks her up by her life jacket’s handle and drops her in. Thankfully, she floats, though she’s pretty immediately ready to get back in the boat. We swim around with her for a few minutes before loading her back on, where she throughly soaks the entire vessel. Luckily, the skipper seems to like dogs better than the Uber driver. She occilates between watching us swim and laying on his feet.

We pop open a bottle of Prosecco and Hazelnut, Topher and I ride in the bow this time, the wind drying us. Hazelnut has a little salt crust on her snout. After a brief stop in a pretty fishing village filled with cats and bougainvillea, we pull into another beautiful blue cove for lunch where it becomes very obvious that our skipper cannot park the boat. The server comes out to help him. Finally, we step onto dry land and settle into a table by the water. Another boat docks next to ours and a group of Americans cries, “Hazelnut! You’re a celebrity!” They were also at the lagoon and saw her valiant attempts to swim. She gets lots of pets. We eat mediocre octopus and good pasta, washed down with the pinkest rose I’ve ever drank, before heading back out to sea, Dua Lipa blasting from Ben’s portable speaker. Hazelnut wanders the boat, finding the best views and enjoying the wind on her face. For a puppy abandoned on the oil fields, she sure looks at home on a boat.

It’s beautiful, being friends with someone for longer than you haven’t, I think as we sing along, our hands skimming the boat’s wake. In that moment in the sun, my heart aches with the magnitude of these moments and I feel so grateful to be living life like this.

Our next stop is a sunken shipwreck and our parking-adverse skipper anchors the boat a healthy distance away. Hazelnut runs to the other end of the boat when we jump in, so we leave her behind and snorkel across the cove to peer down at the ship. Schools of little fish swim past us and the water is so clear it’s easy to see. Ben and I get back on the boat, chilled from the deeper water, while Topher keeps swimming around. We open another bottle of Prosecco and watch a group of guys on a bachelor party make fools of themselves. Their skipper is staring straight ahead at the wheel as debauchery reigns around him, looking very dead inside. “Should we rescue him?” we wonder aloud. A man in a tiny boat blaring Bob Marley putters around the cove selling mojitos.

Our last stop of the day, another fishing village, has gelato this time. We order (blood orange and passion fruit for me) and wander around for a few minutes before we’re cooking. It’s hot and dry and the sun radiates off the pavement. We spot our skipper having coffee and smoking a cigarette at a cafe and I win the assertiveness prize for the day by asking him if we can cut our stop early. The breeze is a miraculous feeling back on the ship.

I spot a pod of dolphins in the distance and we’re all exclaiming over the sight when another appears right in front of us. Our skipper cuts the engine and one swims right under the boat. He tells us if we had tuna they’d jump right out of the water and I can’t quite imagine the scene. Are tourists feeding dolphins canned tuna?

The seas are rough on the way back and the boat alternates between gunning it and slowing down in an attempt not to hit the broad side of every wave. It’s a tedious trip and we’re all very ready to be off the boat when we pull up to the gas station. There’s two boats already parked there and our skipper can’t get into the spot in the middle. The boat rocks violently as he tries, and then a small speedboat New Yorks us and I can feel his anxiety swelling. One boat pulls out and we get close enough that he can jump out. By this point in the voyage, we’ve discovered what we can do to help him out, pulling in the bumpers and throwing lines. Topher tosses him one and Ben attempts to toss him the other, but his hand is in a can of Pringles and it slaps the water instead. We start to drift away and Topher jumps out to help while the skipper looks increasingly panicked. Eventually, another boat’s skipper takes pity on us and jumps in, expertly parking the boat. Hazelnut jumps out without any encouragement.

I didn’t drink nearly enough water and when dinner time rolls around my head is pounding and I’m so nauseous I’m scared the mediocre octopus was actually bad. I stay in bed with a sports drink while the boys go out to dinner. By the next morning, when I’m fully hydrated, I feel much better. Ben and I order the best looking dishes at brunch and share, and I eat every last bite of a croque madame and a pistachio, mortadella tartine. I’m starving after skipping dinner.

It’s unbearably hot by the time we finish breakfast. We try to walk around but we’re cooked and drenched in sweat. Everybody else bails for the AC, so Ben and I find a shady patio and drink spritzes to pass away the afternoon until it’s time to head up the coast.

We have a wine tasting scheduled on a lovely patio overlooking the water and the owner’s daughter, a 5th generation vintner, leads us through a tasting of Dalmatian wine. Each glass is paired with a bruschetta and there’s string covers of pop songs playing in the background. We sip a local white paired with pesto, another fabulously pink rose with smoked salmon and then a red with prosciutto. She’s in the middle of telling us how this varietal was discovered to be the genetic ancestor of California Zinfandel by UC Davis when a string cover of Shaggy’s “It Wasn’t Me” comes on. Topher’s mouth is twitching and when Ben starts to giggle we all loose it. We’re too many drinks down not to. Well, except Furhan. Somehow he manages to keep a straight face. She stops and asks if she mispronounced something and we desperately try to reassure her, attempting to explain why instrumental Shaggy at a wine tasting is so funny. I’m not sure it lands, but Ben buys a bottle of wine and we thank her profusely, still giggling the whole drive back.

Friday comes all too soon, especially because we have to drive back north and then put in an eight hour workday, but we’re eager to escape the heat, at least for a little while.

-Mikaela