Boatworld

The Saga of the Lost Oar

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These are "Cherub"'s oars in happier days.
These are “Cherub”‘s oars in happier days.

I toil for two weeks every May in the registration office of the Vogalonga.  And every year, something interesting occurs.  This year, that “something” was more than usually diverting.  It had to do with the search and rescue of a foreign oar.

Everything started with an e-mail a week before the event, sent to the office from an English rower, Dr. Adrian Hodge; he was planning to come with his Thames skiff, “Cherub,” and a group from his rowing club (Norfolk Skiff Club). As it was the first time they were undertaking this little quadrille, he wanted information on the parking and boat-launching facilities, which I took it upon myself to supply, along with a batch of my usual unsolicited observations and comments, no extra charge.

Technical digression: “Cherub” is 8 meters/26 feet long, is said to date from the 1890s, and was built at Richmond on Thames. Unfortunately all the records of the company which built her were destroyed when the boat yard was sold in the 1960s, so Adrian doesn’t know who was the original owner.

The oars with monogram.
The oars with monogram.

So they came, they rowed the Vogalonga, they pulled “Cherub” out of the water, loaded it on the trailer, drove the 1,700 km (1,056 miles) home to Norfolk, and unloaded the boat.

Following is a highly condensed version of the most pertinent of the numerous e-mails that ensued.

Dear Erla,

The journey back to England was uneventful, apart from the weather, and I have just inspected the skiff to make sure that she had returned unscathed. To my horror I discovered that we have lost a scull (oar). A moment’s thought and I remembered that we had used a scull to position the lifting strops for the crane on Monday. I suppose that someone put it down on the ground and we simply left it behind. It was beside the orange painted fixed crane and Michele was in charge of the crane team. I’m sorry to lose it because it is antique and carries the monogram of a previous owner of the boat, so, if you have the opportunity to put the word around, and if it turns up, keep it somewhere and I hope that it can be repatriated next year. I’m sending you a picture too, so that if you see it decorating a bar, you will know where it came from! Since the photos it has lost its copper end and had some repairs to the tip. 

Although I dislike disasters, I do enjoy a challenge, so I leapt into action.

Dear Adrian:

I have spoken with the organizers of the Vogalonga and they say they know nothing, and have heard nothing, about your oar.

However, they did suggest that you tell me where you took the boat out of the water.  If you would tell me this detail, I will attempt to contact whoever is responsible for that area.

He replied: We lifted the boat out at the quay just before the bridge to Tronchetto.  There were three cranes and we used the centre one which was painted orange and had Scalo Fluviale and a number 2 on it.  Michele was in charge.  He was driving the forklift truck.

I called the Scalo Fluviale, and they knew all about the oar.  “Sure, we have it,” they told me.  Why should there be panic, stress, visions of mayhem? “It’s right here.”

OAR FOUND!!!! I e-mailed Adrian. I love good news, especially when it’s unexpected.

You are incomparable, he replied.  (I liked that bit.) My prayers to St. Anthony of Padua have been answered. My next plan was to get some real Catholics to pray to him too.

On the practical front, the oar is 290cm (9.5 feet) long and weighs 2.0 kg (in fact, a bit less).  Normal parcel post is restricted to 1.5 meters (4.9 feet).  I think that the most practical method will be for me to fly out and collect it, but first I must make sure the airline will carry it and that I can get it to the airport.

That was an interesting aspect of the project.  How was that going to work? Simple: It wasn’t, as Adrian quickly discovered.

The airlines put it in the same category as a vaulting pole and won’t carry it.  (I haven’t found time yet to satisfy my newfound curiosity about how vaulting poles make it from home to the Olympics.)  DHL will carry items up to 300 cm long, so that must be the default method. I can fly to Venice Tuesday morning, collect the item, wrap it, and deliver it to a DHL collection point, then fly back Tuesday evening.

The day before his arrival, I went to the Scalo Fluviale to locate the oar.  There it was, propped against the office wall, looking pensive.

Some phone calls had already revealed that the nearest DHL collection point was at Piazzale Roma, a mere few minutes away.  This was another happy surprise; I had had nightmare visions of some storefront in the heart of darkest Mestre. I went by to check on the details of the consignment.  On the way home and I bought an exaggerated amount of bubblewrap (nightmare visions of coming up two inches short); unfortunately the bubbles were small, but there was no alternative. I wasn’t up to rigging a splint, and figured if we used enough (but not so much as to exceed the length limit), it ought to work.

Yes, I had become “we.”

Tuesday morning I went to Piazzale Roma to meet Adrian and his wife, Lynne, as they got off the bus from Treviso airport (sure, let’s add another hour and ten minutes each way to the day’s schedule…).

This was our peak moment.
This was our peak moment.
I'im holding 500 square meters of bubblewrap, or so it seems, while we examine the patient and plan our attack.
I’m holding 500 square meters of bubblewrap, or so it seems, while we examine the patient and plan our attack.

We walked to the Scalo Fluviale; the oar was brought out, we wrapped it, we distributed bottles of wine dripping with gratitude to all and sundry (for the record, it was Enrico who had found the oar). We carried the oar, like some titanic assegai, back to Piazzale Roma and the DHL office, where we created a moment of consternation.

Paperwork completed, payment made, oar consigned, deep sighs of relief and satisfaction breathed, we went to a nearby trattoria where Adrian and Lynne treated me to a sumptuous and princely lunch.

On our way toward Piazzale Roma, we presented Enrico (center) with a bottle of wine. Unfortunately not vintage, but I think it was probably amusing nonetheless. The bubbly oar is still standing at attention.
On our way toward Piazzale Roma, we presented Enrico (center) with a bottle of wine. Unfortunately not vintage, but I think it was probably amusing nonetheless. The bubbly oar is still standing at attention.

But hold the happily-ever-after.  “We must expect reverses, even defeats,” Robert E. Lee remarked, though not to us personally.  “They are sent to teach us wisdom and prudence, to call forth greater energies, and to prevent our falling into greater disasters.” I’ll make a note of it, because…..

The oar arrived at 3:15, Adrian e-mailed me, but the end, complete with monogram, was smashed to pieces. I tried to fit it together like a jigsaw, but the wood was crushed too much….It must have been crushed under something heavy, because the wood is deformed. I can’t save this limb and must amputate. I’ll make a sloping cut straight across where the wood is sound and glue on a new piece of wood. Then I’ll shape a new end. Many oars are made like that from new. Unfortunately the monogram will be lost. I’m debating with myself whether to fake that. In general my policy is one of honest repair rather than renovation, preserving as much of the original as possible, but clearly showing any new material.

Adrian is currently involved in some other, more urgent projects, so I haven’t seen the final version yet.  But as any pulverized oar will tell you, the worst is clearly over.

I guess now you could say we’re at happily-ever-after.  In any case, the adventure has been immortalized in a clip which is on the club’s website  (and on YouTube) — set to the tune of the irrepressible Jimmy Durante singing “The Guy Who Found the Lost Chord.”  For e-mail readers, here’s the link:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=Kby8OYXyUtQ

Lynne is holding the oar and the delivery-driver seems at peace with the world. But now that I look closer, the part of the oar that's touching the ground looks a little wrong. As indeed it was.
Lynne is holding the oar and the delivery-driver seems at peace with the world. But now that I look closer, the part of the oar that’s touching the ground looks a little wrong. As indeed it was.
It hurts me too much to say anything.
It hurts me too much to say anything.
And yet, the oar, rising phoenix-like from the woodshavings, will row again.
And yet, the oar, rising phoenix-like from the woodshavings, will row again.

 

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Boatworld, Venetian Events

Merry, the month of May? Sure.

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Our favorite bar at Sant'Elena went all out in festive decorations for the Vogalonga. The boat, the poster, the flags of many nations. Nice.
Our favorite bar at Sant’Elena went all out in festive decorations for the Vogalonga. The boat, the poster, the flags of many nations. Nice.

I am now re-establishing radio contact with the rest of the world.  The recent crackling silence was completely predictable, at least to me.  May is a great month if you’re a plant, but if you’re me, it’s an Olympic biathlon involving two of the city’s three biggest boating events: the corteo for the Festa de la Sensa, on Ascension Day (May 12 this year), and the Vogalonga (May 19).

Once again, I dedicated two weeks to working in the registration office for the Vogalonga. Sound simple?  The first week, yes.  The second week, right up to 6:00 PM the day before the event, was a crescendo of desperation — not on my part, but those who came, as one hollow-eyed supplicant put it, “A thousand kilometers over the Alps with our boats,” thinking they could sign up at the last minute and discovering that all the 1,700 bibs, one per boat, had already been booked.

I heard stories about people needing a number for their dying best friend.  I didn’t hear any pleas based on expiring grandmothers or promises to small children, but the accumulated emotional tension began to take a toll on me.  It wasn’t just the exclamations of doomed desire that were so tiring (“But why?” “But why?” “I have the money right here” “Can’t you find just one number for me?” “But I didn’t know” “I didn’t read the website” “I don’t have internet” “We’ve come all this way” “”Noooooooooooo, it can’t be truuuuuuuue”), it was my irritation at situations which could easily have been prevented if even one of their group had had a functioning medulla oblongata.  Or whatever part of the brain governs logic and rationality. If there is such a part.

While everybody who already  had their numbers were working themselves into a froth over the unpleasant weather forecast, I and my colleagues were struggling to resolve many silly and time-consuming and avoidable problems. Reservations made but not paid for; payments that didn’t correspond to the booking; adding people to boats; subtracting people from boats; doing long division of people from boats: the single reservation for 20 rowers who were assumed by us to all occupy the same boat, but which it turned out were each rowing by themselves, hence requiring 19 more numbers. That was fun. “You need 19 numbers? Sure, I’ll just make them right here for you, like Subway sandwiches. You want pickles?”

Compared to all that, rowing the event is almost always easier, and more enjoyable, and more, well, rational.

You might have heard that it rained; you might have heard that the rain was something epic! That some boats capsized! Frankly, it was all much better than I’d feared. The rain came down in hurled handfuls of big hard round drops, then shifted, like a shower-head, to fine, thin and steady, then heavy and steady, then lots of little drizzly drops, then another downpour, then a pause, then another downpour.  After Mazzorbo, the sun came out and we all dried off. As for overturned boats, if you ride a horse, what can happen to you? You fall off.  If you’re in a boat, what can happen?  You fall in.  Lino’s fallen in countless times. I’ve fallen in, in January, no less.  Get a grip, people.

That said, however, falling in isn’t equal for everyone.  We heard later from a friend who had been rowing in a big Venetian boat that at Mazzorbo a rower in a single kayak decided to cross their bow at the last moment, got dinged, and over he went.  But he couldn’t manage to come up because he had lashed all sorts of accoutrements, luggage, supplies, and even himself, to his kayak, which meant he couldn’t manage to right it and he couldn’t get out of it either. Think about it. Think medulla oblongata. Happily, the Venetian rowers managed to haul him back over and up into the air, but it was a very close call.

They also saw another boat capsize (the reasons for this aren’t clear — we weren’t in a hurricane) — it was a kayak again, this time for two rowers which, as our friend explained, also contained two very small children, one of whom was about three months old. The only glimmer of intelligence in that scenario was that the presumed parents had fitted their kids with lifejackets. People like this shouldn’t be allowed out of the house, much less into a boat.

There was the by-now traditional logjam in the Canale di Cannaregio, caused by the by-now traditionally inept, vision-impaired, brain-dead coxswains on the long rowing shells who seem not to understand that their boat needs to keep going straight forward and that their job is to see that it gets done.  Big long boats slewing around slaunchwise and getting stuck are like big expensive beaver dams forcing all the arriving boats to jam up.  It’s not just that they create problems — they don’t know what to do to fix them. As we see in the video by a certain Bas Schols; here’s the link for those who don’t see the clip:   http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qRyEnCKno3o .

A close second for the prize for Best Way to Create Problems goes to the people who just stop rowing and sit there in their boat, usually in narrowish spaces or at blind corners.  You can hardly ever discover a reason for this.  Of course they’re tired; we’re all tired.  But when they’re driving in the center lane of the highway back home, do they just stop when they feel like it and sit there?  I feel doubtful.

After the Vogalonga (and the rain), it was time for lunch at the club. The long table laden with food is concealed by Roberto Busetto, who isn't really trying to strangle Ivo Bratovich. After all, Ivo's smiling.
After the Vogalonga (and the rain), it was time for lunch at the club. The long table laden with food is concealed by Roberto Busetto, who isn’t really trying to strangle Ivo Bratovich. After all, Ivo’s smiling.

The Sunday before all this, May 12, was the Festa de la Sensa, and we participated in the commemoration of the “Wedding of the Sea.”  We row out toward the Lido, following the big fancy ceremonial boat called the “Serenissima,” past the Morosini Naval School where the cadets are lined up along the embankment, as sharp as creases in starched organdy, shouting “Urrah!” when commanded to do so by the bosun’s whistle. That is absolutely the coolest thing about the entire event, though of course tossing the wreath into the water to commemorate the dead sailors is important too. And a ring-like object with ribbons tied onto it also gets blessed and tossed.  Another chance to be crushed together in a boat-scrum, but at least here we all know each other and actually know how to move our boats around. That’s it for boats.

The rest of the month is a rapid unraveling of assorted appointments and events.  For example, I sat most of the afternoon waiting for the long-expected boiler repairman to come replace the replacement washer from a few weeks ago.  He was supposed to come in the morning, but only by calling up did we learn that he’d been moved to the afternoon.  Dazzling efficiency! We could be in Sweden!  Wait — it’s gets better.  He phoned at 3:30 to say he couldn’t come because they hadn’t given him the part he needed to install. They thought they had, police said. (I am adhering to the practice recommended by the old city editor to the cub reporter, my former boss, who told him, “You can write anything you want to, as long as you add ‘comma police said.””)

At 6:00 it was off to the Generali Insurance Company’s boathouse for the presentation of the restored 8-oar gondolone. We needed to swell the ranks, it seemed, so we were there.  We try to be good sports on land as well as sea. I was hoping they’d have cookies, but they got in a caterer and had hors d’oeuvres and asparagus risotto. I like being wrong like that.

Tomorrow afternoon Lino will be at Malamocco for hours, as one of the judges overseeing the eliminations for the next official rowing race (Sant’ Erasmo, June 2). That evening, dinner at the Non-Commissioned Naval Officers Club, a cholesterol-laden thank-you from a group of young French students because not only did we pick up the dropped/lost wallet of one of their members (containing 70 euros and also an address) but thanks to Skype and the fact that little Pauline’s father was home when I called, we managed to return it to her the next day.  And a big shout-out to Mrs. Rideout and Mrs. Gordon, whose draconian French courses in high school are still paying off, if only in fractured form.

Friday evening, the annual corteo to transport the statue of Our Lady of Succor (“Maria Ausiliatrice”) from the church of San Pietro di Castello to the church of San Giuseppe. This year we’re going to be carrying as many people as we can, hoping to transfer into Venetian boats many of those who usually follow us on foot along the fondamente.

Saturday, a batch of us are off to Burano to collect four of our tornado-devastated boats from the boatyard where they have been repaired.  We’re either towing or rowing them back; it doesn’t seem clear yet which one.  I’m for rowing, myself, not that anyone consults me. The forecast isn’t too pretty.

Some shards of frico, which I discovered in Gemona, deep in the heart of Friuli. I know cheese contains protein, but this can't possibly be good for you.
Some shards of frico, which I discovered in Gemona, deep in the heart of Friuli. I know cheese contains protein, but this can’t possibly be good for you.

Sunday, we’re going with a big group in a bus to Trieste to the annual reunion of the veterans of the Automobile Corps.  Lino did his compulsory 18-month military service in Rome with this arm of the armed forces, repairing and maintaining Jeeps, trucks, and assorted ministerial vehicles.  He recently joined the nearest chapter of the motorized veterans, and the big outing sounds like it’s going to be fun, except for the promised thunderstorms and drenching rain.

We’ll get to march around the Piazza dell’Unita’ d’Italia for a while, then go off to some countryside establishment to gorge on Friulian specialties (think San Daniele prosciutto and frico, or fried cheese) — possibly the true purpose of the expedition.  Then to visit some famous nearby monastery blanketed by rose gardens. We’ll have to get up before 5:00 to get the train to Treviso, the starting point, but I’d walk to Treviso for a shot at a plate of frico.

Next week’s calendar is ominously empty.  I say “ominous,” because you know how Nature feels about a vacuum.

One great thing about going to work every morning is that I got to see the city waking up.
One great thing about going to work every morning is that I got to see the city waking up.

IMG_0610 blog may

At 7:45 the schoolbus pulls up at the Arsenale vaporetto stop. The bus is the #1 and all the kids are just as happy to be going to class as they are anywhere in the world.
At 7:45 the schoolbus pulls up at the Arsenale vaporetto stop. The bus is the #1 and all the kids are just as happy to be going to class as they are anywhere in the world.
Sunrise makes some of the best shadows -- in this case, from the roof of the Doge's palace.
Sunrise makes some of the best shadows — in this case, from the roof of the Doge’s palace.
A historic moment. On the morning of May 8, the boy with his froggie were still there.........
A historic moment. On the morning of May 8, the boy with his froggie were still there………
...and that evening, they were gone. I never thought I'd live to see it. Or not see it, whichever.
…and that evening, they were gone. I never thought I’d live to see it. Or not see it, whichever.
I was surprised to see the commemorative wreath lying peacefully in the entryway of Ca' Farsetti, the city hall, on the evening before it was to be offered to the waves in memory of fallen sailors at the "Sposalizio del Mare."
I was surprised to see the commemorative wreath lying peacefully in the entryway of Ca’ Farsetti, the city hall, on the evening before it was to be offered to the waves in memory of fallen sailors at the “Sposalizio del Mare.” It’s not that I expected candles to be burning beside it, but it did seem so sort of ordinary there. “Yes, we always put a monster laurel wreath in front of the cash machine.  Why do you ask?”
A four-oar sandolo from the Morosini Naval School, rowed by four cadets taught by Lino, who are unfortunately, as you see, facing eastward. As we all were. That's just one humble detail in this excellent ceremony -- we're all staring into the sun.
A four-oar sandolo from the Morosini Naval School, rowed by four cadets taught by Lino, who are unfortunately, as you see, facing eastward. As we all were. That’s just one humble detail in this excellent ceremony — we’re all staring into the sun.
Another boat with Morosini cadets -- a six-oar caorlina rowed by five girls, steered by Gabriele De Mattia and overseen by Lino, seated astern, surveying everything.
Another boat with Morosini cadets — a six-oar caorlina rowed by five girls, steered by Gabriele De Mattia and overseen by Lino, seated astern, surveying everything.
Aboard the "Serenissima," the priest is reading the blessing of the wreath, as the admiral awaits his cue.
Aboard the “Serenissima,” the priest is reading the blessing of the wreath, as the admiral awaits his cue.
The priest is evidently not a seaman; he is steadying himself atop the waves with superb delicacy.
The priest is evidently not a seaman; as he intones, he is steadying himself atop the waves with superb delicacy.
The wreath is ready for its big moment.
The wreath is ready for its big moment.
The wreath afloat, with the fireboats jetting celebratory water into the sky. You don't want to be near them if there's a breeze, I can tell you.
The wreath afloat, with the fireboats jetting celebratory water into the sky. You don’t want to be near them if there’s a breeze, I can tell you.
Everyone stood at what amounted to attention as the music of the "Hymn of San Marco" was played.
Everyone stood at what amounted to attention as the music of the “Hymn of San Marco” was played.  I wish I could tell you the sacrality of the moment was respected by everyone, but I can’t.  I saw two men on a little mascareta rowing away with the wreath on the stern of their boat.
And just think: At tonight's party, we saw the commemorative wreath ever-so-attractively hung on the boathouse whose name I will not pronounce. But it's pretty obvious.
And just think: At tonight’s party, we saw the commemorative wreath ever-so-attractively hung on the boathouse whose name I will not pronounce. But it’s pretty obvious. I’m sorry, I just can’t think of it as a decor accessory. But they do.
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Boatworld

It feels so good when you stop

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Three of the main features of Pavia: the covered bridge (reconstructed after its destruction in World War II bombardment; the ruins of the medieval pilings create the rapids seen just upstream), the cathedral and its massive cupola, and, naturally, the river Ticino.

Because man does not live by Venice alone — or we don’t, anyway — we occasionally go abroad (anywhere beyond the bridge) to vary our boating and socializing diet.

Last weekend we went to Pavia, an exceptionally fine town not far from Milan, where we have been many times on other boating occasions in the summer.  The object was to eat, drink, and row in an event organized by the Club Vogatori Pavesi. They call this little diversion the “Giorni della Merla,” in recognition of the fact that it is held during the frigid last few days of January which are often called “the days of the (female) blackbird.”

Considering what madness was involved, they might just as well have called it the days of the cuckoo. If someone asked which you’d rather do:  Row ten kilometers (six miles) up the Ticino River, against the current, in subzero weather, in the fog, in a boat weighing two tons (tempting, I know), OR: Drop and do 14,982 pushups without stopping, which would you pick?  Because we did (A) and every muscle in my upper arms is convinced that I did (B).

We departed the area of Borgo Ticino and finished at Canarazzo, a stretch of river which, like most of the Ticino, is not a stretch but a series of emphatic curves.  These curves increase (or sometimes decrease) the current, and the trick is to recognize where the water is willing to come to some agreement with you.  These agreements are brief and not very sincere.

There were about 17 boats involved in this pilgrimage, rowed in various configurations by members of two Venetian clubs –the Remiera Casteo (us, and two friends), and the Associazione Settemari — and by members of various local boating clubs.
The caravan stopped to rest and refresh on a broad sandy beach about two-thirds of the way. It took a while for everyone to get there, though; every so often another boat would begin to appear in the mist, like the Flying Dutchman.
As you see, the river boats are rowed in the same way as Venetian boats, and in the past were made of wood. Pulling and poling them over gravel and sand eventually made it appear that aluminum would be a better material. Less romantic, but hardier. And heavier.  The forcolas and oars are typically also not the same, but more rowers are using Venetian oars. The drawback there is that pushing them against the river bottom tends to damage them a lot. It’s always something.
The refreshments were simple but good. The veterans made it sound as if we were practically there, and by the map, we were (only about 3 kilometers, or 1.8 miles).  But if I’d known how much toil covering that distance was going to entail, I’d have eaten more.  Current?  Oy.

Trivia alert: The Ticino is the second-most important river in Italy in terms of volume of water, surpassed only by the mighty Po.  It rises in Switzerland, works its way through Lago Maggiore, and accumulates H2O from assorted tributaries along the way.

It’s not that it’s so deep (at least in the parts we rowed), but somehow it manages to maintain a momentum that would do justice to a number of carnival rides.  To attempt this little adventure in the spring when the Alpine snows are melting would be inconceivable; impressive inundations of the city are far from unknown.

Rowing upstream is an interesting mental exercise, as well, especially in those areas where the current is especially strong and no matter how hard or fast you row, you can’t make the boat move forward.  Not to mention those moments when we decided to row to the other shore to see if the water flowed any more peacefully there, which meant that while we were continuing to row, the river was carrying us back downstream over precious space we had struggled so hard to gain.

These were the moments when the question arose all by itself: “Why am I doing this?” Many possible answers are available, beginning with our being put on this earth to suffer and ending with its reward being the steaming risotto of sausage and wine, and cauldron of lentils and cotechino, that were being stirred up at our destination, a shingly beach at Canarazzo.  There is a primitive hut which provides shelter for a few tables and a simple cooking area.

This area being the mother lode of rice, fixing risotto was normal. It would never happen at a big boating event in Venice, where pasta e fagioli, or bigoli in salsa, are the traditional heating and nourishing elements. I wouldn’t say that I’d row upstream ten kilometers every day just to eat risotto, but it was extremely good.

Another reason I continued to slave away against the force of gravity which was carrying the water so powerfully downhill — not that I had much choice — was that I knew that the same force was going to carry us back to home base in record time.  When lunch was finally over and we took to the river again, we barely had to move our oars as we sped past gravelly beaches and rustic shelters, while I amused myself by looking through the crystal water at the pebbly river bottom and seeing how remarkably fast it was moving. (Note: I realize that it was the water, not the river bottom, which was moving.  I refer merely to the optical effect.)

In a mere 30 minutes we covered the distance it had taken us nearly four hours to make in the morning. Then we ate hunks of panettone and drove back to Venice with our friends, a trip of 300 km (186 miles) which, when all goes well, takes about the same time as it took us to row to lunch.  That tells you everything you need to know about the internal combustion engine.

Like the day before, the afternoon sun absorbed the fog and created a beautiful soft atmosphere that made the morning’s expedition to the Arctic a strange memory. We watched a few late arrivals from the floating boathouse anchored to the riverbank, and gave some thought to what flooding means here, when the river pours over these embankments and into the houses.
Just downstream is the abandoned hulk of a once-important airmail station built in the Thirties, one of several along the rivers between Torino and Venice which were used by hydroplanes (obviously). One of the local rowers told us that when Mussolini came to inaugurate this wonderful structure, he leaned out from the terrace to take a leak into the river and fell in. If a passing fisherman hadn’t managed to pull him ashore, the history of the world would have been very different. This story was told to me as true. But the building is an authentic treasure, in my view, and I’m sorry they’re letting it go to rack and ruin.
The washerwomen of Borgo Ticino, the old neighborhood near the boat club, were something legendary. I can’t say why, but they deserved this monument.
This detail of a 16th-century fresco in the church of St. Theodore depicts the covered bridge and some impressive cargo boats, with the washerwomen at their suds on the riverbank.
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Boatworld, Venetian-ness

Santa Barbara floats by again

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The course was inverted this year, as the tide was coming in (it’s always much better to start against the tide), so the race started in front of the Piazza San Marco, proceeded at a great rate toward Sant’ Elena, where the boats rounded the buoy and headed toward the finish at the Arsenal. The first two boats are already battling it out, while the team on the pink boat is probably discussing what to give their girlfriends or wives for Christmas. Not much else to talk about back there.
I’m sorry we can’t hear what opinions the teams on the first two boats are sharing with each other. Believe me, there can be as many insults yelled at your teammates as at your opponents, even if you’re in the lead.

As you know, every December 4 (for the past 16 years now) the gondoliers who are ex-sailors organize a regata in honor of the patron saint of the Navy: Barbara.

This year, seeing that the supply of willing gondoliers and/or ex-sailors is shrinking, each caorlina carried the usual one (1) student from the Morosini Naval School, four (4) gondoliers and one (1) fireman.  Barbara is also patron saint of firemen, as well as miners, artillerymen, and just about anybody who uses substances which explode.

Gondoliers also tend to explode when things don’t go right, as witnessed by the reaction of Franco Dei Rossi (nicknamed “Strigheta”) when his orange caorlina was cheated of its obviously well-deserved fourth place and consequent blue pennant.  He used Ugly Words to the race judge, which was unfortunate; it was also too bad that many people could understand — nay, shared — his sentiments, as most naked eyes had seen his boat cross the finish line fourth.

All would seem to be obvious from this vantage as the four boats we see here cross the line (orange in the background). Unfortunately, I didn’t include the yellow boat in this shot, and it was coming up fast on my left. The judge says it was faster than orange. I just don’t know anymore.

But righteous indignation and loud voices (though not Ugly Words) from somebody is almost always part of the tradition, along with rain (it was blazingly sunny the day before and the day after the regata — does Santa Barbara not like her regata?), cold, and a feast afterward featuring pasta and fagioli (beans) which, if it didn’t warm hearts which were still festering with rage, did a great job in warming our gizzards.

The first four finishers all clumped together, since they were so close in the home stretch anyway. Orange was still far out in the middle of the canal, though that doesn’t mean it wasn’t, in fact, ahead of the yellow boat.
But wait! The white boat suddenly seem to have only five rowers.  And why are they all looking over the side?
Sorry for the blur but I was rattled.
The big police boat, and the equally big fireman’s boat, began to zoom over to give a hand, creating, in the process, waves which could have caused more problems than the one they were coming to resolve.
But our trusty gondoliers were quicker than that. At least two of them were.  The other three seem pretty calm.  In fact, it isn’t at all unknown for gondoliers to fall in the drink.  Sorry if that destroys a myth for you.
While the drenched racer goes inside to get into some dry clothes, the judges (huddling under the ramp leading up and over the bridge of the Arsenal) return to the previous drama: Deciding the fate of the orange boat. After much trading of comments and peering at somebody’s cell-phone video, they decided that yellow finished before orange.
Characteristic gear for a person rowing on the right side of the boat, usually the rower in the bow. It protects his leg from rubbing against the cinturino, or wooden upper edge of the hull.
Or you can just deal with whatever happens, like the man who was rowing on the red boat. That’s red paint, not blood, but the pants are undeniably torn. I didn’t examine any closer, but he didn’t seem too concerned.
Lino with the nine cadets from the Francesco Morosini Naval School who raced, plus the extra stand-by emergency rower. The great thing about this race is that, no matter what, four of his students are going to take home a pennant.  And now, bring on the beans.

 

 

 

 

 

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