Yes, there has been more than one aqueduct. There is the current one, which was inaugurated in 1884 and is still functioning with 30 percent of its original cast iron pipes. And there was the first one, begun in 1425 and working until 1884. This is the one that in my opinion deserves our astonishment and admiration, seeing that the duct for the aqua was boats, buckets and men.
A view of Fusina, watery gateway to the Venetian hinterland a mere 4.4 km / 2.7 miles from Venice.Let me set the scene. This is a view of what the Venetians accomplished in order to get their water supply from the Brenta River. The yellow line is the Brenta today. The red line is its original, natural riverbed, which empties into the lagoon at Fusina (anciently called “Lizzafusina”). The Brenta couldn’t be permitted to rampage all the way into the lagoon along its original path (red) because of the difficulty in managing a wild river, and because it presented a clear danger of silting up the lagoon in that area. So the Venetians re-routed the Brenta southward to get it out of the way, essentially, and used the old watercourse as a more domesticated and manageable stream, naming it the Naviglio del Brenta, or navigable Brenta. As if that weren’t enough rockstar water wrangling, they later cut another channel (fuchsia) called the “canale Novissimo” (super-new canal) in order to manage the waterflow in the Naviglio. But by the early 1600’s it was clear that the water in the Naviglio wasn’t reliably clean enough for continued drinking, so in 1609 the “Seriola” channel (teal) was cut. It debouched at Fusina just as the Naviglio did (and still does), but this stretch of water was stringently checked for any possible sources of pollution (soap from laundry, farm runoff, trash, etc.). Today the Seriola is reduced to a dribbly little stream that disappears along the way, not even a shadow of its former glory. Zoom in on google maps and you can follow these channels as they are today.
First, some background: At the beginning of the 14th century, Venice was one of the most populous cities in Europe, with some 200,000 inhabitants. Which meant that when the plague struck in 1348, there were plenty of victims. On the positive side, this reduction of thirsty mouths meant that the survivors now had plenty of water on hand in the wells. On the negative side, a comprehensible terror of contamination had set in which made people reluctant to use them. Supplementary water had been brought for years from nearby rivers but now that, too, had become suspect.
You may have noticed that Venetians were not, generally speaking, an easily daunted people. They built palaces on mudflats awash in brackish tides, to take an example at random. So a problem presented itself: Need more fresh water. A solution was born: Pick one river, keep it clean, harvest the water and bring it from there to the city.
That decision made, in 1425 the health department decreed that the Brenta would be the only river to be used for drinking water. (Among its many fine points was its nearness to the city.) Laws and regulations were enacted to protect its purity, and a system devised by which river water was loaded onto boats that were rowed, of course, or sailed, if possible, to Venice; there the water was transferred into smaller boats and then finally into the wells, public and private. (Not directly into the wells, of course, but down the gatoli so that the water would benefit from the same filtering process as rainwater.) After which it was paid for, naturally. This is Venice, where money is king.
The Brenta River rises in the lake of Caldonazzo inland 144 km (89 miles) toward the Alps, here shown at Carpane’-Valstagna in the Sugana valley. True, that day it had rained heavily in the mountains so the river was fairly unruly, but rain and snow are what one hopes for if one is waiting for water downstream. I think it’s clear that a river that looked even somewhat like this at the lagoon edge would not be anyone’s first choice, even apart from the question of how much soil it’s carrying. On that day it was carrying a lot.The Naviglio is the domesticated branch of the Brenta reduced to manageable dimensions, here hosting the “Riviera Fiorita,” an annual day-long boat procession from Stra to Moranzani. Notice the remains of the towpath along the right-hand bank.
And so the acquaroli (acquaioli in Venetian) or watermen, once minor figures in the drama of Venetian water supply, became lead players, and formed their own guild in 1471. They rowed (I keep stressing that, but they also sailed) thousands of liters of water to Venice in enormous cargo boats still called burci (singular: burcio). If they carried only water, it was poured into the burcio itself, indubitably into compartments; if any enterprising acquaroli used their boat on off days to haul garbage away, they were required to carry the water in specially designed tubs. (As if that needed to be specified?)
This is a burcio in 1948, which as you see was rigged for sailing whenever possible. The crew lived aboard in the spaces beneath the bow and stern. The cargo here was sand. (Photo: nauticautile.altervista.org). And yes, they rowed them when necessary. Lino says that they always had a smaller boat tied astern.The burci were riverboats, definitely not designed for the sea. This is the port of Noventa on the Piave river; Lino remembers when burci like these would be moored in the same way along the Zattere.A burcio entering the lock at Moranzani, the last one on the Naviglio before reaching Fusina. Boats here typically were towed along a towpath by animals — oxen, mules, horses, or if there was nothing else, by men. The boatmen would often have a dog, and you can imagine it; what we might call a “junkyard dog” comes out, even today, as calling something or someone a “can da burcio” — a burcio dog.
Given the importance of their cargo, the guild of the acquaroli was overseen by not one, but several government agencies: The “Giustizieri Vechi,” “Provedadori sora la Giustizia Vechia,” “Magistrato a la Sanità” (health) and “Colegio a la Milizia da Mar.” The men were also required to make various payments to the noble families which had been granted the concession to maintain what became an impressive industrial complex.
The acquaroli had to keep a sharp eye on their product, because there were laws forbidding the use of public water for private gain. There were many water-intensive crafts in Venice — dyeing, wool-washing, laundry-washing, glass-making, to pick a few, and they were required to buy their own water. The acquaroli were authorized to stand guard on the public wells to make sure any private entrepreneurs didn’t treacherously attempt to steal the water for which the city had paid. They watched the wells out of the goodness of their hearts? Not really. Water in the public wells was paid at a lower rate than the private wells, so the acquaroli had a vested interest in making sure the cheap water wasn’t being removed by the expensive-water customers.
There was also a subset of some additional 100 acquaroli who didn’t belong to the guild. They were illegal but that didn’t bother anybody; they had their own waterboats and were permitted, for an annual fee of 20 soldi paid to the guild, to sell their water retail to any customer standing there with a bucket or pot.
When the burcio arrived at its established destination in the city, the water would be offloaded onto smaller boats which were then rowed to whatever wells were on the schedule to be filled that day.
Two acquaroli pouring the fresh water from their smaller boat down a wooden trough which emptied into the gatoli of whatever well they were hired to fill. Unhappily I haven’t found any other illustrations of this process. This pen-and-ink- plus-watercolor depiction is by Giovanni Grevembroch (1753).
How the water got to Venice is one thing, but how the water got to the burci is an even more impressive tale.
A drawing of Lizzafusina in 1500 by Nicolo’ Dal Cortivo. The “chanaleto de Lizafoxine” leads to the right (eastward) and was the channel by which any and all boats arrived at Fusina.This was the set-up at what was originally called Lizzafusina, but now is simply Fusina. We’re looking upstream, obviously. This and the following four historical drawings are from a PowerPoint presentation by A.A.T.O. Consiglio di Bacino Laguna di Venezia prepared by engineer Tullio Cambruzzi. (Caption translated by me): “The ‘carro’ (wagon) of Lizzafusina. In the old days the zone was called Lizzafusina or Issa Fusina or also Zafusina: Issa signifies … an urging to raise something heavy” (as in “haul away!”); “Fusina indicates an ‘officina’ (workshop). Therefore we can affirm that Fusina signifies the entire “water building” that served to make the carro function. Lissa or Issa could signify also “slitta” (sled), because the carro made the boats slide from the lagoon at the Brenta.” Evidently this system functioned to raise (and presumably lower) boats between the lagoon and the Naviglio until the lock was dug slightly upstream at Moranzani about 1613. The fees for maintaining this installation, the duties and excise fees paid by commercial traffic passing from the mainland to the lagoon went to a part of the Pesaro family, who were usefully nicknamed the “Pesaro del Caro,” or “of the carro.” When the lock was built it put the “carro” out of business, and the Pesaros were given the operation at the lock at Moranzani instead; in 1649 alone it earned them 1530 ducats.A close-up of the red-roofed building that housed the “carro,” into which the burci entered from Venice (direction lower right).“The machines to raise the water –These machines were used at Lizzafusina in the second half of the 1500’s before the construction of the Seriola. The purpose was to make the operation of loading the burci more efficient. The wheel (A) was fitted out with triangular boxes which were made to turn by a system of gears moved by animal power.” The water is being discharged into a trough leading to the waiting burcio (far left).
The system itself worked well, but by the early 1600’s the Venetian government had to admit that despite efforts to ensure its potability, the water from the Brenta was not always of the most limpid. So Cristoforo Sabbadino, a hydraulic engineer, was engaged as the head of a team to build a better system. (Let it be noted that the idea was totally his, and he’d been proposing it for years before the government finally agreed to undertake the project.)
Between 1609 and 1611 Sabbadino cut a channel, the “Seriola,” from the Brenta upriver at Dolo. This was now to be the official drinking-water supply for Venice and was so marked at that point by a marble tablet inscribed “HINC URBIS POTUS (“this is the potable water for the city”). The Seriola was 13.5 km long and one meter wide (8.3 miles and 3.2 feet), and brought the water downstream to the lagoon edge at Moranzani, having been passed through a series of filtering tanks. The Seriola’s quality was overseen by the Savi Esecutori alle Acque, and anyone caught besmirching its crystal depths was subject to heavy fines.
This historic marker still exists, but one source says it’s on via Garibaldi in Dolo, and another says it’s in the Dolo city hall. Anyway, it’s somewhere. Someday I’ll get to the bottom of this. “Seriola,” or Ceriola, was an ancient Venetian term meaning a small or narrow watercourse.
Here is the scheme for the Seriola:
Note that the top of the image is east. (“Alveo” means riverbed.) Working from the top clockwise we see “Riverbed called the Soprabondante” (“super-abundant,” known today simply as the Bondante); Brenta Novissima, which is the fuchsia line on the map at the beginning of this post and now called the “super-new canal”; the Muson Novo, or new Muson River clearly dug between the Seriola and the Muson Vecchio,” or old Muson, and riverbed of the Bottenigo River. The “Brenta Morta” or “dead Brenta” indicates the Naviglio which has been sidelined from the water-supply game.
So the water flows down the Seriola until it nears the lagoon’s edge.
“The Seriola arrived at Moranzani. Here there were burci always ready to carry the potable water to Venice where, according to the orders of the Senate, it was sold in the various districts. A branch of the Seriola went to the Bucca, where in the winter ice was produced and conserved in the nearby “giazzara” to be carried to Venice in the summer.” I don’t see either of those components on this map, so we will just have to imagine it.
Trust me, this post contains only the most minuscule part of the water-management system devised and maintained by the Venetians, and if I had time I’d have read more and basically kept the story going indefinitely. But anyone who might be even momentarily tempted to consider the construction of MOSE something impressive should pause to reflect on what was involved in moving all these rivers around. Which had become something of a Venetian specialty; in the same period (1600-1604) they also cut the Po River at Porto Viro and detoured it in a similar way to avoid imminent silting-up of the lagoon near Chioggia. The Po is the largest river in Italy. But as I may have mentioned, the Venetians were virtually impossible to daunt.
…is a good offense. As we know. Not social offensiveness, but what is also called by the disphoneous term “pro-active.”
I just made up that word, because the inventors of language have overlooked creating an opposite to “euphoneous.” They offer “cacophony,” which is completely wrong here.
Why am I even talking about offense/defense?
Because of a little event in Lino’s life which is an excellent illustration of how this works. He’s very good at these gambits.
I don’t remember what we were talking about, but it brought back to his mind a small but perfectly formed encounter years and years ago.
It was a Friday, and on Sunday the annual corteo on the Brenta known as the Riveria Fiorita was coming up. The club’s gondolone, or 8-oar gondola, was on the list to participate and the rowers were all signed up.
But the boat had to be at Tronchetto at 8:00 the next (Saturday) morning, which — considering that the club was on the Lido — would have meant going to the Lido in the middle of the night to have enough time to put the boat in the water and traverse the lagoon. This didn’t seem like the most entertaining thing to do.
So he and his son went to the club on Friday and rowed the gondolone to Venice, to the canal that went by their home. Then they looked for a place to tie up.
They found a spot on an empty stretch of his canal, just under the fence marking off a bit of garden. The space was ample, and it was available to the public. He wasn’t encroaching on any boat-owner’s parking place. He wasn’t encroaching on anything.
But a man came out of a domicile facing the garden, and it was clear that he felt extremely encroached upon.
“You can’t tie the boat there,” he stated.
“Why is that?” Lino asked.
“Because”(some vague reason here — maybe narrowing the space for other boats, or something. Anyway, he didn’t want the boat there.)
“If you leave this boat here,” he finished in high dudgeon, “I’m going to come and sink it.”
“Be my guest,” was Lino’s immediate reply. “Because if anything happens to this boat between now and tomorrow morning, I’ll know exactly who did it, and then we can go to the Carabinieri together.”
Silence. Not the silence of a quibble that was squashed, but the profound silence of deep space. The man went back inside and was never seen or heard from again.
But Lino was now more than tranquil. Because, as he explained it, “He probably came out to check on the boat every 30 minutes all night long.
I regret the lapse in communication. The fundamental problem has been a dysfunctional computer which is still awaiting treatment. That’s supposed to happen tomorrow. So there will be no pictures on this post. I’m sorry.
But the morning is too beautiful to pass without recognition. I don’t mean “beautiful” as in meteorologically, though there is that, too. Light clouds, cooler air, gentler sunshine.
What’s beautiful right now is the entire atmosphere. If it were possible for a hapless seagull to pass through an airplane’s turbine and come out in one piece, that would be me. Apart from having guests coming and going, we have also been deeply involved in the Regata Storica and, yesterday, the Riveria Fiorita. (We still have to put the boat away.)
But there has been more, even if we weren’t directly involved: The Biennale of Architecture (August 29-November 25), and the Venice Film Festival (August 28-September 8) — two world-class events opening on essentially the same day — have created their own special wildness. Our neighborhood — that is, the world — is a major center of activity at least for the former event, what with exhibitions strewn all over the lot. The film festival is on the Lido, but that doesn’t mean we don’t get the collateral damage of troop-transport vaporettos and other issues resulting from attempting to fit 1X of people into 1Y of space.
To change metaphors, the sensation I had this morning, walking outside, was of having spent a month in a large pot of water which had been brought to a rolling boil, and which now had been put on the windowsill to cool down.
People have just gone away. Even the kids are nowhere to be seen, because they’re all getting ready for school to start on Wednesday (if children can ever be said to be ready). There is a pale, hushed, tranquil air enlivened only by soft voices saying indistinguishable, agreeable things. This is quite a change from the shouting and crying and assorted other high-volume communications that have been shredding the air at all hours and far into the night.
The procession of French tourists who rent the apartment up one floor across the street has ended. No more listening to their open-window 3:00 PM multi-course lunches, or dodging the dripping from their laundry stretched on the line from their wall to ours. No more (or hardly any more) heavy grumbling from the wheels of overloaded suitcases being dragged to, or from, hidden lodgings somewhere beyond us in the middle of the night (one group arrived at 1:00 AM, another headed to the airport at 3:30 AM. I know because I checked the clock). It’s not just the suitcases, it’s the discussions, though you might think they’d have settled the details before locking the door.
Now it’s just us here.
I don’t want to give the impression that I desire the silence of a Carthusian monastery to reign in Castello. I’m only saying that one savors this particular silence with particular appreciation inspired by having experienced its opposite for a just a little too long.
I’m sorry you can’t all be here to savor this delicate loveliness, disregarding the fact that having you all here would mean it wouldn’t be so delicate anymore, no offense. But in any case, nothing, as you know, lasts forever. And school, as I mentioned, will be starting in 48 hours. Tourists make noise? I challenge them to overcome the clamor of squadrons of children meeting their friends on the street at 7:30 in the morning. The winners will be decided by the Olympic taekwondo judges.
Blessedly, there is an antidote to the histrionics of the racing world, and it is composed of the assorted boating events strung across the calendar which are conducted by us plain folks.
One of the roadies helping to organize the start.
One of the prettiest, for the rowers, at least, is called the “Riviera Fiorita,” or “flowered riviera,” which consists, among many other events, a boat procession (“corteo“) which meanders down the Brenta Canal from Stra to the lagoon over the course of one long and (one prays) sunny day — usually the second Sunday in September. Participation is optional, so the number of boats and rowers can vary, but some years have seen nearly a hundred boats.
Two weeks ago was the 33rd edition of this event, which means that by now many of the participants have long since forgotten two of its basic motives, if they ever knew them in the first place.
One, that it was conceived in order to draw attention to the calamitous condition of this attractive and very historic little waterway, which till then was known primarily (and still is) for the ranks of Renaissance villas standing along its banks. There are anywhere between 40 and 70 of these extraordinary dwellings, depending on what source you’re reading; plenty, in any case.
Back in 1977, in the attempt to rally the public to the aid of this stretch of former Venetian territory, a few local organizations engaged a number of the fancy “bissone” and their costumed rowers from Venice in the hope of drawing some spectators, raising awareness and concern for the river’s plight, and so on. As you see, the plan worked.
Second, that the event is intended to recall (“evoke” would be impossible for anyone today even to imagine, much less pay for) the corteo which was held in July of 1574 to welcome Henry III, imminent King of France, King of Poland and Grand Duke of Lithuania, on his approach to Venice.
Henry’s visit inspired all sorts of memorable incidents; every time you’re reading about the 16th century hereabouts, he keeps turning up. The magnificence of the entertainment provided by all and sundry over the week he spent in the Doge’s territory makes it a little hard to remember that the basic purpose of his visit was to ask the Doge to lend him 100,000 scudi, without interest. Next time you want your buddy to spot you a twenty, see what happens if you ask him to organize a boat procession in your honor. And a couple of masked balls,while you’re at it. But then, your buddy probably isn’t the only thing standing between you and the Spanish Empire.
Then this thought crosses my mind: If the Doge had had any notion that some two centuries later the republic would be ravaged, wrecked, and exterminated by a Frenchman, maybe he would have thought twice about lending him the money and giving all those parties. One of countless useless afterthoughts gathering dust in my brain.
The Brenta in its natural state, descending the Valsugana at a brisk clip. Here at Valstagna the water of the spring-fed Oliero River pushes its way in. You can see why modifications to this waterway needed to be made by the people living on the plain.
So why is there a Brenta Canal (“Naviglio del Brenta”) when there’s a perfectly good Brenta River? Because the river, which springs from the lake of Caldonazzo in the foothills of the Alps near Trento, and wends 108 miles (174 km) southeastward till it reaches the Venetian lagoon, is too unruly and too silt-laden to have been permitted to continue its traditional path to the sea which was, in fact, the Grand Canal.
A clear rendition of the cut the Venetians made at Stra in the natural eastward path of the Brenta, sending the major flow southeast and out to sea.Thereby creating an ideal waterway for easily moving goods, people, and anything else between Padova (Padua) and Venice. And providing a marvelous setting for beautiful country houses.
The Venetians had been fiddling with the river’s course since the 1330’s, and by the 17th century had diverted the main river south, to debouch into the Adriatic at Brondolo, leaving a more docile little arm of the river, plus several crucial locks, to use as a direct connection between Venice and Padua. It was perfect for the transporting of all sorts of cargo in barges towed by horses, some of which cargo included patrician Venetian families with lots of their furniture shifting to their summer houses/farms for as much as six months of partying.
Two versions of the "Burchiello" in 1711, which carried patrician families upriver to their country estates. The boat obviously could be rowed as well as towed. (Credit: Gilberto Penzo)
That’s the short version.
This waterway has now come to style itself the Riviera del Brenta, sucking up new streams of tourism by promoting its amazing collection of villas. These vary in size and splendor, from the monumental Villa Pisani at Stra (yearning to matchVersailles, or at least Blenheim) to many elegant and winsome mansions — my favorite, the Villa Badoer Fattoretto — down to a ragged assortment of deteriorating properties whose history deserves something better than what they’ve been doomed to suffer.
These are just some of the boats at Stra being readied for the corteo. A few of the fancy "bissone," and a very workaday red caorlina.
The boats, fancy or otherwise, were towed upstream from Venice on Saturday. Sunday morning we took the bus to Stra, where we joined the throngs getting themselves and their boats ready to depart. We were on a slim little mascareta, just the two of us. At about 10:00 (translation: oh, 10:30) the procession moved out.
The sun was shining, the air was cool, the spectators were happy, and I was feeling pretty good myself. We had 17 miles (27.3 km) to go, but by now I knew what the stages would be, so I was prepared not only for the effort of rowing (not much) and the effort of not rowing (strenuous).
The prow of a bissona, nuzzling the shrubbery.Lino spiffing up the mascareta before we all get moving.Bissone milling around. The trumpeters aboard the mother ship, the "Serenissima," will be providing the occasional fanfare. Here they are taking on passengers also dressed in 18th-century garb. They're going to be very hot in all that velvet before long.Waiting around isn't too bad, no matter what hat you're wearing, if it doesn't go on too long. This man is one of hundreds of costumed passengers who provide atmosphere.
And we're off!
“Not rowing”? What do I mean? If we were to row at top speed, bearing in mind that we’re going with the current — slight as it may be — we could theoretically make the trip in three hours. But speed isn’t the point, and there is also the factor of those three pesky locks and three pesky revolving bridges we to have to pass through. As in: Wait to be opened for us to pass through. Wait for everyone else to catch up so we can all get moving as a group again. No stringing out the procession, it loses all its charm if we’re not together.
We start cheek by jowl with the Villa Pisani. This is how it looks to the people ashore.And this how it looks to us, taking the boat's-eye view.
Here’s what I love about this event: The families clustered along the shore just outside their gardens, where picnic/barbecues are in full swing. I made a game of counting the number of houses we passed from which the perfumed smoke of ribs grilling over charcoal was billowing. When I got to five I gave up, because I knew I wasn’t going to be getting any and it just made me hungry.
Kids, dogs, people on bicycles, babies, fishermen, little old ladies — they’re watching us but I think they’re hundreds of times more fun.
People clapping just because we're rowing? What a great idea for a day out.
Our first lock. Couldn't fit anybody else in, but there are at least three more lock-loads of boats that have to come through. So they wait for all the water to be released, for us to row out, and for the lock to fill up again. Takes time. People get cranky.Almost down to the level of the next stretch of river. The boats along the sides have to attach a rope to hang onto as we descend.Time for a break, sandwiches and water provided. Whether you're hungry or thirsty or have to go to the bathroom OR NOT, the boats in the lead (and the biggest) block the river. This forces the by-now somewhat strung-out corteo to bunch up. It looks better. So we hit the "pause" button on our progress one more time.So here we are, duly bunched up, on the road again.You can't smell the ribs on the barbecue, but they're just behind those trees. People can be so cruel.Lunchtime at last. We all stop at the Villa Contarini dei Leoni at Mira, where doge Alvise I Mocenigo met Henry III on his approach to Venice. A simpler welcome today: Hot food for hot rowers. No silver salvers, though. Or doges.The garden is lovely. What the set-up may lack in charm it makes up for in efficiency. That's no small feat around here.This bunch brought their own vittles. I have no idea where or what the "Comune de Pan e Vin" (commune of bread and wine) might be, but it's clear that its members regard rowing as an amusing sideline to the real entertainment in life.A caorlina from the boat club at Cavallino-Treporti, an area which is still at least partly farmland. They are clearly faithful to their agricultural roots, what with the festoons of eggplant and bell peppers and all, down to the chili-pepper belt the first rower improvised. After lunch, the day does begin to drag somewhat.Enlivened by one of the swing bridges which we all have to pass through in some kind of orderly manner. Now it's the cars who have to wait. Nice.Applause and cheers are always appreciated, but my thoughts are beginning to wander from the adoration of the masses to getting home and taking a shower.
Here’s what else I love: Passing the Villa Foscari “La Malcontenta.” Not only is its elegance and repose something especially beautiful when we pass in the dwindling afternoon, when the sun begins to descend and the light warms to honey and amber. Reaching this emerald curve also means we’re almost at the end, an idea which is gaining appeal with every bend in the channel.
The Villa Foscari "La Malcontenta," one of the most beautiful buildings on earth. I think the partial screen of willows increases the allure.
Here’s what I don’t love: The aforementioned locks and bridges, not in themselves but because of the sort of frenzy that overtakes people trying to squeeze their boat in when there obviously isn’t enough space for a toothpick. They start to get tired and cranky, and maybe they’ve had one or two glasses of wine (it could happen) and so these little solar flares of emotion begin to overheat my own sense of benevolence toward my fellow man.
Moranzani, the last lock. We are in pole position to get in as soon as the gates open. It's past 6:00 PM and at this point everybody wants to be first.
Here’s what I especially don’t love: Wind in the lagoon. It has happened more than once that by the time we were leaving the river at Fusina and heading into open water, we were facing a wall of wind. Which brings waves. Which means just when you really want it all to be over, you have to seriously get to work rowing.
In 2001 — a date branded into my brain — there was so much weather that the trip to the Lido in the 8-oar gondolone which normally would take an hour took three times that long. Doesn’t sound so bad? Maybe not now, but we had no idea when it was going to end, if ever, as we were struggling through the tumult, crashing along, the boat stopping every time we went into the trough between the waves, of which there were many. I also lost my oar overboard. Having to retrace lots of waves we’d just conquered in order to recover it is not a memory I revisit with any pleasure.
You might think that this kind of experience would really build your muscle mass, and I suppose it does. I counted several whimpering new ones the morning after. But what it really toughens up is your mental mass. Mental stamina, some level of fortitude you never needed till now. Plain old grit. You’re out there and suddenly realize you’ve completely run out of the stuff and you’re still not home? You’ve got to make more grit right there. There is no alternative.
One of those nights we were rowing back (it’s always getting dark in these return voyages, which adds to the dramatic element) in the six-oar caorlina with four teenagers who hadn’t done much rowing. I was in the bow, so I couldn’t see anything but night ahead of me. Rowing, rowing… It felt like we were rowing in a sea of cement, pushing against a brick wall. And as I rowed, I gave myself comfort in the only way I could: Swearing a series of oaths in my mind, more sincerely than any juror with both hands on the Bible, oaths which I fully intended to voice to Lino whenever we made it to shore, and calling on the angels, prophets and martyrs as my witnesses, as follows:
“Forget my name. This is the last time. I’m never doing this again. This is insane. I hate this. Why am I here? What was I thinking? Forget my name. This is the last time…..”
I can’t remember how long ago that was, and well, I’m still doing it. So much for my oaths, and I think my witnesses have all gone home.
But this year the return row was heavenly. We were towed, with ten other boats, from the last lock at Moranzani out into the lagoon. When we got as far as the Giudecca, at about 7:45 PM, we untied our little mascareta from the others and rowed through the darkness back to the Remiera Casteo, at Sant’ Elena. The other end of Venice, in other words.
The lagoon is always beautiful, and even more so when you're heading home.
I love rowing at night. The sky gleams like black onyx and the darkness somehow makes it feel like you’re going really fast. There is almost no traffic (it’s not summer anymore, thank God) so the water is smooth and silky. It’s dreamy.
Then we had to cross the San Marco canal– sorry, dream over. There’s less traffic at 8:30 at night, but there are still waves, spawned by an assortment of vaporettos and the ferryboat and some random taxis, none of whom is likely to be looking out for any stray mascareta. Yes, we had a light. No, it wasn’t a floodlight. This created enough tension to inspire me to speed up. and we briskly made it across in only a few minutes.
Home free. And very sorry it was all over. And very ready to shut the door on today and turn on the shower. Boats are great but 12 hours in one is plenty.
