Perhaps it’s my age, but the morning swim that was unattractive and that seemed unattainable, has now become commonplace or even habitual. Yes, the morning swim. When the fishing boats are still warm in the engine. The last chance to see a fisherman carrying his biggest fish of the morning, leaning to the opposite side as it droops down.
Then there’s the serenity in the air and the calmness of the waves. There’s the yachts in the distance and the smaller fishing boats closer by. The mountain appears clearer than ever. You get to the umbrellas in front of the hotel and try to fully wake up. It’s still 9 AM and the girls taking orders won’t be there for another 90 minutes.
I take out Charles Bukowski’s “South of No North” and feel better; not only because the book matches with the onlooking mountains, but because they are both classics that will always overlook and guide. The pages are fresh and the short story flows smoothly and clearly.
There are a few people on the chairs, mostly hotel patrons. English, Italian, and American. Odd finding Americans, but they’re slowly discovering new “virgin territory”, as they say. It’s families or older couples. That’s who I go swimming with. The very same people I chose to avoid.
This becomes the scene by 10 o’clock or so.
I go into the water. It feels like frozen tundra once it hits my private parts. I fear cardiac arrest before taking the plunge. It’s fucking cold. I take the plunge as 2 young boys look at me. I stay in for 5 minutes and run out and stay in the sun to dry. This cold water warm sun thing must be healthy, I tell myself.
I get up, have a coffee, and watch the day mature.