Category Archives: boat

Of pirates, goats, and love

Hey kids!  It’s Elizabeth (formerly the artist known as Kitty, and briefly called the symbol § while trying to project some mystique).  Remember this whole blog thing?  I sure as hell didn’t for ten months.  But we’re trying to get this up and rolling again, so here goes.  It’s been adventuresome, with many anecdotes and items of interest and a glorious incident in which the cat ate an entire package of chicken-flavored antibiotics and much to her embarrassment had to go to feline detox.  Also:

dav

Chapter One

In which we depart from La Spezia and the Ligurian coast, and for a couple of days anchor off Saint-Tropez, a pretty French village of little stone lanes, boutiques, overpriced shoes, Provencal quaintness, and afternoon bocce ball in the earthen square.  Besides being a famed destination for the jet set (Brigitte Bardot got all sexy-like on its beach, and ancient Romans with fat bank accounts kept their villas here), the town was also the site of what may have been the first contact between the French and Japanese, when in 1614 samurai and diplomat Hasekura Tsunenaga led a European expedition towards Rome and sheltered in its port (I read that the French were impressed by the superiority of Japanese swords and the fact that their guests did not reuse handkerchiefs after blowing their noses, because Europeans were way behind in the field of hygiene).  Saint-Tropez (aka Delta Beach) was also the first town upon the French Riviera to be liberated by the Allies during WWII, in the Operation Dragoon landing (suck it, Nazis).  There actually was a Saint Tropez, too!  Or rather Saint Torpes; after his martyrdom in Pisa, his headless body was placed in a boat along with a rooster and a dog, a highly crummy carnival of a cruise which eventually landed here.  The animals bounced and the locals decided the dead dude’s name was a totally metal choice.

Chapter Two

In which we spend a night in Marseilles and forget what we did there but probably watched Brooklyn Nine Nine, and cross the Gulf of Lyon to take shelter in the French town of Sète, which has been called the Venice of the region for the canal which serves as its major concourse.  Rising from sea to hilltop, its waterway and waterfront strewn with the blue boats of the fishermen, the town is mad picturesque.  However, it rained torrentially, so we consumed a good deal of cake and watched more TV.

Chapter Three

In which we elect to sail straight to our goal of the island of Mallorca, a trip which ought to have taken 40 hours.  Thanks to an error on the part of someone (ahem, Davi), we ran out of fuel, a sail crapped out, the wind died, and a storm 20 miles to the east gave us a continual barrage of choppy 3 meter waves from the side.  Thus the voyage lasted for 66 hours (add one more 6 and you know what I’m talking about), including much rocking, rolling, flying tea kettles, and a smidgen of vomiting.  The cats generally pouted and napped, not much of a deviation from the usual.  In the parlance of mariners, it was hellacious.  But not be daunted, Cristina did prepare the highly necessary bloody marys, and the passage concluded with the sight of a waterspout against the clearing skies, which called to mind all the sheer power of the spinning systems of the earth and the forces humans have not made, and was freaking awesome.

Chapter Four

In which we spend a couple of months in Palma, Mallorca’s capital, enjoying its excellent cuisine, music, architecture (between barrio alleyways and a nineteenth-century downtown and castle and modernity, it’s got the structures of a dozen cities at once), and the enormous cathedral with its reflection shimmering contrary upon the waters.  I visited my fam for Thanksgiving, Davi visited hers for Christmas, and Cristina and I commemorated the Nativity by having cocktails with our wonderful friend who ran into a door.  So from my desultory readings I learned that Palma and the island came under the possession of the Roman Empire, the Byzantines, the judicious rule of the Umayyad caliphate, a bunch of disorganized and antisemitic French people, and Spain, as it is today.  However, for about a thousand years the city’s economy depended almost entirely upon piracy, which is so cool.  

Chapter Five

In which a two month sojourn for boat repairs in the town of Porto Cristo upon Mallorca’s eastern coast turns into five months of wondering why the engine is making that noise, where that smoke is coming from, and why do we get an electric shock when we touch the railing.  But Porto Cristo is a lovely little place where limestone cliffs curve into a little cape where sailboats hide, with children (and in our case, cats) play upon the beach before venues closed for the season (really, the main games in town were Burger King and a high recommended plaza café called Es Tanit).  We made beautiful new friends, enjoyed the company of fond old ones, and explored an old bunker from the Spanish Civil War.  Davi’s father visited us there as well, which was a blast and a half.  And we visited the island’s northernmost point of Cap de Formentor.  Culminating in a lighthouse from which one can see the hazy landfall of the other Balearic Islands and the strange meeting of sea and sky, the peninsula of Formentor is also occupied by a splendid amount of friendly goats.

Chapter Six

In which we make a blessedly uneventful crossing from Mallorca to Sardinia, where we enjoy the city of Cagliari and its layers of metropolitan and medieval life rising upon a steep hill over the sea (that music tho: shoutout to Zulu bar and ace guitarist Matteo Leone).  We spent time with some excellent friends and Cristina got new ink (shoutout to Enrico and Sara at Electric Storm Tattoo), and a server spilled Prosecco upon my laptop and I wept quietly in the corner of the café.  It’s all good though, obviously, because otherwise you wouldn’t be reading this.

Chapter Seven 

In which we make another crossing to Palermo, the capital of Sicily, arriving just in time for Easter.  The holiday was conducted in a delightfully Palmeritani way: after an extremely violent and vaguely traumatic passion play, the procession of the clergy began, carrying the effigy of Christ’s body in a glass coffin.  However, a fight broke out between two bearers of the effigy, the fistfights started, and the crowd of spectators erupted into shouting and punching factions.  I feel that this should become and possibly is a tradition applied to every holiday.

Chapter Eight

In which we find ourselves unable to leave Palermo due to engine issues (SURPRISE), and are entirely cool with that, because it’s a fabulous city of the gritty and the Baroque, garbage and angels, ghosts and mafia (who are jerks and don’t resemble Brando in any fashion), catacombs of corpses mummified and repeated fistfights.  My Mommy visited! which was unspeakably wonderful, and we made forays to the seaside town of Cefalu, where the Saraceni fortress still watches over the slender streets and sunlight renders the pale stone golden, icons peering from the silk-flower shrines.  We also hit up the Aeolian island of Vulcano, *surprise* a dormant volcano: according to Greek and Roman mythology, it was a forge belonging to respectively to Hephaestus and Vulcan, the god of metallurgy, blacksmiths, and fire.  The mountain still smokes and fumes with mystery over its little port, where the extremophilic microorganism Pyrococcus furiosis was first discovered in a fumarole and given its badass name.  Also Mom and I almost got kicked out of a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and in order to visit the Arab-Norman palace we had to bury my knives in the Royal Gardens of Palermo.

I’m going to break from my typical asshat tone here, however.  While we’ve been distracted by plenty of fun and fascinating things, and there will be more posts and pictures to tell them, our journey was also broken by sorrow.  My grandmother passed away in March, and Davi’s mother passed away in late April.  We traveled to Hungary to commemorate her and to be near Davi’s father and all our family, to be together in mourning and remembrance of so beautiful a woman and devoted a parent she was.  As is the case in all grief, I can’t find the proper words to express the pain of these losses, nor can I express the extraordinary nature of who we have lost, the artistry and laughter and tenderness.  Grief comes in waves, and this is something with which Davi and all of us live in agony and in love.  Representing this love, this pain, and the person we have lost is something words cannot wholly achieve.  We miss, we remember, and we love boundlessly.  So I can only conclude with a reminder of the miracle that love in all its forms is, the unbreakable bridge it makes between all of us, all those who live and all those who are gone.

love

Boat Songs #2: “The rum is for all your good vices”

Well ahoy again!  Welcome to the second entry in our SY Wake playlist, in which we get our groove on to music about boats or sailing or the sea.  This one is an obviously essential number, because there’s no excuse for being on a boat and not hearing some classic Jimmy Buffett (unless you are an old-timey pirate, since back then Jimmy Buffett hadn’t been invented yet).  So here’s his song “Son of a Son of a Sailor”, from the 1978 album of the same title:

*margaritas optional but highly recommended

 

Boat Songs #1: “Old Captain Ahab ain’t got nothin’ on me”

Welcome to the first sample of the SY Wake playlist!  With weeks upon weeks nestled in a cockpit watching the cats chasing bugs,  obviously music is a necessity for marginal sanity.  And what better than songs about boats?

Our first number comes from Tom Waits, a virtuoso and multifarious musician whose career spans decades of the blues and the experimental, the poetic and the sinister, the mysteries of trainyards and the glittering highways  – and the sea!  Here’s his song, “Shiver Me Timbers”, from the 1974 album The Heart of Saturday Night:

The fog’s liftin’ and the sand’s shiftin’, enjoy!

In which we discover what lies beneath the boat

Holla!  Kitty here, and it’s been a long time since I’ve put up a blog post, due to a mixture of sloth, a visit from our tremendously awesome friends, and a number of concerts (Davi touched Lenny Kravitz! and his security guard punched me in the throat)—basically, lots of Shore Leave.  But we’re back, with further videos and pics to come, and the dark, dark tale of a rather embarrassing episode in the life of SY Wake.

don't pay the ferryman
“You kids better stop whining or I swear I’ll turn this boat around”

 

See, it’s been *counting on fingers* six months since we met the boat and brought her back here to La Spezia, and since then our “work” has consisted largely of on-and-below-deck improvements, lounging, and figuring out how to build a floating bar on the paddleboard (totally achievable).

 

BUT apparently you are supposed to scrub and scrape the underside of a boat on a regular basis, lest it become rife with maritime pests, such as barnacles.

damn sure not going anywhere
Somebody call Rick Moranis

 

Let’s talk about barnacles!  They’re part of the subphylum Crustacea, which means they’re rather unexpected relations of crabs and lobsters (like how aforementioned Lenny Kravitz and Al Roker are distant cousins, look it up).  A newly hatched barnacle is called a nauplius, and consists of basically a head with a tail; in the larval stage the head starts secreting a gooey adhesive substance which is kind of gross, and attaches itself to a suitable substrate (such as rocks or our own damn boat).  Barnacles then develop an exoskeleton of hard plates, begin using teeny legs to eat plankton, and become the acne of pirate ships which we all know and love.

bummer me hearties
Pirates of the Caribbean Part VI: The Nuisance of the Black Pearl

 

Also, in Olden Days, certain barnacles were thought to hatch into the goose species Branta leucopsis (unsurprisingly named the Barnacle Goose), because people can be dumb as hell sometimes.

dipshits
Ferioufly, which maftermind thought of thif fhit?

 

Sooooo when Wake began to cruise at a slower and slower pace, we figured there were probably a few barnacles clinging to the hull, thus hindering the boat’s streamlined progress.  No prob, we thought, just gotta take her out of the water on the haul and get her cleaned.  Just a couple o’ barnacles.  Well, as I said, people can be dumb as hell sometimes.

There exist moments in life in which few words can express the true nature of a sight, and in the case of Wake being lifted from the marina, the sole turn of phrase which came to mind was “holy shit”.  See:

dav
You gotta be kidding me.
sdr
Is that… is that ectoplasm?

 

Yep.  It turns out that barnacles grow freaking fast, and that spooky weeds can sprout around them, too.  Fortunately, the good stevedores (can I call them stevedores? that’s a word we don’t use enough) of Porto Mirabello knew just how to power-hose the little bastards off the hull, which kind of reminded me of the guns they use in Ghostbusters.

 

Meanwhile, each and every worker took the time to ramble over and admire the cats, who waited in their carriers pretending to be wholesome while big burly Italian dudes cooed at them.

those-soulful-eyes.jpeg
27 pieces of Meow Mix and some string for whoever lets me out of here

 

At last, Wake was clean, returned to full function and ready to return to the waves, and we learnt a valuable lesson in why you need to scrub the hull frequently.  Away we sailed, the wind whispering redemption around us, when at once we heard a mournful cry…

And then the boat gave birth to a beautiful new goose!

a christmas-in-july miracle
His name is Fteve

The best skies are blue: a weekend with our friend Gregory!

With immense happiness and slight hangovers, we’ve returned from a fantastic weekend with our friend Gregory – an incomparable singer, a wise and worldly soul, a sweet New Yorker and a wonderful friend.  Between diving (Greg leaping from the bow) and dinghies (we went fast!), Prosecco (have another glass, please), sunbathing and reading and the terrible greed of cats at lunchtime, we had a freaking awesome time – so here’s an album for the awesome jawesome memories!

 

 

 

 

Etymology like a boss

As some of you may have noticed, our boat is named Wake.  Hey, that word means more than one thing at once!  And that’s why we’re here to drink explore its meanings and history, and what the shit that might mean to us.

So, as a verb (that’s the activity kind!), to wake derives from a Middle English fusion of Old English wacan, meaning “to become awake, arise, be born, originate”, and Old English wacian, “to be or remain awake”, both emerging from the proto-Germanic waken, which in turn finds its origins in the proto-Indo-European root *weg-, “to be strong or lively”.  Do you ever just read this crap and wonder how goddamn weird ancient people sounded when they spoke?

the olde warrior
© Bodleian Library, Oxford

 

So if we’re getting all metaphorical up in here, the boat could represent a kind of awakening which is:

  1. Intellectual
  2. Spiritual
  3. Emotional
  4. Hungover

Fill in the bubble entirely; answers will be graded after class.

Years spent making the calculator spell out BOOBS
So many years spent making the calculator spell out BOOBS

 

But as a noun, a wake can denote “the track left by a moving ship”, first attested in the 1540s and perhaps taken from Middle Low German or Middle Dutch wake, “a hole in ice”, from proto-Germanic *wakwo.  Is wake then a literal reference to what the boat actually does?  Fuck if we’re going to be sailing through any ice, though.

Please draw a wake here:

blank
Don’t screw this up, it will appear on your transcript

 

Or a wake may indicate the act of “sitting up at night with a corpse”, which is either really Irish or really hardcore.  This usage dates from the early 15th century, though there’s also an obsolete Scottish rendition, lichwake (why are we no longer using this word?).  It’s not necessarily all bad, though, as it’s meant also to celebrate the memory of what is lost and loved.   Or it’s just spooky, how should I know.

Holy crap, you woke up
Dude, how long have you been awake???

 

Thus, if we are to persist in our really smart analyses of the word, the boat’s name touches upon the notions of death and mourning in order to remind us of: ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________.

Please use complete sentences; spelling and grammar errors will be recognized as consequences of the irrevocable transience of humankind.  Essays due at the Apocalypse.

The final judgement
Behold, for the great day of Wrath hast come

Digital voyages for robot buccaneers

An introductory post by Kitty, about who we are and other crap

Welcome to the blog!  This is the first entry, so it’s super high pressure and I gotta make sure this sounds well thought-out and does not exceed a 1:10 proportion of curse words to regular speech.  Sonovabitch, don’t fuck this up Kitty…   Anyhow (as further detailed in that whole section on the menu bar), we’re the crew of a boat christened Wake, a 1991 Amel Super Maramu (an awesome mode of transportation because it’s very photogenic and has a pretty good sound system, and there’s water around it).

wake water edit
It’s a ketch, which is Olde English for “pimpin’ slab”

We consist of:

Davi, my wife of 12 years, our brilliant and beautiful Captain whose roots lie from Libya to Hungary to Australia and Colorado and Italy and now beyond… who can pretty much do anything, I shit you not

Davi got herself a dinghy!
Wheeee!

 

And Cristina, our darling partner, a Moldovan flower with a gift for fabulous photography and professional sunbathing, fluent in six languages and adept at saying adorable, ingenious strokes of lost-in-translation

cristina sun
Even the sun’s like, “damn”

 

And Kitty (that’s me!), a published author who really doesn’t do anything except write and learn interesting crap so I can get drunk and tell you all about it (I’ll talk philosophy if you’re buying bro)

me rocket
*I’m the one on the right

And of course…

Katinka, the Halloween cat, who is officially our treasure-hunter since she’s quite greedy and steals everything, including wine corks, lard, butter, and Cheetos

20170703_110602-01
Technically the boat counts as her offshore bank account

 

Rocket, the quartermaster, a real ladies’ man with a tender heart and the courage of a lion, and this weird thing where he sucks on his paw for a half an hour per day

rocket dignity
Dignity.  Always dignity.

 

And Kirby, who is an asshole.  She’s very pretty and she knows it, was once on Italian national television, and tried to kill a pigeon in front of small children

20170531_202947-01
Kirbs don’t give a shit about shit

So that’s us!  I hope y’all like the blog, because it’s a bitch to format.  Also check the YouTube channel, find us on the Facebook, look at our pretty stuff on Instagram, and send us good vibes so we don’t die!

Three cats, three queers, endless love in an endless world