Mediterranean Summer (22 page)

I began preparing the cuttlefish entrée and thought ahead one course to dessert. It was a good thing stone fruits were in season—peaches, nectarines, plums of all colors, apricots, and cherries—a natural way to finish any meal. At the market, they were everywhere. After a couple of visits to the same vendors, I felt like a regular, and they would offer to set aside the best they had providing I came back to them the next day. The fruits were so flawless, so ripe, so unblemished that I made my long treks back to the boat very cautiously.

One of the best parts of traveling is to taste something that is truly local. I realized my job required more than just adhering to
la Signora
’s dietary rules set forth during my initial interview. Rather, as we cruised down the coast, I had to inspire a sense of place with the food and use the best of what a location had to offer
at that moment. La Signora
’s reaction to the anchovies and cuttlefish brought this home. “David, this meal was just right. This is what I want,” she said to me in passing later that evening. Rick also reinforced this, sadly mentioning that little or none was left for him to eat.

I loved Sunday evening.
The owners were gone, the pace quieted down, the boat was once again under our sole watch. I always slept better the first night after the owners left—whether from sheer work fatigue or from the knowledge that we had survived another weekend, it didn’t matter. It was also when working on
Serenity
lived up to her name.

The next morning
Serenity
’s maintenance routine began again in earnest. Nigel was walking around with his can of brass polish, Ian hosed down the deck, Rick collected all the dirty linen, Kevin worked on the chart house roof, Scott buried himself in the engine room, and Patrick was barking directions to anyone within earshot. Chores on a yacht adopt a certain sameness as the crew fights an unending and repetitive battle against the harsh effects of salt water and the structural stresses of a vessel in constant motion. But this Monday started the week off differently—with a fight.

“I can’t believe I just finished varnishing the roof of the chart house, and now he wants me to re-sand and re-varnish again,” Kevin sputtered between sips of fresh iced tea in the galley after lunch. He was clearly angry, but in his steely, controlled way I could tell he was keeping a lot in reserve.

The “varnish wars” that had been brewing between Kevin and Patrick seemed to be going from skirmishes and sorties to all-out confrontations. Ostensibly, the two sides were arguing over which kind of varnish to use on the mahogany. But by then, we all knew there was much more to it.

We were supposed to have the afternoon off, but Patrick had a long list of other projects he wanted to get done.

“I don’t even have enough time as it is,” Kevin vented, talking not to me but to himself, as if reexamining what had just happened to help him figure out what he missed the first time.

“And what about the money we’re spending?” he said, calculating aloud the cost of hiring a few extra day workers from the
cantiere
— shipyard—in town.

“This is just crazy,” he said to me, but he was still talking to himself. He finished his tea, washed and dried the glass, and replaced it in the pantry. Like everything else he did, Kevin was thorough.

“Patrick’s nothing but a wart,” we heard Rick say from the pantry, eavesdropping as usual.

We were all operating in high gear those final weeks in July, knowing that at the beginning of August, the owners would be on board for the entire month. For me, their arrival meant daily nonstop heavy loads—multicourse meals, snacks, crew meals, nothing on the menu repeated, and deck duties. For Rick, it meant the entire interior to take care of and service for each meal. For Kevin and the deckhands, it meant keeping the yacht in pristine condition every minute of the day. Kevin did not need Patrick’s make-work projects right now.

A few hours later, Kevin and Patrick’s battle surfaced on deck. Ian came below and, while passing through the galley, reported, “Oh boy, it’s getting good now.”

“What’s going on up there?” I asked.

“The tiff is on the surface now, mate. They’re sniping at each other pretty openly,” he said, then headed up the crew ladder and went back to work.

I wanted to get off the boat and catch some clear air. When I saw the fishing boats returning as they did every afternoon at five, I headed over to the other harbor to check out the scene. Low-flying seagulls squawked behind each vessel looking for a free meal. These were working boats, nothing fancy, a couple of sizes in the fleet, each painted with a different-color trim that signified its ownership. They quickly backed into their spaces and were tied up by a small troop of dockhands who worked their way down the quay as the boats arrived. Within minutes, service vehicles pulled up to each boat to receive the Styrofoam crates of sorted fish passed fireman style by the deckhands onto the trucks. I didn’t see anyone carting even one box to the fish markets across the street. The trucks left, and soon after, the dock-workers and boat hands sorted through the nets and lines on the quay, fixing, sewing, coiling, and preparing for the next day’s run.

That night, over dinner at the mess table, Patrick asked us if we wanted to invite some of our new friends from Il Grottino for a day sail midweek. I immediately became suspicious of this seemingly gracious gesture and wondered if he was trying to pull us to his side in the conflict with Kevin. I also hoped this wasn’t another Club 55 gifted proposal for support. I didn’t really know. But we decided to take him up on his offer to sail for a few hours and then anchor for lunch in a small bay at Giglio.

It turned out to be a great day, our friends from the
caffè
ecstatic at having been invited for a ride on
Serenity,
a very generous effort on Patrick’s part and not typical of visiting yachts. I made a buffet lunch for twenty of sliced prosciutto with room-temperature baked zucchini, penne with shrimp and fresh tomato sauce, a platter of bruschetta—grilled pieces of bread swiped with garlic, then topped with diced tomatoes marinated in olive oil—and an arugula salad with minced celery hearts, shaved Parmesan cheese, and toasted pine nuts. Rick, ever the consummate host, made sure the food was served on silver and porcelain and that glasses were never empty.

One of our guests, Danilo, seemed very knowledgeable about food, and we had a great conversation about local dishes. It turned out that his family owned a restaurant just outside town, and he had spent many a Saturday night in the kitchen while growing up. I asked him why shiny and firm fresh fish were so hard to find, even in a busy, thriving fishing port like Porto Santo Stefano. “Most of the seafood goes directly to Milan and other large markets, like Rungis in Paris. The better the fish, the more money the fishermen will get for their catch. And in the local market, even though you have money to throw around,” he explained, “you are a
straniero”
—an outsider. “Once you’ve made your little purchase and left, the vendor may never see you again. He needs to take care of his repeat customers.”

So there it was, the dynamic of supply and demand in the local fish business. Danilo paused, then added, “I’ll do something for you. Let me know what you need, and I’ll introduce you to the guy that sells to our restaurant. With my word, he’ll serve you well.”

The next day I called Danilo to take him up on his offer for the upcoming weekend. That evening I was to go to a certain boat and give the fisherman my order. I did as told, and the man said he would deliver the items to
Serenity
on Saturday morning. I was a little nervous about leaving it to a stranger to deliver food on the day I needed it, but I put my trust in Danilo that this fisherman would deal honestly with me.

On Saturday morning, as we were getting ready to go sailing, the
pescatore
—fisherman—arrived on the quay with two Styrofoam boxes. I went down the
passerelle
to greet him.
Il Dottore
came with me. I wasn’t expecting him to join me, nor was the fisherman.

I asked how much and pulled out a wad of 100K lira notes, starting to pay without looking in the boxes.
Il Dottore
asked to see the contents. I was caught off guard by this, realizing that if the contents were bad,
il Dottore
’s trust in me as someone authorized to spend his money would be shaken. He was doing what I should have done—a quality check—before I started peeling off bills.

The fisherman cut the tape on the boxes.
Ecco!
I could smell the sea. In the first box were three kilos of firm, shiny vermilion
triglie
— red mullet—perfectly lined up like soldiers, and in the second box were five kilos of beautiful orange and white scampi, both caught, the fisherman assured us, a day earlier. You could see the pride in his eyes. Thank goodness, I thought to myself. I looked at
il Dottore
with a smile, and he complimented the fisherman on bringing us such a beautiful catch, although he did not walk away without adding, “
Però costoso
”—Although costly.

Il Dottore
came into the galley later that morning. I thought for sure he was going to mention something about my little faux pas on the dock.

“
Ciao, Davide,
” he said.

“
Buon giorno, capo,
” I answered, using the familiar word for boss as if it were our first meeting of the day.

“Do you have any mortadella and a little bread?” he asked.

“Sure.” I went to get it from the pantry. I got him a couple of
panini
—small breads just larger than rolls that I kept on board for snack sandwiches—a knife, and a plate and put everything together on a small cutting board.

“
Grazie,
” he said in his very calm tone. He made himself a sandwich and ate it over the sink. I wanted to strike up a conversation, but I had no idea what to talk about. I was still a little timid around him following the avocado incident in Portofino, but I decided to take a shot anyway.

“How was everything at the office this week?”

“
Pieno, molto pieno”
—full, very full—he said between bites. “You know, Davide,” he continued while looking out the porthole above the sink, “you’re fortunate. You can have this anytime. I think about this sandwich all week.”

I wasn’t sure how he’d take it if I asked him if he’d want to trade places for a day. I kept on with my tasks and let him have his moment alone. He finished his snack, asked where everything went, put most of it away, thanked me, and headed back up top.

Unlike
la Signora,
who maintained a clear, bright line between the upper and the lower decks,
il Dottore
seemed to enjoy spending time down below, if only to sneak the food that his significant other wanted him to avoid.

Dinner that night started with an Arborio rice salad made with a copious amount of tender peas, arugula, and extra virgin olive oil from Danilo’s family. I had been using a lot of peas and other shelling beans, even for crew meals. Shucking peas, favas, fresh cannellini, or magenta-and-white-husked beans I only knew in French as
coco rouge
was an easy kitchen task I passed to my crewmates to stave off boredom while we were at anchor. And they got pretty good at it. As a matter of fact, they were getting more and more interested in food.

The salad was placed in the center of the platter and surrounded with the scampi tails that were broiled and finished with a squeeze of lemon and a drizzle of the same oil. For the entrée, I cut the small red mullet into precious fillets, gently panfried them, and served them with a simple coulis of fresh tomato with a hint of hot pepper and basil. I offered a side dish of steamed green beans tossed in
olio-limone
—oil and lemon—then finished the meal with a very rich
panna cotta
—cooked cream—made with mascarpone cheese and served with apricots quickly roasted with a splash of champagne, sugar, and a few pieces of orange peel. Amaretti cookies on the side were an appropriate accompaniment since their
amaro
—bitter—flavor is the result of flour made from the kernels in apricot pits.

Kevin stayed in the galley throughout the service, avoiding Patrick. He asked a lot of questions about the cookery, and I in turn asked him about his background. He was an officer in the British army, he told me, and started his military career at Sandhurst, famous to most Americans as the military college where Winston Churchill trained for his military career. At twenty-seven, Kevin wanted to become a licensed captain. He was taking a master’s course—something like a homeschooling program—on navigation, seamanship, safety, and engineering, but in order to be certified, he also had to spend a certain number of hours at sea. After two journeys to the South Pacific, this summer on
Serenity
would fulfill that requirement.

Kevin brought one other valuable talent to the job. The guys liked working for him and with him because he set a good example. If start time was eight in the morning, he’d be ready to go at a quarter of.

Rick and I hoped that over time, Patrick and Kevin would come to some compromise. Or one of them would lose interest in continuing the fight. After all, they always seemed to be arguing over things no one else cared about. But we both knew it wasn’t the little things that were at the heart of their conflict. It was about one big thing—Kevin’s feeling that Patrick was applying racing boat tactics to a pleasure craft fit for recreational use. That night, Kevin tried to explain his position to Ian, Rick, and me, wanting us to understand that he was not mutinous, just annoyed and rightly so.

“He sails by gauge technique—fixes and formulas, not the wind,” Kevin said. “He talks in yacht-racing terms: ‘Our VMG—velocity made good—is optimum,’ he’ll report.

“That’s fine,” Kevin went on, trying to justify his case, “but what about the wind?” A difference in seafaring philosophy wedged a fundamental gap between the two men.

None of us realized it then, but Kevin was talking to us about the problem because he had come to a decision. He was not the type to come to a decision quickly, but once he did, his resolve was unshakable. Although he didn’t mention it to any of us that night, Kevin had already called Michele, the yacht manager, from the phone in Il Grottino and told him there was a problem that he needed to deal with. He wanted Patrick removed as captain. Michele agreed to drive to the boat in a couple of days. Knowing he’d be coming anyway, I made a follow-up call to Michele, asking him to bring some jars of backup pâté to the boat for August, knowing I probably wouldn’t find foie gras in southern Italy.