Clare is trailing behind as we work our way up the relatively short but steep side of an active volcano. Yes, that’s right, we are hiking an active volcano…and based on her frown-faced foot-drag whinging you’d think I’m escorting her to the top as a sacrifice to the lava gods. But the reality is much simpler: I have a freshly made Italian sandwich in my backpack, which was made by an well-endowed mustached lady from a back-alley deli who spoke in grunts (which I speak better than Sicilian, so it worked out for me) and took every minute of a half-hour to make even though it involved no more than three ingredients—sun-dried tomatoes, parmesan cheese, and herbed olives.
Basically, it is exactly the type of sandwich you would hope to have made from a deli on a small Sicilian island, it’s pressed between an entire loaf of fresh ciabatta bread, and it cost less than 4 euros. SeaJay is begrudgingly following me up the side of a volcano not because of the breath-taking views it offers, nor to witness the hot sulfurous geysers that are eating away the crater rim, and she is certainly not on this hike because she wants to stretch her legs and use her lungs. Oh no, my wife is following me up the mountain for one reason only—she wants her half of the goddamn sandwich.
We’ve recently arrived to the Aeolian islands, a cluster of gorgeous leftover volcanos (actually some are still forming) just off the north coast of Sicily. So named after Aeolus—Greek god of wind—and we soon learn for good reason. Before we unceremoniously smash our respective halves of the sandwich while hunkered down in a small eroded ravine for protection, Clare and I struggle to maintain our foothold atop the sulfur-spitting crater rim that is being absolutely ravaged by truly ferocious wind speeds.
We make it back down alright, bellies full of Mediterranean magic, and decide to have a beer to celebrate. And then another, and maybe one more. Despite managing to drag CJ up the hillside, I wasn’t able to convince her to pack her bathers when we left the boat that morning, so lounging in the hot sulfurous mud pools (something that all the other hiking tourists seem to be doing as we sip beers across the street) is not an option. Instead, we buy more beer and munchies from the local grocery and head back to the boat.
Even in this well-protected harbor it’s a wet dinghy ride out to Champagne, and all the boats are fish-tailing and tugging hard against their anchors. We get home, unpack and shower, and are just settling in to cozy up for the blustery night when we hear the repeated staccato blasts of an air-horn.
“Oh some poor newbie,” I think to myself, “dragging from a improperly deployed anchor.”
Fortunately Clare has enough gumption to actually get up and take a look, “Uh honey, I think they’re signaling to us.” She’s out in the cockpit for a bit longer, confirming with her own eyesight the wave-breaking rocks behind us that are growing closer. “Zach, get the hell out here, we’re dragging!”
From the perspective of hindsight, there are two things I’m pleased to report about this moment: 1) this is actually the first time either one of us has had to use the word “drag” to describe our boat’s position; and 2) I have the wherewithal to safely snuggle my just-cracked beer in the corner of the floorboards so as to keep it from spilling—a move that proves successful I might add—before effectively beaming myself up on the deck.
When at anchor we always tie our tiller against the backstay in order to free up space in the cockpit, but in her panic Clare is struggling to get it loose. I run back to give her a hand and we finally manage to get the boat pointed into the wind and making headway. I can’t say how close we come to washing up on the rocks because honestly I’m unwilling to look behind the boat—something along the fuzzy logic of “If I don’t see them, then they’re not really there.”
We get the anchor up and reset, but end up not liking our final resting position, which is too close to one neighbor. So we raise anchor once more and try again, this time with acceptable results. Most importantly, I make sure to pay out PLENTY of chain to ensure a nice long pull on the hook. In fact, not doing so is the exact rookie mistake that I made the day before and is what landed us in our present predicament. A hubris of infallibility, justified by years-of-experience, led to one slight detour from protocol that almost saw us awash on the rocks. And to think that just minutes prior I was clucking at the poor fool who didn’t know how to anchor.
Well thank the stars that Clare hadn’t brought her swimsuit, otherwise we’d probably still be neck deep in rotten-egg-smelling mud with an empty six-pack between us coming home to a boat that’s no longer floating.
If you don’t get what you want, you just might find, you get what you need. And what lesson did I need? No matter how crowded the harbor is: never skimp on your scope! Cheers to Jagger, as well as to the anonymous boat that notified us of our distress but left harbor before we were able to offer a token of our gratitude—THANK YOU!
Fortunately the wind here doesn’t always blow a gale, allowing us to convince Brett and Abbey—Clare’s visiting brother and his girlfriend—to abandon our initial plan of meeting on mainland Sicily and instead hop on a local ferry to come join us. We take advantage of numerous popular areas and anchorages that are as-of-yet free from the summer hordes and still accessible, giving us ample opportunity to bask in the dramatic beauty of these rugged islands. The undisputed highlight of the tour is watching the lava explosions of Stromboli alight the night sky from the comfort of our own cockpit while we nibble fresh takeaway pizza and sip locally grown wine. Does it get any better than this?
If so, certainly the towns of Cefalu and Taormina—back on mainland Sicily—are in the running. For Cefalu, combine every postcard you have ever seen of a quaint seaside, balcony-terraced, narrow-allied, cobblestoned Italian village. Then, throw-in a glorious vertically-faced “rock” in the background with the ruins of an ancient castle perched atop, below which are exquisite turquoise waters speckled with craggily rocks or cradled by crescent beaches. Finally, stroll through an unwavering string of cafes offering an endless rainbow of gelato or find a table at any number of restaurants serving up Sicily’s finest staples—pizza and pasta. Hope you brought your appetite.
Taormina, on the east coast of Sicily, offers much the same but is carved into the face of a mountain some 200-300 meters above the sea with breathtaking views throughout. Even the Greeks labored to no end to construct a massive theatre upon a precarious perch that offers not only panoramic views of the Mediterranean, but the stage itself provides a stunning “gun-sight” of nearby Mount Etna.
Oh yeah, Etna, I almost forgot to mention. We also visit the “basecamp” of Europe’s tallest (3300 meters) and most active volcano, after winding the car up switchbacked roads rebuilt atop the wake of ever-shifting lava flows. That same day sees us swerving around, over, and through the boundless hills and valleys of Sicily’s rugged countryside—a ubiquitous feature of the island none of us knew to expect, and which requires nearly incessant land-bridges and tunnels to traverse. Luckily, we come to learn that the best espresso on the island is found at roadside service stations, which seems to be why no one minds that it takes so long to cover 100 kilometers of highway.
Our final night together is appropriately spent indulging in over-priced drinks at a local nightclub and getting our dance on with a handful of other like-minded patrons, including a shades-adorned grandpa who gets us all moving in the first place by showing everyone up. Props to the DJ for spinning some banging tunes.
Finally, goodbyes must be said. Brett and Abbey have to fly back to Australia and return to the real world. Clare and I have to get back to the boat and resume our fantasy world. I’m not sure I can even explain how we make this life of ours work, but certainly having supportive family is a big help. Clare left her homeland seven years ago with a backpack, some savings, and whole lotta dreams. Other than for our wedding, this is the first time she and her bro have been able to meet up overseas and make some new memories together, fulfilling at least one dream on that list. Glad I got to be a part of them.
To leaving your bathers at home.