Mad about Mariella

Mad about Mariella

by Margie Smith

Before I ever laid eyes on her, I was hooked.  Perhaps it was the way her crew spoke of her, the way her name escaped their lips in breathless, reverent tones:

Mariella.

I traveled to Antigua to see her for myself, this stunning, varnished yawl, born in 1936.  Heart on sleeve, my wooing began, but each request to board was politely, firmly spurned.  My affections were unrequited.  That should have been the end of the story.  Little did I know she would haunt me across three oceans.

Rejection fueled my obsession.  Unable to sail on the Fife-designed beauty to which I had formed inexplicable and ardent attachment,  I stalked her instead.  From the Caribbean, across the Atlantic, around the Mediterranean, I crewed on other vessels, incessantly scanning the horizon for a glimpse of the one that got away.  When our paths crossed in port, I persisted.  “Just one day aboard!”  I pleaded.  “A few hours on the water!”  It was all for naught.

A snowy winter back home in Philadelphia did nothing to quell the desire so I returned to the Virgin Islands to share, at least, the same dazzling blue sea.  The dance continued.  She bore east to the Med; I sailed north to New England, but caught up with her in the south of France, following her to Antibes, La Spezia, Isola Capraia.  By the time we reached Porto Santo Stefano, I was resigned to my role in the shadows, content to adore her from afar, but as sometimes happens on heady, wine-soaked Italian nights, fortunes changed.  Mariella was bound for Valencia in the morning and there was a berth for one more.

“Sweetheart Sorrow” was the title of a short story I read on that passage from Italy to Spain, the term describing “the sadness one feels at the thought of a love affair nearing its end… a sadness one is not yet ready to face.”  I knew even as we weighed anchor that our time would be fleeting, our ending bittersweet, but I brushed those thoughts away like the wind-blown hair from my eyes and surrendered to a sensual, four-day affair.

It was a magical voyage, graced by whales and dolphins, fair winds and an enviable energy among those on board.  For most, the destination—Valencia and the America’s Cup—was the bounty, but for me, nothing existed beyond the journey.  I wanted only to stand on Mariella’s sun-drenched decks for one more day, take in the expanse of sky that stretched across her bow and let the sense of sheer freedom wash over me with each salty spray.

Not fiery and intense like one might expect when such longing is ultimately consummated, but slow and gentle, tender, like a squeeze on the knee, or the touch of a firm hand, warmed by a steaming mug, pressed against your cheek on a chilly, moonless night.  To be wrapped, at last, in her aura felt like home.  Handsome and solid, she carried us effortlessly by day; and under the stars at night, Mariella rocked her cargo to sleep, wood creaking and sighing, bodies, safe and blissful, cradled perfectly in the contours of her hull. 

It was sublime and then it was over, ecstasy waning as the miles closed between us and the inevitable shore, the glittering lights of Valencia beckoning in the distance. The crew disembarked into the cacophony of the marina.  There would be fresh admirers in the morning.  Walking away, I stole one last glance, committing her exquisite lines to memory.

I stayed away from the docks the day she sailed away.  Who could bear to watch her go?  Far from the port I sat, landlocked, on a stone bench in an ancient plaza and watched new lovers pluck fruit from the orange trees, as must have been the custom for centuries in the old public square.

The scent of nectar heavy in the air, I breathed in deeply, closed my eyes, and could just make out her white sails rising towards the heavens, almost feel her bow undulating with the waves.  That image—revisited over and over, on lonely midnight watches at sea or long, cold nights on land—forever holds the power to transport me back to that sweet summer in the Mediterranean when I was enamorada and, for a little while, Mariella was mine.

May 2010

Margie Smith is an avid sailor, a (not) frequent (enough) visitor to St. John and a regular contributor to the Sun Times.