Sunday, July 9
Lisbon- Lizhboa- at night is under siege by the World cup broadcast, its inviting arboreal boulevards deserted of lovers, wanderers, even, it seems, beggars. Everybody is affixed to a square of various dimensions behind closed doors where the moment of truth is played out on artificial turf. Our taxi driver cannot find a soul of whom to ask directions as we pursue a labyrinthine course through streets whose well-preserved nineteenth century faces stare out in blind elegance at the night.

The Gulbenkian museum -a standard for man through time, art as the crossroads toward eternity. Chronology seems pointless or at least irrelevant; whatever IS, is; whatever IS not, isn't. Pieces, sometimes: fragments bearing witness, testifying by attention to some condition beyond even attention itself… perhaps, the World in a grain of sand - or testifying as reminders of the once-born world of courts and kings , sands scattered in desert winds, earthquakes and tsunamis.

Mara guides us through the layered maze of Lisbon's history, with the able gait of a geographer. Through the byways she plies her script of earthquakes and kings, as the moment unravels itself in tablecloths and wafts itself on the warm smells of outside cafes. In a streetfront bar we stand and try ginjinha , the fiery apple-cherry liqueur invented by a serendipitous monk and now become a breakfast staple among locals. Whatever sins have been perpetrated in the name of religion, this isn't one, after one dose, at least.

In the name of the people many more crimes are visible, one being Salazar's Cultural Center, which could have been a creation of Stalin or FDR, or the god Progress himself, though a few curves and filigrees of wrought iron a la Tiffany plea for its the claim of Art Nouveau. Much more plausible as a hotel, and much more successful.

Up steps and then up a steep ramping sidewalk carved with treads to the Old district. Here in 1755 an innocent population as unwitting as ourselves was praying in Carmo Church on all souls day when the earthquake hit, sending votives flaming onto the falling wooden structure and igniting the entire city in a fire that lasted five days, driving the population to the river where, by a cruel twist of fate, those who had escaped were met by a tsunami. The fado tradition seems to be rooted in this sense of vita brevis, of lost grandeur and lost lives, as well as evanescent love and the whole population given an existential view on life that contributes to their soft, sweet but slightly sad language and gentle beauty.

A fin de siècle brasserie serves perhaps one of the most telling mementoes of the Portuguese exploration. Rich and black, the coffee is a bittersweet reminder of an era, as are, outside, statues to Camoes, Chiado and Pisado the heroic poets of various ages.

Down again to the basalt basics of the Alfama -the ghetto that survived the earthquake because of its footing in volcanic remains only the poor would bear- now a many-tiered village , still without plumbing, where much of the cooking takes place on the street on communal barbecues. Little piazzas splay out of serpentine streets, for dancing, singing, playing. In a sort of poetic justice, the Alfama neighborhood has every year taken the prize in the inter-district dancing contest. Banners, flags, sheets, paper lanterns string color between the white facades of buildings that seem to belong more to a Greek island than a metropolitan city.

The official tour has ended; we have an appointment to meet the others for dinner in one hour. Nonetheless, suddenly we are blazing out of town on a trolley amid the rush of the hour in a desperate attempt to try the best pastela and see the monastery of Belem at which the Portuguese explorers paid what they anticipated might be their last respects to their homeland and which we, following our intrepid scout are now hastening to reach before- what? Before we turn into tourists again ? Before the monastery closes its doors on us (it is only a museum after all)? We are voracious as teenagers, trying to capture as much as possible at all costs on camera, with our mouths and eyes and ears. The scent of the ocean wind, the flap of the flags on the last spit of land for miles, the pink glow reflected in every surface by the setting sun.

The monastery, though bedecked like a sandcastle, is immense as suits the grandeur of the venture it hosted. A mighty fortress is our God, not a humble prayer. Bedrock of belief…

Evening falls as we retrace our steps through the same twisted steep steps in the waning light, joined by the nautical officers now, to whom we act as guides, albeit rather marginally so, following "noses" more than compass points. Eventually thanks to the infallible intuitions of Karen, whose heart has been dedicated for months to the possibility of this experience, we arrive at a dark door through which waft plaintively, hypnotically the strains of Fado. The audience is local - venues found via the nose ipse facto bear the hallmarks of authenticity- and are by turns mesmerized, cajoled, regaled by a variety of instruments, gestures, and texts. Musically, like the Neapolitan romances, these wilt with sentimentality and may be far more fun to sing than to hear…

Early morning finds us in the harbor of Cascais (Cash Cay ish) where Bakea basks at the pier in a quiet self-assured tranquility belying …well, here beginneth the lesson. For two days, like astronauts, we project our ideal voyage while laughing over dinners on shore , shopping for elaborately conceived repasts, setting out a library of study and entertainment; learning to use the stereo, freezer and refrigerator - our embarasse de richesse of generated power never previously possible. We make a trial run to become familiar with the rigging, but the wind is yet too strong to permit straying very far from the harbor.

On the eve of our departure, we eat like royalty. Gin and tonics, Thai chicken curry, a noble vintage of red wine worthy of our embassade.

Wednesday July 12.
Winds from auspicious quarters, if a bit strong and boding rain. We motor offhandedly for several hours and then set sail. The sea is choppy and we heel considerably to leeward. By sunset, all but the formidable quartermaster have been laid low, in various degrees of stoic convolution as our inner organs protest their new angle of repose, remembering the blithe assumptions of impunity with which last night's curry was consumed.

There are no stars to be seen. A bank of gray has replaced the recent blue celestial: opaque, thick, impermeable to light or to the rays of inspiration. Occasionally it parts, sufficiently only to reveal the surveillant moon.

The sea below, by contrast is molten, causing the boat to pitch forward and roll sideways by turns, or, sometimes, simultaneously. The constant wind requires that the sails be reefed in to sustain a reasonable tilt, one which already challenges normal gravitational relations and simple motor functions. Moving around the cabin requires handholds every five feet. Cooking requires a firm bracing of one's feet and a forward incline of 30 degrees. Opening doors requires a calculation of directions, gravitational constant, mass and velocities. There are bruises and burns for reminders as one learns these simple principles.

At 9, 12, 3 and 6 , watch begins. Three hours on, six hours off. The elaborate array of sun-prevention items we have strung for easy access in a net bag, turn out to be products of an idle brain. We have entered a time-space moment without stars or sun. Fortunately, the navigation is all set by GPS. The work thus is , for the navigator, to hold the wheel to a compass point, an idea with a profoundly metaphysical cast to it. For the copilot the only task is to assist the pilot in keeping the mind from wandering and the hands from slipping …Sometimes the solution is bouillon, or a moment of conversation, or a spray of salt water.. Without the usual gauges to mark the hours, time becomes amorphous and elastic: one consults a map rather than a calendar to chart one's progress and calculate the day.

Day 5
Monday evening bodes well. We are within the "scent of land"-or almost. At some moment during the pre-dawn watch the clouds lift. The water is black, inky, and the sky moonless, like jet. Suddenly, the stars appear, like heralds. At dawn, a host of dolphins appear astride the boat and escort us for a mile or so, in perpetual symmetry that the heart-mind cannot help associating with the idea of joy.

All of Monday our approach to Terceira is spangled with hopeful signs. Zohar and Karen are showing color in their cheeks after days of torpor. Finally, on Monday evening the looming insubstantial specter on the horizon materializes into the island of Terceira.

As we sit in the bay of Praxa de Victoria.our eyes accustom to the horizon, formerly infinite and now bounded on three sides by the works of man, not god. The island itself is a formidable thrust of bold peaks and lava-rich soils which manifest a patchwork of various shades of emerald and peridot as far as the eye can see. The town seems to be an overgrown harbor cascading through a few blocks of residential neighborhood stippled with spires, into the fields beyond.The idyll this suggests, however, is blighted by traces from a US Air Base whose soundtracks and cargo depositions contrast jarringly with the laughter of bathers on the beach and the serenity of the hills beyond.

A harbormaster pulls up alongside us: young, twenty somethingish and fluent in both French and English. He as not come to tell us, as might have been the case, that the US Air Force has suspended permission to anchor in the interests of its domestic security(?), but rather to extend a sincere welcome. In fact, despite the conviviality apparent on the shore, the harbor probably receives few social calls by boats.

This brief interchange, followed by a swim off the stern evokes in one a gratitude that probably needs rediscovering upon each new occasion, since in the elemental quest for freedom by our animal natures it is so easily forgotten- which is a gratitude for calm waters and civilized social intercourse. In five days we have seen a total of four other vessels, all distant, and our human capacities have been focused on survival and basic necessities -a condition clearly necessary for cleansing the spirit of dross habits and arrogant expectations.

Somebody cooks dinner-on the level- as it is clear our captain is not yet ready to broach the world of human society just yet. After the sun sets, the winking of lights on shore and in the sky form a seamless arc.

In the morning , rather than stay in Victoria for the day, however, we continue around the island to Angra de Heroismo. After a brief and unsuccessful attempt at sailing, we resign to a motorized enjoyment of the coastal landscape and this surprising patchwork of neatly tilled fields separated by well tended hedges. But most surprising of all is the virtual absence of any visible human labor. A few cars tool along the roads, but no tractors or even human activity interfere with the eerily motionless serenity of the breathless, dormant fields.

In the early afternoon the harbor of Angra comes into view. Despite our having listened respectfully to Susie's research we are not prepared for the elegance and sophistication of this historic site of international high finance from the age of Portuguese exploration. Steeples and bell towers peep from the crests of hills and piazzas along the quay. Cobbled streets, faced with pastel stuccoed buildings wend gracefully in terraces along the slopes. City blocks where pedestrian activity is highest are closed to traffic and the limestone and basalt pavers have become polished by feet into mirror-like surfaces. Life is, in short civilized, but without hauteur. The general command of English is almost uniformly elegant and the sibilance of the Portuguese language lends a softness to the contours of their speech in our rather brittle tongue, rendering it vastly different, for instance than the usual Spanish inflection.

A long-awaited dinner onshore has been worth the patience and the hotel Susie has chosen presents a magnificent portrayal of the bay in the waning evening as well as a panoply of fresh fish dishes . Portuguese wine is in general too green and grassy for me, however, and Port may be with good reason the chief export in the wine domain. Desserts, too, despite their alluring looks, tend to be mealy and flavorless. The ice cream though, is uniformly rich. These are islands , like Jersey and Guernsey, where cattle prosper. Hand-made gelato is delicious.

Monte Brasil is a large park on a hillside ringed by an old fortress. The walk there, through the back streets of town-all virtually deserted of traffic- is even more colorful than the park itself, The eponymous fort is a testament to fortitude and strength rather than beauty. Weeds have taken over the rambling, crumbling remains but Nimrod discovers wild anise among them. Good for chewing and an antidote for some of the less savory odors on the boat.
On the return route we dally in lace shops, shoe stores and a beer hall, arriving back at the boat late in the day to discover that our TOD has been postponed almost a full day. In calculating miles and wind directions and forces, our beneficent captain has decided not to ferry us away to Faial and thereby eradicate our eagerly anticipated hiking possibilities. As host to Peter's Sports Café- the highly touted caravansary for transatlantic sailors- a call at the port of Faial is a feather in every captain's cap. However, since we are not currently transatlantic sailors, and since Marc (and Susie ,Tim and Rulik) already have that notch carved in their belts without the need of feathers, we will go directly to San Miguel, and its capital harbor Ponte Delgado.

Aeolus clearly favors this decision, gracing us with a wind directly off the stern, which calls for the jenniker . This enormous swath of a sail seems to hail from the stories of Sinbad and gives Bakea more than ever the appearance of an empress swan. The distance, however, is significant, and even with a good wind it is clear by mid-afternoon that without a motor we will not reach harbor by nightfall. It is lovely weather and the motor slips on almost inconspicuously. Zohar takes the helm for awhile. It is reassuring to see her above , as it is to see Karen recouping lost hours of sun.

After what seems an interminable approach on increasingly complaining stomachs to an ever receding island in ever waning light we reach sight of Ponte Delagado. Since the beacons are not represented accurately on the map, finding the channel takes some time (though not as much time as the stomach believes). At 9 o'clock, under a full moon, we finally drop anchor in the dark bay whose illuminated quay is reminiscent of Venice. Shops line the waterfront. Clock towers and church steeples people the glassy stillness of the water with a reflected world.

Docking takes all morning, since the winds are high and the risk considerable of doing damage to the boat. Finally around 2 PM we are given a berth alongside an owner-built boat from Belgium, modeled on the design of a Chesapeake Bay Schooner. The family, fortunately, is genial and doesn't see to mind our constant if fairly careful trespass over their decks. We rent 2 cars and prepare for the aforementioned eagerly anticipated hike into the highly touted mystical craters of Lago Verde.

Saturday offers a long drive over tortuous mountain roads through a phantasmagorical landscape locked under a bank of fog. Hedges of blue and white hydrangeas form mazes on the hillsides below , first in orderly quadrants, and then escaping rampantly down the banks of ravines We arrive at last at the small town where the trail begins, and wait until the local baker finishes his first batch of fresh bread, in order to supply our morale for what promises to be a stringent exercise of the gams and lungs.

In fact, the hike up to the rim is steep, but sweet-smelling, through a deciduous forest along often uncertain trails. Occasionally we suspect that we are lost. Fortunately Rulik has come prepared with a poem on the subject, and reads us a poem by David Wagonner "When you have lost the Path" from his palm pilot. The view from the peak is unfortunately shrouded by fog, but at places along the crest upon our return, a corner is lifted and one can see cattle grazing and once again glimpse the bizarre blue and white hedges of hydrangeas so unique to this particular landscape. The descent is violently steep and slippery, and when we return to the village whence we departed , we are admittedly the worse for wear. Our leg muscles, which have been used onboard for bracing, rather than movement , feel awkward on dry land. The little village from which we so innocently and naively departed now reverberates with the sounds and costumery of a wedding ; we gratefully catch (only) the tail as we slouch into a café to slake our thirsts.

The drive back to the harbor unravels the morning's fogbound landscape and reveals it in full sun , panorama and Technicolor, a reminder that all fog is local , penetrable and impermanent . Back at the harbor, shops are still open.
We dally along the quay.

Sunday morning.
On the basis of ubiquitous, idispensable and ineluctable advice from the guidebooks our course takes us toward Parque Terra Nostra- an unlikely project begun in an unlikely time (1780) by an unlikely benefactor -Thomas Hinckley, an American diplomat. The drive is again tortuous, following the coast and then veering inland over mountains toward Lago de Furnas, another of the many hotspots of this archipelago. There are several tempting deviations- toward an offshore island for diving: along sandy beaches, but we keep our compass point .The park is quite stunning, moreover, and perhaps best of all, since we are all depleted from yesterdays peregrinations and rappellings, it promises to be strictly a "gentleman's constitutional" - no pre-prandial lakeline, waistline exercise. With huge palms and a variety of voluptuous flowering trees in niches dedicated to specialty collections, it is almost possible to ramble over thirty acres comfortably without losing interest or focus. Rulik and Zohar brave the smelly hot mud where many local families are wallowing, but the rest of us only stand by, preferring to suffer vicariously.

Invoke an image for the term "esplanade dining." Then add "view of the sea" to a "farewell dinner" recommended by a "four star hotel". Now, envision driving in a mad taxi race to a suburban street and entering a smoke-filled café , navigating a flight of stairs onto a tarpapered roof where a table is set among the smoke stacks and heat vents and various stored and rusting appurtenances of the restaurant business. A few lone light bulbs dangle on an electric wire. Nonetheless, there is the sea, in more than 180 degrees of vista, visible from the terrace above the table. In a well-schooled tradition we undo and reset the table on this upper ecehelon and enjoy the sunset in this oddly situated esplanade. Memory works in its mysterious ways…The sun goes down, the lights alongshore go on. The conversation fades into the silence of the sea, and the stars shine down.

In retrospect, from the airport in Ponte Delgado, when we have left the Bakea to her new crew to wright her wonders and wreak her creative havoc, it seems evident that the barque of Ra is not a luxury liner or even a steamship. Sometimes, Bakea seemed like a camel carrying us as cargo, sometimes a swan or dolphin leading us through a sixth sense (helped by GPS) to a destination of which we conjecture only traces.

May we continue to experience the waves and trust the stars to tell us where we are when the signals fade from land. Isis September 3, 2006