February 19, 2007--Monday On Mallorca: The Llaut and the Sunset
In this sleepy place it takes a lot to get anyone excited. The island is about tranquio, not excitement. OK, maybe if the Mallorca soccer team manages to win a game the guys will go to La Palmeras to down a few extra shots of Hierbas, the local intoxicant; or if the Guardia Civil writes someone a parking ticket it will be argued about for a week or two.
But to see twenty or more people huddled together at the edge of the waterfront all of whom appear to be pointing at the water and talking animatedly to each other; or, even more remarkable, to see at least that many moving quickly down the harbor to get an unencumbered view of the horizon, to find so many of these usually unflappable people actually running along beside the Sea, to come upon all of this activity in one afternoon is unheard of.
But both occurred within minutes of each other late last week.
We were driving back into town after wandering around in the foothills of the Tramuntana Mountains, back among the old pathways called camis, between the newly blossoming almond trees where the only sounds are from the dependable Llevant wind that arrives from the south each afternoon and the clank of sheep bells. Returning to our version of civilization after just an hour of this kind aimless wandering enveloped by such eternal earth-borne sensations is not the best preparation for so much commotion.
There was so much agitation and excitement among the first group that the cars which generally negotiate with ease the sharp right turn that loops them into town, such as it is, was backed up in a way that reminded us more of New York traffic than anything we are used to encountering in Puerto Andratx. That is unless someone stops in the middle of the road at La Consigna, the café and bakery, to talk for five minutes with a friend who is seated at an outdoor table sipping on a cortado. For this, when all cars need to halt—no problemo.
But this was different. Something very out of the ordinary was happening and we were in truth happy to be caught in the snarl so that we too could get a glimpse of what was going on, knowing that whatever it was it would likely be the talk of the town for months. Talk in which we would very much want to be participating.
It turned out that what was happening down there in the water, below the wooden bridge that spans the small canal that was cut into the adjoining meadow, who knows how long ago, at the deepest end of the harbor as a place, perhaps, to shelter small llauts from storms that swirl in unexpectedly this time of year, right down there, as the result of just such a storm the previous night, one of these boats that had been moored at the mouth of the canal had capsized.
As we inched closer, we could see its swollen hull bobbing in the still turbulent water just above its whipped surface. And down there in a wet suit was someone from the Mallorcan Coast Guard attempting to slip broad rubber straps under the llaut’s submerged deck presumably to then attach them to the lifting hook of the crane that sat on a small barge which was anchored just beyond the bridge. It was well designed for just this purpose. Clearly, to these men this was not as unusual an occurrence as it would appear from all the chatter and simultaneous advice being offered by the onlookers—“Put the sling over there, at the stern end”; “No, not there, better it should be placed in the middle, right in front of where the cabin is”; “Don’t listen to him, he knows nothing about boats. You need to move it toward the bow because that’s where they placed the strap the last time this happened. I think it was in 1999.”
For these seaside superintendents, this was as exciting an event as a Real Mallorca football victory; and we assumed, after the boat was righted as it certainly would be, it would be celebrated in a very similar matter. The Hierbas would be flowing, just as it undoubtedly had in 1999.
Then as we finally negotiated that turn into the center of the Puerto we became witness to even more turbulence—this time what appeared to be a full-fledged panic. At that time of day there are typically not many people in town—it is too early for most to be seeking a pre-dinner drink and certainly, at 6:00, much too early for anyone to be thinking about eating. But nonetheless, everyone who was in the port and not at the canal appeared to be racing to get away from something—perhaps, we thought, a gas leak or some other kind of dangerous condition where the road that circles the harbor turns south.
Again the traffic slowed to a crawl. Downshifting, in first gear we thumped past the fishing fleet which had recently returned from a choppy day at sea. The gathering crowd raced along in our direction, faster than we could move, passing us as if we were stalled.
We finally reached La Consigna where all the tables had been abandoned; its few customers, it appeared, had joined the surging throng and had been absorbed in it. At the taxi stand, though there were the usual three in the queue, none of the drivers, however, were to be seen. Had they too left their cars to race toward the horizon because it was clear that was where everyone was headed?
Seeing a rare parking spot along the seawall, Rona gestured to me to pull into it and was half out of the car before I could set the brake. She raced ahead and I feared I would not be able to keep up with her or find her in the swarming crowd once we all came to a halt on the long pier that cuts halfway out into the open harbor. But breathless I did locate her where she stood, facing the southern sky, illuminated by it, now surrounded by townspeople and the occasional tourist.
It was 6:15 and the sun in its mid-February transit was knifing toward the horizon that stretches fully across the open end of our almost circular port. Someone said this is the first day that it will touch and then cut into the water in the middle of that open gap in the harbor’s mouth.
It was evident that this was true; but what had drawn these hundred people, including now Rona and me, was not that yearly celestial phenomenon but the play of the sun’s dying light on the mountains, water, and especially the sky. The lurid pinks and reds and golds.
From this display, it would not be hard to imagine the ancients’ understanding of the world as made up of just four elements—earth, wind, water, and fire. And, from this, it would not be difficult to imagine why the first Paleolithic inhabitants of this island would wonder about the meaning of the daily event of the setting sun and fear each night that the light might not return.
We of course know better about all of these things—the elements; the movement of the earth, not certainly the sun; the refraction of light; and of course the certainty of mañana.
But to see twenty or more people huddled together at the edge of the waterfront all of whom appear to be pointing at the water and talking animatedly to each other; or, even more remarkable, to see at least that many moving quickly down the harbor to get an unencumbered view of the horizon, to find so many of these usually unflappable people actually running along beside the Sea, to come upon all of this activity in one afternoon is unheard of.
But both occurred within minutes of each other late last week.
We were driving back into town after wandering around in the foothills of the Tramuntana Mountains, back among the old pathways called camis, between the newly blossoming almond trees where the only sounds are from the dependable Llevant wind that arrives from the south each afternoon and the clank of sheep bells. Returning to our version of civilization after just an hour of this kind aimless wandering enveloped by such eternal earth-borne sensations is not the best preparation for so much commotion.
There was so much agitation and excitement among the first group that the cars which generally negotiate with ease the sharp right turn that loops them into town, such as it is, was backed up in a way that reminded us more of New York traffic than anything we are used to encountering in Puerto Andratx. That is unless someone stops in the middle of the road at La Consigna, the café and bakery, to talk for five minutes with a friend who is seated at an outdoor table sipping on a cortado. For this, when all cars need to halt—no problemo.
But this was different. Something very out of the ordinary was happening and we were in truth happy to be caught in the snarl so that we too could get a glimpse of what was going on, knowing that whatever it was it would likely be the talk of the town for months. Talk in which we would very much want to be participating.
It turned out that what was happening down there in the water, below the wooden bridge that spans the small canal that was cut into the adjoining meadow, who knows how long ago, at the deepest end of the harbor as a place, perhaps, to shelter small llauts from storms that swirl in unexpectedly this time of year, right down there, as the result of just such a storm the previous night, one of these boats that had been moored at the mouth of the canal had capsized.
As we inched closer, we could see its swollen hull bobbing in the still turbulent water just above its whipped surface. And down there in a wet suit was someone from the Mallorcan Coast Guard attempting to slip broad rubber straps under the llaut’s submerged deck presumably to then attach them to the lifting hook of the crane that sat on a small barge which was anchored just beyond the bridge. It was well designed for just this purpose. Clearly, to these men this was not as unusual an occurrence as it would appear from all the chatter and simultaneous advice being offered by the onlookers—“Put the sling over there, at the stern end”; “No, not there, better it should be placed in the middle, right in front of where the cabin is”; “Don’t listen to him, he knows nothing about boats. You need to move it toward the bow because that’s where they placed the strap the last time this happened. I think it was in 1999.”
For these seaside superintendents, this was as exciting an event as a Real Mallorca football victory; and we assumed, after the boat was righted as it certainly would be, it would be celebrated in a very similar matter. The Hierbas would be flowing, just as it undoubtedly had in 1999.
Then as we finally negotiated that turn into the center of the Puerto we became witness to even more turbulence—this time what appeared to be a full-fledged panic. At that time of day there are typically not many people in town—it is too early for most to be seeking a pre-dinner drink and certainly, at 6:00, much too early for anyone to be thinking about eating. But nonetheless, everyone who was in the port and not at the canal appeared to be racing to get away from something—perhaps, we thought, a gas leak or some other kind of dangerous condition where the road that circles the harbor turns south.
Again the traffic slowed to a crawl. Downshifting, in first gear we thumped past the fishing fleet which had recently returned from a choppy day at sea. The gathering crowd raced along in our direction, faster than we could move, passing us as if we were stalled.
We finally reached La Consigna where all the tables had been abandoned; its few customers, it appeared, had joined the surging throng and had been absorbed in it. At the taxi stand, though there were the usual three in the queue, none of the drivers, however, were to be seen. Had they too left their cars to race toward the horizon because it was clear that was where everyone was headed?
Seeing a rare parking spot along the seawall, Rona gestured to me to pull into it and was half out of the car before I could set the brake. She raced ahead and I feared I would not be able to keep up with her or find her in the swarming crowd once we all came to a halt on the long pier that cuts halfway out into the open harbor. But breathless I did locate her where she stood, facing the southern sky, illuminated by it, now surrounded by townspeople and the occasional tourist.
It was 6:15 and the sun in its mid-February transit was knifing toward the horizon that stretches fully across the open end of our almost circular port. Someone said this is the first day that it will touch and then cut into the water in the middle of that open gap in the harbor’s mouth.
It was evident that this was true; but what had drawn these hundred people, including now Rona and me, was not that yearly celestial phenomenon but the play of the sun’s dying light on the mountains, water, and especially the sky. The lurid pinks and reds and golds.
From this display, it would not be hard to imagine the ancients’ understanding of the world as made up of just four elements—earth, wind, water, and fire. And, from this, it would not be difficult to imagine why the first Paleolithic inhabitants of this island would wonder about the meaning of the daily event of the setting sun and fear each night that the light might not return.
We of course know better about all of these things—the elements; the movement of the earth, not certainly the sun; the refraction of light; and of course the certainty of mañana.
posted by Steven Zwerling at
1:16 PM
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