When I was a child, I really loved the sea. Every July 1st, I would go back to Rimini, first in a red Jetta and later in a gray Passat, to the Leopardi hotel. There, I would meet Alessandro and Monia and enjoy a delicious cream-filled bombolone with sugar at beach bar number 51. The sweet treat would stick to my fingers while I danced to the music from the pastel-colored jukebox. On July 15th, I'd head to Marina di Grosseto with Grandma at Pensione Eldorado. We spent time on the outdoor terrace, where Grandma taught me card games along with her summer friends, Delfina and Italia.
It was there that I realized one of my addictions, along with chocolate and sports.
I figured out, up there, in winter, in that cold room in the village of Triantaros with a view of the sea, which, in turn, gazed at the often troubled sky, that I felt a bit sad. I liked it because it encouraged me to look inside myself first and then outward, at the sea. This fueled my feeling of not having much control over it and, therefore, a deep respect. I started to understand, even if not logically, why people who love
the sea never want to live far from it. It's like a magnet that can be both unpredictable and kind, generating both joy and pain. The sea is like an 'artist,' and we are all attracted to such personalities. It's a powerful force that enjoys organizing diverse gatherings but that you should leave alone when it's not
in the mood. It's a thinker, capable of practicing a kind of hypnosis.
It was in Tinos that I started to understand why older people spend hours sitting on benches, looking at the sea. It bounces back your thoughts, creating a conversation that is not silent. I found a 'tool' there that made me hooked on the rippling, slightly agitated sea - the surfboard, a small boat that you struggle with, lose, sink, but if you steer it right, it becomes a ride to pure joy. Surfing taught me to understand
the sea without even talking to it, to watch it quietly, to respect it completely, and to feel its mysterious energies that can enhance any mood.
A risky tool? No, a reflection of reality.
Thanks to surfing, I learned to deal with the fear of rough seas, which I can't do without, and to be patient. My patience has happily lasted for six years, during which I learned to stay on the board if the
waves are small, otherwise not, but I don't give up. I'm scared, but I don't give up. Because being there with the sea is more important than always 'winning' on a wave.
Even though winning makes you feel like a goddess. And you wish you could slide on that wave to Morocco, to India, to the North Pole. You wish it never ends. That constant desire, that hope that you know will never come true, keeps the fire alive that not even water can put out. Thanks to this love, not the Greek kind, thankfully that's over, twice a year, I go on a 'pilgrimage' to Cantabria, where it always
rains, and the ocean can really be scary. Everything is so vast that when you arrive there, face to face with it, you can only cry, soak in all those realizations that you don't want to talk about and then let
them out, transformed and salty. Like the sea itself. The sea tells you things that others don't. That's why everything related to it is good. Because, in different ways, it does good. In case you're wondering, no, I don' live by the sea because I need to desire it to love it so much.
Lucia Del Pasqua