Over The Horizon

Chapter III

Pilar. I remember how my father used to take me sailing with him each Sunday, from morning until night, with the rain or the sun, happy or not, always dressed the same way, with the same clothes. I was so little it feels like another life, another heart beating, living. And here are the docks, the calm sea and immediately, magically, the sunset... unreachable. It's the sky who covers Pilar's horizon, my dad's boat, his favorite, she, her. His Pilar is like a woman with curves, a smell of roses and full of an unwanted charm, almost, seductive.
She, her. That's how you learn to adress a boat, her, she. Like a person, like a woman, exactly like dad used to explain it.

My mum used to say the same thing to my dad over and over again. She spoke about Pilar like a rival, like the other woman, like that boat was the mistress of her husband, its incarnation. She was always very serious when she admitted that, when her husband repeated it for her. My dad used to say he had two wives; my lovely mum and then, of course, his Pilar.

Again, dad and I used to go out with Pilar during Sunday mornings, from seven until ten. It was his escape and my unwanted privilege, a strange combination.
I never liked sailing until I lost the possibility to experience it fully.
One day, I remember it clearly, my father noticed the annoyed expression on my face. Me, my eyes without sunglasses and my head hit by the sun.
He asked if sailing meant something to my heart. I told him that it wasn't like that, sailing was his thing, his passion, not mine. We couldn't share the same likings, never. He said that one day, not too far from that moment, I would have loved it like it represented the only thing I had left. He marked that part in such a serious way that I almost laughed, impressed by his strong behavior. I said he couldn't know, no one could, not even me, not even God. He just hoped that one day, one night, I would have loved his Pilar like she was my only home.

The pub, me, the father of my childhood friend. After Gio's revelation I remain silent for a few minutes and then get up, slowly walking and reaching, trembling, the docks that in such a significant way sign the line between my father and me.
My name is being called but I can't hear it, I continue remembering my past and that boat.
Suddenly, I see Pilar in front of my eyes: that's it, I'm a child again, a lonely, orphan child looking at the picture of her forgotten parents.

I can't stop looking at the boat, it's crazy, it's hypnotic. I don't move, I only breathe unconsciously, almost sad about living. The name is still there, painted. Fortunately the new owner decided not to change it like we did in the past. I know Pilar's first name was Irene, a cute one too, but hidden in the background of an unknown history written by its first owner. The decision of my father was taken in the memory of his beloved author's fishing vessel, Ernest Hemingway. He had a boat too, his fifth wife, Pilar, the famous ship of the immortal man. (*1)

The clouds in the sky can't cover the sun that covers Pilar in a ray of splendid light. That sailboat is like a goddess, and it's the first time I notice its power.
I see a man over the docks, still locked on a bench at the end of the small square, observing the large sea and the masts in from of him. I don't have time to think about what his thoughts might include. I'm unable to focus: my existence is meaningless in that moment. I decide to ignore the evidence directed at my eyes, screaming and shouting, revealing itself.
I don't notice the point when, like a bird, the man gets up and leaves like a dark shadow in the background of what could have been seen as an ancient and mysterious picture covered by a golden frame.

I take the rope tiding my father's treasure and slowly pull it in my direction to make the stern approach. I take a step, I don't know how, but I do it. One way or another, I find myself stepping on that boat again after years and years of an unseen melancholy hiding in the dept of my uneasy life.
It feels almost impossible. Why do I act in such a spontaneous way? Where are all the things that should stop me, prevent myself from returning to emotions I promised not to feel ever again? They used to tell me I was too cautious, too scared, "troppo prudente". I can't believe how I forgot about myself in just a moment of melancholy and terrible dispersion.

I don't notice anything anymore. I can't hear the footsteps approaching or the air suddenly getting colder, nothing. It's a new feeling.
I would just think I was dead, ready to join the eternity next to my ancestors, ready to reach the beach of the Purgatory after descending from the Tiber, ready to start another path, to receive the Lord. (*2)
My body is soon transported by the little waves invading the water under Pilar. She starts culling me like my second mother, exactly like she used to do during our Sundays. It's the usual, it's fantastic.
She is so precious I want her to sink.

The footsteps I hear soon turn into a severe voice. I know something is being said, someone is talking to me, arguing, but I don't hear anything. Just when a warm hand touches my shoulder with a scary fury I come back to life. The words are clear, evident, the figure demands answers.
It's a man the one standing in front of me, so closely I could scream and be forgiven. He asks what am I doing on board, he is mad, very, he says it fast but I understand: he's the new owner of the boat, he's the man who risked his life with Ernesto, the second adventurer.

I don't notice it right away but he is young, so young that I find it abnormal. He's the person I saw in the background of my desperation, the man sitting on the bench across the square. It's so clear now that I feel immensely despicable. He was looking in my direction because he was worried about what has been his for at least five years, the Pilar who was never mine but his for a damned long time.
As I am too proud to admit with concrete words my mistake, I pretend to not understand his position with sarcasm. I ask who he is with a serious voice and without shame. He replies too fast, repeating himself, stating his position as captain of the boat I had stepped in with no permission.
I speak again and say: «I know that, you just told me. I meant to ask who you really are. You can't have just your sailboat, it would be impossible. You must have an identity like everyone else.»
He seems speechless for a minute, then he continues. He tells me he lives in town, in the yellow house near the last beach, far from the central church. I admit I understand. He asks, again, what I was doing on board. "There is no need to yell, I am not a pirate!" I reply. He looks at me with an expression that I suddenly feel tense too, invaded. «Please» he says. «I don't know who you are, we have never met, I never saw you before... Who are you?» He asks.
I don't tell him my name. «I am who I am not, remember it.» I am way too prideful to answer him.
He soon loses interest in me, he looks at the boat, analysing its surface. He notices some dirt in the white, then looks at my feet. «You are not wearing white shoes» he adds, annoyed. I roll my eyes, I say sailors are all the same while I cry inside, remembering my father in silence.
That stranger, he is exactly like my dad, It's dire. And It's because of this unexplainable resemblance that I decide to jump out of the sailing boat without saying a word, remembering reality.
The man keeps looking at me and repeats his question. He still looks angry, but not as much as when he first spoke. «Who are you?»
I hesitate, feeling like I am about to run. I look at his face with cold eyes and notice his youth. He should be about my age, a bit older maybe, me and that stranger, a fruit of the same decade. I say I am no one, that I don't exist, It's crazy but, he should consider me a tourist.
I feel nothing when I shamelessly tell him so.

***
NOTES 
1. According to Ernest Hemingway's four wives, the author decided to call Pilar his fifth. Again, the expression "immortal man" is used to indicate the noted writer and will be seen again as the story develops.
2. This is a clear reference to Dante's Purgatory, the Divine Comedy. Right after leaving their bodies, dead spirits who need to be purged of their sins gather in groups on the Tiber (the river that crosses the city of Rome) to wait for the angel that with his boat and wings will transport them to the second reign, the mountain known as Purgatory.