I’m writing from the Odiel, sitting on the east pier with my legs dangling. I’m sipping a beer labeled “SIN” (I’ve given up wine for now, and nobody gets it—least of all me) while I watch the sky dotted with clouds and little birds gliding over the estuary. The sun’s disk, plump as a cow, seeks pasture on the horizon above the marshes and beaches. It resembles the halo of a saint bathed in gold leaf. I take a sip, and it occurs to me that I’m just a stone’s throw from the monastery of La Rábida. It pleases me to know that I’m looking at the same sun that Columbus saw as he set sail. The same sun—who would have thought—only a little older. Motorboats and small sailboats come and go, limping along the Odiel.
The scene is a beautiful, traditional tableau, and it’s all thanks to the sea. That sea that has been a part of me since I was a child, when I learned the square knot and the bowline, and capsized a small fishing boat with its entire crew on board. I remember the day I spotted a giant conger eel in the bay. On another occasion, I saw a windsurfer come ashore with bleeding fingers and a raw, open wound on his arm. I learned that the tides can carry you far from your home and your friends. The sea continually nourishes my dreams and longings. The sea wakes me, propels me, and lulls me to a peaceful sleep. But I was on the Odiel, in that scene of local life, lost in thought.
Sometimes I feel that as the years go by, I’m losing my drive, losing my sense of the epic. Because there’s a sailor’s logic that’s seasoned with a dash of the epic. Sailing is always glorious. And when the sea is far away, or the days corner me without letting me taste it, I feel that sense of the epic fading away. And then existence becomes mundane, ordinary. An insult. And I truly regret it, sincerely. Sailing is necessary. Pompey already said so. Now, the red sun of the Odiel finally plunges into that place that doesn’t exist, where all those paths that lead us nowhere intersect.
I down my beer in one gulp and face the facts: the epic tale of the sailor holds the delicious miracle of life. My legs are still dangling. I’ll go back to wine.
@quicotaronji is a journalist and sailor.
This article is featured in Issue 5 of Nautik Magazine, which you can find at newsstands or in our store