We're in Spain. Torrevieja, to be exact: a small resort town on the East coast. We're on a boat. Gatablanca, to be exact: a beautiful white catamaran with a blue stripe down the side. And we're preparing for a voyage. A relatively short voyage, but a voyage none the less.
The boat was our dad's. He sailed her down here about 20 years ago. When he couldn't be on his boat he'd like to be near the sea. I know this because when I'd visit him in England, we'd often drive to the waters edge and walk for hours. He had a girlfriend once who convinced him to rent an apartment with her here in Spain. He'd wake up in the morning and march stubbornly right back to the marina, where he'd sit on the boat eating oranges and polishing things until it was time to go home. She, for the record, was fired.
And then he died. It wasn't sudden like an accident. It was sudden like a cancer diagnosis that shouldn't go from start to finish in a couple of months. You shouldn't have a phonecall with somebody one day, during which you refuse to talk about all the stuff that was unsaid and unsorted between you because you've still got time, and then a week later get a phonecall about them having slipped into a coma. It's not fair or right. I am still angry at the universe for this.
After he died, Alex and I decided to keep his boat.
We’re here for 3 weeks. To scrub, sand, clean, stitch and polish. But also to go to some of the places we used to visit together. To have croissants and cafe con leche for breakfast, and bocarones a la plancha for dinner. To drink sangria while watching the sun go down from little anchorages. And to sail.
Last night we went to a little restaurant where I had a drink called tinto de verano. Which is basically sangria for folks who don't drink too much, ie. me. It's super easy. And if you want to pretend you're in Spain right now all you need to do is the following:
Tinto de verano
1 tb sugar
1/2 bottle red wine
1/2 bottle soda water
Chop the orange up into 8 pieces, same with the lemon. Put them in a jug with the sugar and mash it up a bit. Add the ice, pour in the wine and soda and stir. To be drunk somewhere warm, in the haze of the early evening when it's still light out. Preferably with the smell of meat grilling somewhere and people speaking Spanish in the background. But seriously, a front stoop would work.
This afternoon we set sail for Tabarca Island, where we'll drop anchor and snorkle for a few hours. It's a marine reserve, with lots of little pretty fish, and an old Moorish castle sitting on a cliff. Jamie keeps jumping up and down going "PIRATE ISLAND!". I have been to the market to stock up on the freshest juiciest figs and green plums that explode in your mouth in little bursts of flavour. And bread. And cheese. And jamon Iberico that seems to be what prosciutto always wanted to be but could never quite achieve.
After a friend lost her father recently I found myself writing her a letter telling her a few things: That it doesn't get better. That you'll miss him forever. And that the pain feels like a never-ending hole in your heart that you forget about sometimes and then remember. But also that every now and then you'll find yourself doing something that they would do, or making a face that they would make, and you'll smile because even though people do die, parts of them carry on. It's the beauty of human genetics. And being here, surrounded by my dad and the things that made him happy, stumbling upon little things that he left lying around (like entries in the ship log that say "sailed to Moraira to find WiFi signal", with my brother who shares the same genes, and my husband who shares our love of the sea, and an old high school friend of Alex’s, I feel more at peace than I have over the last 6 years since he died.
So here we are, aboard the good ship Gatablanca. I'll write as often as I can, with tales of sea adventures and delicious things that I find along the way. And in the meantime, try a glass of tinto de verano.