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Part 3: Stromboli rises from the sea in a perfect black cone, as clear and unambiguous
as a child’s drawing.
By Cynthia Barnes — Spring
2005
Bidding the kitties ciao,
I return to Tooling Around III for
a run up the coast to Pollara, where gin-clear water sparkles in an azure
cove. This is the place to snorkel, and it’s popular with scuba divers.
Late in the season the water is especially brisk, but it’s a refreshing
break from sun- and snack-induced sleepiness.
And then I swim into my first jellyfish. “Meduse,”
explains Filippo, whose dinghy I’ve hired for the day. (The Aicon
is brand-new, tender still to come.) There are hundreds of jellyfish,
a flotilla, tiny but painful. Filippo tells me meduse are a sign of unpolluted
water, so that’s something, at least. Perhaps a snooze on the sundeck
is a good idea, after all.
Roman Candle of the Sea
Stromboli rises from the sea in a perfect black cone, as clear and unambiguous
as a child’s drawing. The whole archipelago is volcanic, but Stromboli
is always active, its constant eruptions earning it the nickname “Lighthouse
of the Mediterranean.” We come in just in time for a spectacular
sunset, the better to see the volcano’s orange-red fireworks. A silver
moon crests over the peak. Color me impressed.
This island boasts Ginostra, the tiniest natural harbor
in the world, big enough for just one boat. We tie up at San Vincenzo.
The port is lively, with locals and a few weary backpackers waiting for
the ferry. The sugar-cube houses reflect the area’s Greek heritage
and provide superior resistance to trembles and tremors in this earthquake-prone
land. The white structures provide a nice contrast to the four miles of
powdery black beaches. Since the majority of spiagge in Italy are mostly
rock—take along sea sandals—the soft sands are a welcome diversion.
Delicious dinner done, well past midnight, I stroll
the starlit paths, pondering my few remaining days on the islands. I haven’t
hiked to the summit of smoky Stromboli or more than scratched the surface
of picturesque Panarea. And what about remote but lovely Filicudi?
I listen to the waves, Homer’s “wine dark
sea” slapping gently against the shore, and realize that Ulysses’
stay here was too long. Mine, it seems, will never be long enough.
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