2021. When sailing is the small meaning of life

Welcome to the special section “GdV 5th Years.” We are introducing you, day by day, An article from the archives of the Journal of Sailing, starting in 1975. A word of advice, get in the habit of starting your day with the most exciting sailing stories-it will be like being on a boat even if you are ashore.

What we are looking for

Taken from the 2021 Journal of Sailing, Year 47, No. 01, February, pp. 58-61.

A bad, very bad storm aboard a wooden boat is the cue for a beautiful sea story described by writer Piero Grossi. A reflection on life, on what we look for accomplice to the smell of coppale that mixed with salt. The tree had fallen. A masterful tale.

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Michele Molino, nautical engineer with the sea in his vein

We publish, exclusively for you, a short story by a great writer and sailor, Pietro Grossi. “What We Seek” is set right after a bad, bad storm. Turn the page to immerse yourself in the reading, but first we give you a piece of advice: read it slowly and carefully. Only then can you grasp the implied details and fully enjoy this beautiful sea story.

I sat huddled on the deck and felt the teak scratch my skin. A sweatshirt kept me warm, I unwrapped and cupped the deckhouse of the Rizla. Marco and the German were trying to open the bent jaws of the shaft. Of what was left of the tree. A decomposed half-boat log, like the broken seagull bone. They would force the bolts and stop and watch and curse. The sweet smell of cupping mingled with salt and the distant smell of fish. I lifted it with the brush and recirculated it in the jar; it was soft and safe. I peeled off a piece of iron stuck in the sickle cell, next to a broken candlestick. The old man put one foot on the catwalk, waited a second and climbed up. It was something he never did. Wait, I say, climb carefully. He usually did it in a hurry, without stopping. His hair was disheveled and he looked older with those shorts and those three wrinkles across his forehead. He held a brown paper bag to his chest with his hand. They were strong, gentle hands, his. Hands you could trust. He placed one foot in the cockpit and disappeared below deck. Marco kicked the base of the tree and put his hands on his hips, his face contracted. He raised his closed eyes to the sky. He was a good helmsman, Marco. He had a bandana on his head, wearing a pair of cut-off jeans and a pierced T-shirt. The German was still fiddling with a bolt. The old man came back out with a plastic jar in his hand and a teaspoon. He sat down on the deckhouse, not far from me, with his feet on the deck.
– Watch out it’s cool there. He looked down and went back to staring at the pot.
– What are you eating? – I asked.
– A yogurt.
– Since when have you been eating yogurt?
– Since this morning.
– Is it good?
– I hope. Tastes healthy. Silence.
– Do you like Ovni? – He asked with yogurt in his mouth. I looked next door.
– They are ugly, but solid – I said.
– They have a keel that can be lowered.
– Yes, I know, they are smart. Silence.
– Wood is nicer.
– Mah. It seemed silly, all of a sudden, that word: beautiful. The old man turned his head toward Marco and the German wrestling with the tree butt. He took a spoonful of yogurt.
– How is the work going? – he asked.
– Not bad. Quietly.
– Need a hand?
– I don’t. And they, I think, are best left alone.
– I think so, too. Where are the others?
– On the ground somewhere. They said they wanted to take a tour.
– How are they?
– So – I said. The old man looked up at the Ovni’s halyards pealing.
– Do you know that the German left his wife to come with us? – he said.
– When he comes back to Munich he will find her again.
– We must see if she finds him again. I paused for a moment and bit off a piece of nail with my teeth.
– Great piece of daughter – he said.

– Yeah, blue eyes and round ass. We smiled. The old man took a spoonful of yogurt.
– There ‘ s plenty in that jar, – I said.
– I ‘ ll make it last. He scraped the rim a little and took another spoonful. I meanwhile was trying to get rid of the cup stuck to my finger.
– Do you think we should have gone out? Goodness, I thought.
– We were in a hurry.
– I know, – he said, – but maybe we shouldn’t have gone out. I took the rag and ran it over my hands.
– He was a good guy – he said.
– Yes, he was a good guy. It was a bad storm.
– I don’t know, maybe we shouldn’t have gone out. He kept scraping the edges of the jar.
– I think these are things you don’t decide. I said. Silence.
– Maybe. The old man scraped again and took the last spoonful. He observed the empty jar, stood up and walked to the ladder. Just before going down he stopped, made as if to say something, then reconsidered and disappeared below deck. I bamboozled over the space where he had stopped, then dipped the brush into the jar. I rubbed it against the edges to smooth out the excess and resumed spreading the cup. It wasn’t long now to finish.

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1985. The sails of the future are being born. The GdV is in, with Lowell North

By Pietro Grossi. Illustration by Luca Tagliafico

• Check out all the articles from the GdV archive in this section