Seaplanes

I do not have a bucket list. That's not because I've done everything I would like to do -- that would be a long list for sure -- but really more of a fear of regrets. I do not want to be spending my final moments surrounded by family and friends, the hot oil lady done for the day, Mick Jagger wailing "Shine a Light" on the stereo, thinking "Damn, I never jumped out of an airplane" (n.b. I never jumped out of an airplane.)

Another problem with bucket lists is that I would add things faster than I could cross them off. For instance, if I had a bucket list, I would have just added "Ride in a seaplane." For the last few days, I've been watching seaplanes from the balcony of our short-term rental in Split, Croatia, a nice little city on the Dalmatian coast across the Adriatic from Italy. I had suggested we come to Croatia for a quick week away because I didn't feel like doing much but sitting, drinking coffee, and watching the water, the Mediterranean is the ideal place to do that, and Croatia is one of the few places in the Mediterranean region this summer where there are not -- and as far as I can tell, not likely to be -- headlines about things blowing up. Of course it's not the only safe -- as far as I can tell -- vacation destination in the region, but it is reasonably priced, relatively un-touristed, and has those other fabulous Mediterranean qualities: olive trees, arid breezes, Roman ruins, and in the corner market across from the cafe where the old guys are watching soccer, a palatable bottle of wine next to the Nutella.

Split also has ferries, and I do love ferries. Sally and I inagurated our Mediterranean ferry travels 25 years ago with an overnight from Brindisi, Italy, to Patras, Greece -- overnight because we were traveling cheap and wanted to save a night of accommodations. However, we sprung for interior seats, they smelled moldy, and I concluded that if you're traveling rough, it's best to sleep free on deck.

It's also best to know where you're going. Two weeks later we were on a ferry from Rhodes, Greece, to Haifa, Israel, and stopped for a day of touring in Limassol. That was great -- it's an interesting port to explore -- but as we wandered around, we didn't actually know what country we were in. There had been some sort of immigration procedure, but very cursory, and it was a little embarrassing to ask. We didn't recognize the flag, didn't recognize the currency, and couldn't tell any difference in the language. Yes, the possibilities are limited in the eastern Mediterranean, and we were being a little dumb about it. But we did eventually figure it out. (Cyprus). And we had a fine time doing so.

During a summer excursion to Jerusalem a few years later, when I was enjoying an academic schedule and Sally was sadly stuck at home working, I wanted to make a side trip to Beirut. Beirut is an easy drive from Jerusalem, except for, well, someday. At the time there was at least a relatively easy ferry connection. I took an overnight from Haifa, sleeping on deck with some reading for school and a bottle of well-intentioned Israeli wine.  I set the reading aside after dark to take in the stars and salt air -- and anyway, who can read by those little deck lights -- and found that the Israeli wine does eventually grow on you. In the morning we arrived at Limassol -- which is in Cyprus -- and I took a taxi across the southern coast of the island to Larnaka, where I caught a hovercraft to Beirut. Beirut had its problems then, somewhat less so now, but it has always been beautiful in the right light, none better than an approach from the water, skyline in the sun, mountains on the horizon.

So we always look for an excuse to find ferries, and in Split we found not only an ambitious ferry schedule to nearby islands and on to Italy, but also an apartment above the port where we could watch them all come and go.  One afternoon we took a trip across a short channel to the village of Supetar -- we can see the red roofs from our apartment -- and another day a day-trip to the once-beseiged, ever-touristed, Medieval walled city of Dubrovnik. En route to Dubrovnik we made quick stops in Brac, Hvar, Mljet, and some other captivating little port I've never heard of and can't pronounce. (While it's good to know what country you're in, inadvertently finding yourself in a place you've never heard of and can't pronounce is a true vacation success.)

The ferries well met our high expectations, but we did not expect the seaplanes. I associated such things with Alaska, or Indiana Jones, or perhaps Catalina Island, but I did not expect to see one buzzing through the harbor amid the big ferries, little cabin cruisers and sailboats beneath our balcony. Compared to a sailboat, I suppose it looked a little ungainly -- two big spinning props, two floats churning up a lot of wake -- and it is ironic that the boats appear more aerodynamic than the planes. But hey, I will attest, they fly. They take off and whirl away while the ferries I love are still trying to squeeze in another Toyota. I had assumed the first plane was an anomaly, property of some Russian oligarch with more of a sense of style than most, but then I saw one in the air, and then another about to land. It seems there is regularly scheduled seaplane service up and down the Dalmatian coast.

We did look into the scheduled service, but it didn't match our travel plans, and anyway I think it's good to leave a few mysteries in life outstanding, and to not worry too much about things undone. If required to have a bucket list, mine would have only a phrase or two.  It would have something to do with love and faith and the goodness of humanity, but honestly I don't have the words for it. Getting that one right is just the kind of thing that's worth pondering as I sit watching the seaplanes pull away from the blue-green water and wobble their way into the sky.