Friday, January 4, 2013

Two Lagoons, This Afternoon


I went out rowing a mascareta this afternoon by myself with a single oar, in the open expanse of shallow water north of the Celestia vaporetto stop, between the cemetery island of San Michele and the large barena which, if you're on one of the giro città vaporetto lines, lies closest to you around the Bacini stop. Some days, when the tide is high, this barena--as barene are, by definition, prone to do--disappears almost completely beneath the water. Other days, like today, when it seems like an island all its own, one wonders why the ancient Venetians never chose to build it up and inhabit it.

On the last afternoon of 2012, when I was rowing in the same area, the water was so shallow as to force me to alter both my grip on the remo, or oar, and my rowing motion. It was less than a foot deep, and as I rowed I kept expecting it to deepen at some point, but it didn't. There was not another person visible on the lagoon--no work boats, no motor boats--just the vaporetti running along the north side of the city in the distance, and at one point I wondered how I'd get back to my remiera, or rowing club, if I made the mistake of leaning too heavily and too deeply into a stroke and snapped my oar off on the shallow bottom. I had no cell phone, and perhaps I was far enough out in the middle of the lagoon that no one on a passing vaporetto would notice me stranded out there, no matter how I waved my arms.

As I'm sometimes prone to anxiety, this is the kind of thing I like to worry myself with.

Of course, the simple fact was that, shallow as the water was, I could probably just have walked--or slogged--back to the remiera. At least until I reached the deep water of the Canale delle Fondamente Nove that runs right past it.

But perhaps it was somehow perversely more fun to imagine a greater danger. It elevated my heart rate, which is what a workout is supposed to do, right?

In any case, this afternoon, on my first row of this new year, I noticed something I was struck by on that last row of 2012: how one's row out in the direction of Burano almost seems to be done on an entirely different lagoon than one's row back in. The whole world, as you can see in the photo at top, is a symphony of blue as you make your way north at about 4:00 in the afternoon on a day like today.

But when you turn your boat around, back toward the city, it's not just that your view changes, but the whole color scheme as well. The peaceful blue haze and sheen of the trip outwards is replaced not just by the drama of the setting sun, but by a lagoon of oranges and blacks. So that standing in your boat, drifting in the same spot, you can easily imagine yourself in two different lagoons, so different is the vista when you look to the north from when you look to the south.

At the moment I'm afraid I can think of no conclusion to draw from this experience--and it's gotten too late in the evening for me to have any hope of finding one tonight--except, perhaps, that out in the lagoon, shallow though it may be, domesticated though it may be, the world seems almost magically to multiply.


6 comments:

  1. No conclusion is necessary, it is treat enough to enjoy your beautiful post just as it is!

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    1. You are far too kind, Susie! Not that I'm complaining about that, actually...

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  2. Lovely post. I'm so jealous, not only of your living in Venice but also of you being able to row by yourself and be alone in the lagoon.

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    1. Thank you, Andrew. It's something I never thought of doing, not even after we moved here. I didn't even know learning to row was really an option or that such clubs existed--and cost only 10 euro per month, in the case of my remiera. Only when a Venetian friend mentioned that she was going to go rowing, and that I could come along as a guest, did I immediately jump at the chance, still not believing I would actually do much rowing. And, really, I still can't quite believe I'm allowed to take a boat out by myself, even as I'm doing it. I always expect--or fear--that the leaders of the remiera will them to come to their senses.

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  3. It seems you've come along way with your rowing skills! Well done.

    How often do you get to practice?

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    1. I used to go once a week last winter & spring, with a group, but it would take so many hours to get the boat out and everything else that by early summer I was going out less often. But two things happened: I renewed my membership and was given my own key to the club by the president, and in late July at the bank, my teller, who is also a competitive rower at our remiera, suggested in passing that I really should go and take a boat out by myself, as it was a quiet time for rowing, many people were away, everything was calm. So I did, and ever since I've tried to go out a couple of times per week or more if I can make it--at least for a short outing.

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