[Paddlewise] 50 Miglia

50 Miglia
by Barbara Kossy

I was wearing my “Elba Maremarathon 50 Miglia, the Italian Seakayak Event”
tee-shirt when some wag asked, What’s a miglia? Mary Ann Furda is
best-qualified to answer  since she paddled the whole darn 50 miglia around
the island of Elba, Italy while I paddled a respectable 20 miglia, a miglia
being an Italian nautical mile.

It was when we were on the ferry, with the smell of the Mediterranean in our
nostrils and the expanse of so blue sea filling our eyes when the hours and
miles of travel melted away. It was Mary Ann’s first kayaking visit to
Italy. For me it was a happy return to a my Italian sea kayaking buddies.
Leonardo, a large-eyed sea kayaker from Pisa, was accompanying us to Elba
for the Maremarathon, the annual 50 miglia race around the island. He
dropped us at the harbor side Marinella Hotel, in the storybook town of
Marciana Marina. We met Gaudenzio Coltelli, the race organizer and Harriet
Moss, my old friend from Sausalito for dinner. We set up some paddling dates
for the next week and talked about the race. In years past the race for the
tourist class (non serious competitors) had been spread over four days. This
year, to my surprise, it was reduced to just two days. About 25 miles a day
seemed a bit much and I was reluctant to commit. However Gaudenzio assured
us we could bail at anytime since we would be accompanied by a number of
motorized support boats. Well, OK I thought. Paddle awhile, then hop up on
the party boat. I hadn’t been training for a long-distance race, or for any
race, truth be told. I had to be realistic. Mary Ann seemed ready for
anything.

To qualify for the race each contestant had to either do a roll or other
self-rescue. Eagar to get it over with, I paddled out into the harbor and
looked back at the beach to be sure the judge was paying attention. Sitting
on the stone seawall were most of the other racers. All men, all Italian,
all bare-chested, and all looking my way. This just may be a redefinition of
“combat roll.” Using the Greenland paddle preferred by lots of Italian
paddlers I set up and capsized. I blew my first try, then nailed it on the
second. I didn’t want to make it look too easy.

Later, in the boat house, Mary Ann and I were cornered by Lucia, a young
writer for the local paper. She told us we were the only women to enter the
race and the only Americans. Could she interview us? Why would we want to do
such a thing, kayak around Elba? For fun and to see the island, of course.

The race started from the old Medici town of Portoferraio, and ran
counterclockwise  around the island. At the start boosters threw us 30
racers T-shirts from the Renaissance walls near the Pisan tower. A gunshot
and we were off, passing the pleasure boats still at anchor. Conditions were
mild. Our group of “tourists” was convivial. We waited for each other at the
buoys, and before points. We stopped for lunch and shared cookies and
treats. The day wore on. The hours floated by, point by point, beach by
beach, rock by rock. I was getting tired. It was especially hard to move
again after lunch. Rounding the point at Pomonte we were faced with the
force of a formidable sirocco, the wind from the south. I pulled on, wanting
very badly to make the five or so miles remaining to camp. I wanted to go
on, but my wrist didn’t. It screamed for mercy so I hailed the support boat.
The wind had rustled up some chop so it took a bit of fussing to get me and
my kayak up on the 25 ft motor boat. I sat on the back deck. I didn’t have
to move, and yet the boat was moving. My companions were three women from
north of Turin, intent on absorbing as much sun as possible, and our
captain, a retired banker, and his wife. They offered me water, sandwiches,
and snacks. The wind did not diminish and I was glad to be onboard.

The next day the sirocco blew on and a few of the Italians, including
Leonardo, decided not to continue. Mary Ann, stout of heart, launched with
the boldest. I shipped on the race director’s boat with Gaudenzio and
Harriet. We motored ahead to place some of the buoys. Without the benefit of
a GPS Gaudenzio and the captain sank a chain to the bottom of the
Mediterranean, and estimated our distance from a landmark, and argued a bit
about it, and then anchored the buoy. Gaudenzio kept in touch with the
support boats using a cell phone. When his battery failed, he borrowed Lucia
’s cell phone. We motored back, and kept pace with the race leaders. Strong
paddlers, they skimmed through the chop and wind. We motored on to the
protected side of Isola d’ Topi, the island of mice. Here we anchored out,
stripped to our bathing suits and dove in. The water was invigorating, cool,
and lively. I was grateful I wasn’t paddling. Harriet and I were catching up
on months of news, and anyway, I hate suffering.  We next anchored at the
finish, cheering on the fastest. Bravo! Bravo!

A long while later we cheered as Mary Ann and a small group of “tourists”
paddled to the beach. Piero the alpinist, Ugo the expert in animal
husbandry, and Brava for Mary Ann. She paddled the whole thing. We all
shared hugs and kisses.

Paddlers, captains, and crews all celebrated with a spaghettatta, the
Italian equivalent of a barbeque, except with pasta. We had melon and
prosciutto, (the best I’d ever tasted) two types of pasta, wine, cakes,
liqueur, speeches and awards. Ceremonies were interrupted for the Siena
Palio. On TV we watched, rapt, a three-minute horse race around a tiny
plaza, far away, as Lucia, the newspaper reporter, screamed passionately for
her home quarter. In three minutes it was over and Mary Ann and I accepted
our shining little plaques-the only Americans and the only women.

For more on Sea Kayak Italy see http://www.seakayakitaly.com


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Barbara Kossy
Sea Kayak Italy
P.O. Box 434
Moss Beach, CA 94038
650-728-8720
fax: 650-728-8753
bkossy_at_igc.org
www.seakayakitaly.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


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