Fisherman’s Night
Posted on December 13, 2007
Ribarska Noć (Fisherman’s Night) happens in many towns and villages on the Dalmatian coast of Croatia. It’s basically a village block party with food, music, games and fun for all. Back in early August, the village of Marina had its Fisherman’s Night. As the town was gearing up for the party in the early evening, a massive rainbow over the bay seemed to signal the beginning of the festivities.
And begin they did. There were a couple of bands that night.
There was a tug of war between the firemen of Marina and a team from Rogoznica, a town about twenty miles north.
Gule signed himself, Dado and me on as the local team in the swimming race across the harbor. The winners would receive a whole prosciutto, and so I was especially motivated to win. We were slated, however, to race against a team of Belgians who appeared to be far less drunk than we. And, one of the Belgians was apparently a triathlete. We had about an hour to sharpen ourselves up before the race. We drank more wine.
But Gule had a plan.
It is customary in Marina, actually, for the local team to cheat. Gule instructed Dado and I to swim behind two of the Belgians, grab their legs and prevent them from advancing in the water. I didn’t like this. I told Gule that if we were going to win, we were going to win fairly and squarely. My sincere protest elicited a refrain of laughter not only from Gule and Dado, but also from the surrounding festival-goers. Playing fair, after all, is somewhat un-Croatian in certain instances, especially when copious amounts of local wine are involved.
When it came time for the race, the teams and a crowd of spectators convened on the dock. It all happened quite quickly. Just as I’d stripped down to my underpanties, the whistle blew and we were in the water. The Belgians were instantly across the harbor and on their way back. I was halfway across when I realized that I was the only member of my team in the water, and that trying to win at that point was sheer folly. I began paddling back. Gule’s pants had been around his ankles when the whistle blew, and so he didn’t even bother to dive in. I climbed out of the water and saw Dado ambling up to the dock with a towel on his shoulders. He wasn’t even there when the race started. Gule loudly protested the outcome, saying that the Belgians had bribed the referee to blow the whistle before he could get undressed. I stood there, wet and cold. A few of the local women congratulated me on my efforts and offered me their daughters’ hands in marriage before I could get my clothes back on (OK, not completely true. They did introduce me to a few of the local girls as I was dressing, and it felt like I was being auctioned off).
We were wined-up losers, but we laughed and basked in the glory of it. It was a perfect night in Marina, and I wanted it to never end. I wasn’t the only one. These young men and women were huddled together on the beach, singing songs at around two in the morning.
After the festivities we headed over to our friend Robert’s tavern, Konoba Marina, for a little more wine and decompression. The traditional Dalmatian band that had played earlier that night was also there for a late meal, wine and some informal singing and playing for themselves and the other patrons. Unfortunately, I was partying without the arsenal of media equipment that I typically carry with me and couldn’t make a good recording of the music, but I did manage to capture some of the singing at the konoba with my Canon Powershot
» Filed Under Places, croatia, europe, life, music
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