By Morè Marianna
We reach Punta Planka at the end of a tortuous road that climbs on the hills like an asphalt snake. The route continues on a gravel path among old olive trees, low bushes and dry stone fences. We soon notice the promontory: a white strip of land spread on a soft, cobalt blue surface. A vision that embraces the horizon, rendered even more pleasant by the small church of Sveti Ivan, high on the cliff.
The place has been considered a meteorological wonder from ancient times. Located on the Dalmatian peninsula of Razanj, Punta Planka geographically and climatically divides the region, being at he crossroads of cyclones and anticyclones coming from north and south. Here the biggest waves of the Adriatic sea hurl aggressively and turbulence affects atmospheric and sailing conditions.
These features were known to the Greeks, who in the VI century b. C. named the promontory after the hero Diomede. Here, by tradition, part of the myth of the Argonauts took place; here the historian Timeo described the natural anomalies of the area in one of the most ancient reports of meteorological events in Europe. Not surprisingly the little, white church of Sveti Ivan, in its rural simplicity, is dedicated to Saint John, the patron saint of sailors.
Bejond the building, a wide cliff, on which nature seems to have inflicted from time immemorial hard damages, rolls towards the sea. The rocks are stratified, pressed, broken, wrinkled, pushed one against the other under the action of godlike forces.
Facing the cliff, a tiny island surmounted by a green lighthouse sends a warning, announcing that the seabed of Punta Planka is equally threatening. Behind the lighthouse, a hectic bustle crosses the waves: turistic boats shuttle to and from the islands, sailing crafts draw a pointy panorama and some motorboat ruffles the water with its screw. The passangers of those vessels gaze at us, lone occupants of that rough and primordial place where, against all logic, we decided to plant our beach umbrella.
The sea remains calm the whole day, leaving us wandering how Diomede’s Cape could have gained such a bad fame. In the afternoon however, the environment undergoes a sudden change.
A wind we hadn’t noticed before begins blowing more intensely, stirring and rippling the sea. The top of the waves brakes into thousands white crests, from the dark blue of the open sea to the transparent acquamarine closer to shore. There are no turistic boats anymore in sight. Now the sea is a restless animal, that lights blinding sparks in every direction. The breeze becomes whimsical: it infuriates for a trifle. I stand with my shoulders against the wind, my hair struggling in the opposite direction.
Not unlike me, a seagull in the sky tries to face the gale, but it finds itself sliding aside, loosing its course. I can feel the violent gusts, sometimes with a constant and dark rumble, sometimes with snaps. The waves foam among the cliffs, they filter in the ravines, they are sucked in a breach and then pushed again outside of it. They swamp the rocks and clash over a boulder leaving it black, shining and dripping.
In the cracks among the rocks, tiny fishes and crustaceans are visible for just a moment: afterwards they are dragged away by the tide, or remain hidden in the foam. A mist hovers, dampens our faces, our arms, our heads. The shadow of another seagull appears, ruffled and uneven, on the bends of the cliff. Then, a violet sunset covers the bay.
The base of the lighthouse is now submerged, and a white foam remains aboundand on the ground. It doesn’t dissolve immediately, and it is soon joined by other agglomerates that are already flying in the wind, so thick that they could even be grasped with a hand.
Punta Planka has just cast its spell: in that whirl you feel an Argonaut on a vessel, Ulisses tied to the mast. You are inebriated by courage and physical strenght, you feel the need to widen your arms and even incite your companions to the next, epic adventure.
The sun is cooled by the steel blade of the horizon. The sailing boats now broach: they pitch, their hulls hidden by the waves, first at the bow, then at the stern. Half of their shapes disappear and then resurface in a cloud of whiteness. The motorboats accelerate to escape from the currents, then change direction to cut the waves. Some passengers from the ships throw anxious glances to Saint John’s church. Or, maybe, it’s just an impression.
What is certain is that Punta Planka reveals its ancestral fascination, scattering it to the four winds. And the stories of threatening storms, of thousands sinkings and of brave sailors resound once again in the fury of the waves.
Marianna Morè is a freeelancer writer and lives in Italy. She is a windsurfer, a scuba diver, an avid reader and a rather imaginative woman. Her stories have been published by SEVENSEAS Media, Bolina, Gonomad.com and a local newspaper.
Follow her blog at: https://shapeofclouds.wordpress.com/