Author: Valentina Morelli
Lanzarote is an island in the Canary Islands. It owes its name to a Genoese navigator, Lanzerotto Malocello, who in the 14th century planted his beautiful red-and-blue flag there and declared the island his (I'm fictionalizing, but not too much).
Lanzarote is politically Spain, geographically Africa: placed in the Atlantic Ocean a stone's throw from the Sahara, red and black that when you land you wonder if you haven't got on by mistake
a spaceship and you're landing on Mars, it rips your heart out as soon as you set foot on land and keeps it. Forever. The first time I went there I hadn't yet discovered the magic of
underwater and I enjoyed the surface: the magnificent beaches (Papagayo, a heart attack, Famara, a playground for surfers and those who refuse to grow up and find the waves irresistible, black and white Orzola that seems fake), the Isla Graciosa (you can only get around on foot or by bike: no cars, it's enchanting), the
Timanfaya National Park (want an idea of hell?), the dwarf vineyards of La Geria, the works of Manrique (genius), the exquisite food, the perfect climate.
Once in Genoa (where I live), it wasn't long before I felt the urge to return. And besides, my heart was still there, so what choice did I have?
In the meantime, diving had become an illness.
“What are you doing this summer?”
“I’m going to Lanzarote.”
“So no diving.”
“I actually thought so.”
“In the Canary Islands? No, the water is freezing, dark, you know, the ocean, and there isn't even
the coral reef. Forget it, it's not worth it. You can try the
surfing.”
My biggest flaw is stubbornness. If I decide I have to do something, I do it, and even if Poseidon tells me it's a bad idea, I don't care: what do I have to put my nose in, me, in the...
Things. Making mistakes on my own, rather than guessing with guidance from others. So, ignoring the skeptical sneers of my friends, I packed my suitcase with gear, leaving very little room for clothes and bathing suits. "Oh, well," I said to myself. "There's always the nude beach."
Before leaving, I contacted Manta Diving. They were kind and professional, and I was already smiling (despite the skeptics).
I'm finally there. The dinghy dances the cha-cha (you know, the ocean), and the whole way I curse my stubborn head and tell myself that, if I'd listened to my friends, I'd now be sprawled on the golden sands of Papagayo, having the sea lick my feet.
We dock, I get ready as fast as Flash to avoid vomiting on myself, I throw myself down.
They turned off the water.
They took it down, and I'm flying a meter above the ground on a black-and-white alien planet. Lava sculptures, baroque arches, plastic spirals, rococo monsters.
Dozens of garden eels emerge questioningly from holes in the seabed (sentinels?), while the soles, with their funny little turret-like eyes, study my every move; the lizardfish, with their mouths crowded with teeth, seem asleep, but I, just to be safe, flit away.
Beside me, a silver ribbon: barracudas, hundreds of them, large, medium, small, splendid!
Above me, swarms of black and white striped bass, dense schools of sardines, parrotfish, and a small school of zebra sea bream waddling along: one stroke to the right, one to the left. Drunk?
An angel shark shakes off the white sand and walks away, perhaps annoyed by the off-key calls of drunken sea breams.
Stopping among black lava arches, I observe a trio of hideous spider crabs sparring, and a vain cuttlefish comes to strut before my eyes in her very chic zebra-print dress. I encounter a pejepeine and a gallinita, fall in love with a little seahorse the size of a penny, and, damn it, it's time to go back up.
“We haven't met Felix.”
“Felix?”
“The king of the area. A grouper, it's bigger than you. He lives here, but today, as far as I know,
Apparently, he didn't want to be seen. Too bad."
“Too bad, yes. It means I'll have to go back.”
I smile, and as the rolling of the dinghy lulls me and the sun dries my skin, I bless my calf's head.
That sometimes it's better not to trust.
Article published on
ScubaZone n.14
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