The second week of October 2008 offered definitive proof that humans are stark mad and beyond any hope of improvement: one is the fact that the creative finance sect had so many adoring adepts; the second is the success of the 40th edition of the Barcolana race in Trieste. While stock markets were plummeting, a fleet of 1976 sailing boats was converging to the hardest-to-reach port of the Mediterranean – with the possible exception of Sevastopol – to engage in a 16-mile long race that can tale place either in a furious gale or in utter calmness. The skeptic might find such a pilgrimage an insufficient proof for lunacy. Well, wait.
Let’s begin with the warm welcome of the local authorities… Needless to say that the marinas in the vicinities are small and overcrowded, but on this very special occasion the Port Authority allows boats to moor alongside its beloved docks, to which it is attached like a mother bear to her cub. Unlike the baby bear, though, these are very old, in state of complete disrepair and barely sheltered from southerly winds. Even in the third world they understood that port property can be wonderfully transformed into prime real estate, and Trieste’s old port has all the ingredients… Stylish warehouses, mighty cranes, miles of docks begging to embrace yachts and crews. No, it’s too difficult; better keep it as it is, a huge hotel for mice or to berth the occasional ship. The area comes to life on a single October weekend when boats are allowed to moor. Then there is the main pier, Molo Audace… It starts from the open side of what can be certainly listed among the best squares on the planet, Piazza Unità. It’s such a joy to see it bursting with sails, and masts, and shrouds… Life. But no, boats can only use it for the Barcolana, berthed alongside, than one against the other, in bunches of 20, an orgy of lines and fenders. All the others 363 days of the year, if you happen to lay your lines to its cleats, a furious officer will literally kick you off, regardless of the weather conditions, the problems your vessel might experience or the language you speak. Italian officers are very jealous of their docks. So the main symbolical link between Trieste – the major harbour of the area – and the Sea, is severed, and the square looks just… dead, with a dark side towards the sea that no lantern can cheer-up. It leaves a distressing vacuum, like a room without a wall.

Anyway, if one succeeded in sailing hundreds of miles or decided to pay exorbitant fees to have charter boats delivered to Trieste, then was able to find a way to moor alongside someone else, maybe less that 10 boats away from the land, and managed to have the boat registered for the race in an office that is 4 miles from the town, and he can still be in a reasonable state of mind, then he is ready for step 2: surviving the Barcolana eve. While it’s almost universally known that drinking while driving is bad, it’s less so when sailing. In this race it’s compulsory. Prosecco is the local drink, a very palatable sparkling wine from the dry mountains around the gulf. The whole area along the port, previously filled with exhibition stands, teems with strolling bipeds, mostly hopping from boat to boat and from bar to bar, in an increasing state of intoxication. In a city where one can drive F1 cars at full throttle in the desert pedestrian areas after 10pm of most days without any danger of hitting anyone, it’s quite surprising to see hordes of humans filling any drinking hole – and street – until 3 or 4 in the morning. If some prudent mariner is planning an early pre-race night, he might as well give a wide berth to Molo Audace, where the municipality tries to compensate the lack of parking space and public services with a vast amount of decibels from a central stage starring rock musicians of dubious talent.

Sounds like paradise for sailor, isn’t it? It certainly is, especially when you add that many boats compete in hosting the best dinner parties. The last one I was lucky to be invited boasted a baked ham in bread crust, buttered cod, freshly baked pizzas, several kind of hams and salamis,  meatballs and various other culinary marvels, washed down with cases of microbrew and wine. More than 25 people were properly filled on a 41ft boat you could easily reach stomping over four others, mostly empty with crew binging ashore, but with the notable exception of an Austrian chap who thought some curfew should have been applied and all the people around were severely brain damaged.

Well… before thinking paradise consider for a minute that the following morning all the 1976 boats are supposed to converge to the same starting line, all together at 10 am, small bathtubs and mighty maxi-yachts alike, and you might agree that a sober state of mind would be highly desirable. Enough? By no means…

Trieste lies at the feet of the last corner of the alps, beyond which lies an endless plain that in winter and fall becomes a genuine freezing steppe, rushing all the way to Moscow… When the cold fronts ahead of high pressure scream down in search of the gaps left by the lighter humid Mediterranean air, they turn around the highest peaks, jump over the corner and scream down with a vengeance towards the sea, crashing motorcycles and humans along the streets in the process, and hits the water creating williwaws of impressive force, even up to 100 knots. The Bora wind. Even in October, Boras of 60 knots are not uncommon and the last 3 editions of the Barcolana have been certainly lively, to say the least. Only a fool would sail around here when the Bora is blowing, let alone race… The alternative is what happened this year… Perfect stillness.

What happens in the morning is pure myth for your humble reporter… I never succeed to wake up early enough to find the courage of embarking. I have been at sea with a terrible hangover many times and I learned that the only safe course in that case is a wide expense of open ocean ahead and the autopilot on. The rumors I collected are certain proof that the best place to be during the Barcolana is a warm bed on firm land. It is compulsory to remove the anchor, definitely advised to keep the fenders out and strongly recommended to keep the engine on (in idle, of course). Bows, sterns, limbs, bowsprits, shrouds, masts, lifelines have been destroyed by the hundreds in the last forty years. I can just imagine the poor Austrian, who could not close an eye the whole night, finding himself in a great position on the first buoy, just slightly late on one single vessel, and with 1328 other boats on the other side, looking with terrified eyes this single lunatic barreling towards his bow screaming… WATER!!!! When there is actually no water around…