Touring the Tyrrhenian Sea

Ponza and Palmarola

Ponza sounds like a racetrack for cars. That’s probably because it rhymes with Monza, which is a racetrack for cars. But Ponza is an island 30 miles west of Gaeta and a justifiably popular weekend destination for sailors from Rome and on down the coast. At some point in prehistory the mainland upped stakes and moved east leaving this little clutch of dramatic cliffs and coves to fend for itself. True day trippers in inflatables have their work cut out, but when you get there you’ll feel like it’s been worth the effort.

Ponza is far enough offshore for it to have served as a prison for Roman imperial family members and 20^th century anti-fascists. Perhaps the most intriguing story for modern ears is that of Lucia Rosa. Lucia was born in a time when daughters were considered chattel – the 19^th century. A time when they served as trading tokens for their fathers, brothers, or other patriarchal wannabes. Betrothed by her father to a man of means without her consent, she made it clear she had no intention of marrying, whatever the implications for the family finances. She was probably no more than 15. As a father of (fully emancipated) daughters, I can readily imagine how the conversation went. Not well.

So strong was her determination (defiance is surely the wrong word in the 21^st century – ed.) she chose principle over obedience and threw herself off a cliff to her death. I’d like to think her father was grief-stricken and never recovered. That her mother beat her husband with her fists and turning from him in tears, found solace only in her prayers. Perhaps, though, her father was both avaricious and vindictive and swore at his daughter’s willfulness and his financial loss. And from that point a sullen bitterness clung to him, until the day he died alone in a windowless and cold, stone room. An empty bottle of grappa rolling from his leaden hand as he breathed his last.

Anyway, the Cala di Lucia Rosa is named for the young woman who has become something of a feminist martyr. Hers is an old tale, and sadly one that is still all too common in many parts of the world today. We anchored in the pretty, well-protected cove with soaring cliffsides during our first night on the island. Our second night we crossed the narrow strait to Palmarola and by evening found ourselves almost utterly alone. I say almost because the 56m (184’) super-ketch Asahi was anchored a few hundred yards off our bow. Asahi gave Carol a little boat envy. Maybe it was the thought of a hunky Italian crew, endless hot water and free flowing gins with tonic, served with ice and lemon. Aleta’s limited pasty crew manages many of those things, only on a much more modest scale.

Ventotene

We almost went to Ventotene. Instead, we passed this former prison colony with rocky anchorages and ancient Roman ruins with a mental note to return in settled weather.

Ischia and PROCIDA

A short overnight stop on Procida dragged us firmly into the maw of Italy’s summertime boat-niks. Islands this close to major metropolitan areas (Naples, Sorrento) are bound to be stressed. Last November Aleta was the only pleasure craft in these islands. In post-Covid September every available anchoring spot was taken, either by gin palaces* or zodiacs of widely varying sizes. Until 5:30pm. As soon as the cocktail bell rang, people started heading home in droves. I imagine this is what the rescue at Dunkirk looked like. Dozens and dozens of small craft making all possible haste to their destination, about an English Channel’s width away. When it was over 90 minutes later, we had the place to ourselves. Saved by the bell, as it were.