Vigo and water

Most of my journey has been one way –other than the odd stop off in a main airport hub to proceed on to the next destination.

The last month has been an exception.

 

Galicia beckoned and I took heed.  Alongside her, Portugal.  Two places that have become special to me on this trip and I have returned to before coming back to New Zealand.  I have the offer of more diving here and catching up with friends.

Vigo has the last vestiges of autumn – and oscillates between cold rainy days and then an 18 degree “one out of the bag” crisp clear day.  The harbour shows its colours – like a teenager – one moment calm and serene, the next a raging torrent of hormones, bluster and foam with dark clouds overhead.

It’s Saturday afternoon and Maria has arranged to go diving with the local dive club,  I am cordially invited and show up sans any equipment. It is a calm and clear day though the mercury is hovering around 15 degrees – and the water promises something similar in temperature.  The first thing I notice is the predominance of dry suits by the party on board the dive boat.  I’m one of the minority in my borrowed  7mm wetsuit. Still, the dive is calm, visibility is (I’m told a good) 12m – none of the Andaman nor Aegean sea clarity –but more than compensated for by the sea life including 2 congor eels, a variety of fish and fauna. 

 

There are around 10 in the group and I follow along like the junior puppy that I am with a very experienced group. A 59 minute dive around 15m depth on average. After and on board the boat, Andreas breaks out some binary liquid packs which he proceeds to bend and twist.  These look like ice packs  - but have the opposite effect.  The twisting motion sets off a chain reaction and the liquid firms up into a gel under the plastic coating – and warms to around 45 degrees – he gestures for me to put this under my wetsuit top – I need no further encouragement to do so. 

This is only part of the treatment to keep us warm for the 20 minute boat ride back from Castro bay (no co-incidence in name – Castro is a Galician name and Fidel of Cuban fame traces his roots back here).  Andreas hands around a bottle –most take a single swig and hand it on.  Rum?  I wonder – then my turn – Coffee liqueur – another local delicacy. It starts working its magic from the inside out to meet the warmth of my heat pack  -now that’s what I call after-diving-service. 

We pass through a flotilla of yachts – all in full battle regalia storming up the coast  - Spinnakers puffed out like chests of boxers in a ring mid fight.  Maria points at the various yachts – it’s a handicap race. The yacht she normally skippers isn’t racing today – but an arch rival is. 

To our leeward, as if to mirror their parents are a flotilla of p class under sail – under the watchful gaze of mother duck in the form of an inflatable RIB with a powerful 200hp idling along.

Whichever way you look in Vigo your eyes are typically drawn to the sea.  Whether it’s the harbour including the very active sea and freight port or fishing boats or one of the four marinas leaking out or welcoming in various size, shape and powered craft.  The bridge looks out over what looks  like a battery of rafts –which are actually pontoons whose long tentacles are home to mussel farms. 

The sea is in my veins too. Mine is naturally Pacific; this Atlantic, half the world away, but like any sea, welcoming and foreboding in equal measure. 

I watch the sunset outside the bar at the yacht club and marina downtown.  They don’t discriminate between members and non-members when it comes to serving drinks here – as long as your Euro is the same colour as everyone elses.  The sun is setting across an oily sea, the light glints off the windows of the houses on the far shore of Canges across the bay. The hills serenely and comfortably cloak the cityscape from behind.  This is Vigo in Pontevedra, Galicia, Spain.  I’ve come to love Spain and the Spanish people. 

It does have it's moments.  I visit the local swimming pool. Few people here speak English and my Spanish is close to non-existent at the moment.  I manage to work out when there is lane swimming and return at the allotted time.  "Passport" the cashier requests.  "Er, no, sorry, I don't carry my passport to the pool with me."  I figure this may turn into a protracted discussion with me retreating to get the document.  However, the lady beside the cashier hands me a piece of paper "Write your name."  I dutifully do it, they tap away at the computer.  I am issued with a receipt with my name on it.  Turns out the local council facilities are sticklers for issuing receipts.  The pool is not too busy.  Every lane has anywhere up to 3 people in it.  I notice that there are no markings on the lane - all are used by people doing backstroke or breast-stroke at a similar pace.  Given the time of day, the main users of the pool are elderly.  Mmmmm....no rating for the lanes.  Giving queue theory its due - I choose what turns out to be the slowest lane then alternate to the remaining lanes which comply with the theory by then becoming the slowest lane.  Welcome back to Spain.

Delightful and crazy in equal measure.