The only one who could ever reach me, was the son of the fisherman

Portugal, September 2020

The fisherman caught twelve Sargo fishes and we bought them all right off his bucket. They were still moving when replaced into a plastic bag and did their last twitches as Tomás got rid of their scales at Uli‘s house by the pool. Tomás and his brother Carlos prepared, again, the most amazing dinner à la italiana. From that day on, we practically spent five days nonstop together, My friend Julian, the brothers and I. Days of beach, surf, lots of good food, party. And another party somewhere out in the woods, where we drove with the brother‘s old Renault 4 from 1988, surfboards fixed on the roof, music instruments in the trunk of the car and wine on the back seats. Thus I lost my sense of smell, I can figure out some of the car‘s scent reminding me of my childhood in Formentera, when everyone drove those models. In fact, I learned how to drive, aged 14, with my neighbor, aged 15, in his parents Renault 4 from 1975. We were caught though and got into real trouble back then.

One day, Julian arrives with wounds on knees, feet and elbows, due to a scooter accident on his way home from the beach. No surf what so ever for the next few days, meaning more time for working, playing music and partying. And Carlos takes care of his wounds, cleaning them with such delicacy, as he does by cutting tomatoes in slices or preparing home made pasta for everyone. I love watching him cook every day. The portuguese lady next door passes by to bring a fresh watermelon from the garden while Julian and Tomás rehearse songs from the 50ties and 70ties, guitar and micro switched on the amplifier. Carlos and I laying on the sofa, digesting food and dozing away on a lazy sunday afternoon….

A boa vida