Captain Jose Ramon Delostrico

Once upon a time I met a man. His name was Captain Jose Ramon Delostrico and he could just as well have been a boy.  Not much bigger than I am, big brown eyes ‘n them first rimples of a submissive joy of life. I wear red lips and a blue shirt, he wears white. I ask him whether he’s the Captain, he seriously nodds his head. From the bridge of the vessel we look out over the town. A warm ‘n Southern town. That first time I couldn’t see him that well. I was too excited by the size of the Yacht and my new role as Owners Representative, no idea what that would mean. But despite his reserved ‘n firm handshake, Captain Jose Ramon Delostrico seemed to have confidence.  He the Captain and I the Owners Representative of the 54 M Classic Yacht SANSSOUCI STAR. I took off again, wiped off my red lips and hitch-hiked to the Cote d’Azur where hundreds of white ‘n glossy monstrous yachts weren’t awaiting me, but my mother did and my title, freshly printed on a business-card, gave me the courage to carry my head proudly on my straight shoulders while walking the red carpets of the Antibes Yacht Show.

Two weeks later I came back to the Yacht where Captain Jose Ramon Delostrico awaited me silently and welcomed me in a most gracious way. Always calm and available. Tender lips. Why did I notice that? Could I please for once not start fantasizing just because he’s a man. But he wasn’t just a man, nor only a Captain. Jose Ramon Delostrico represented the steady ‘n sensitive undercurrent of the eyes of  the whale, the memory of the dense jungle, reflexions of Don Pancho, callings from home, whatever that may mean. And he knows nothing. He doesn’t know yet why I’m here, that I’m here to grasp his story and his breathe, for whatever reason. Again. I try to distract myself and to guide my superstitious mind in an unknown direction, just to surprise my conditioned capacity of creating stories out of fragile sights. I can’t help it, I fell in love again. And from that moment on there won’t pass an hour without me calling his name and asking as many questions as I can invent. Though all questions serve professional means. How much I adore this subtle tension between partners in crime. And how much he loves to search for answers all the time.

St Pierre, holy day for those who live by and from the sea.  It’s Sunday morning and it rains, but we had promised each other that no matter what, storm or rain we would go out there to serve them spirits of this day. When I arrive on board, after a night long composing in the studio of a friend, he checks the weather forecast, his eyes still sleepy. I see a person, just awake. We prepare the bareboat, orange, as if we were them holy coastguards ourselves, we cut off the eight white orchids, left over of a clients visit, one for each crew, one for each ocean, including the eight of imagination. The other crew members look a bit bewildered. What purpose would serve this rainy adventure? And I don’t know whether Jose Ramon Delostrico thinks the same and he just plays the game to do me a favor.

Once we pass the bridge and find the fishing vessels, all decorated with flags and red flowers, we hear the fanfare playing, the priest wears his red ‘n white dress, the quay is packed with tourists and rain tickles the rhytm of the drums, we know what purpose this adventure serves. We attend an ancient ritual, known by all hearts attached to the sea. Known by all these good old guys, fishermen, sailors, mariners, coastguards, all them wife’s ‘n fish munglers, little kids with dreamy eyes on distant shores, joutes-players in white, seagulls in grey. Here they might not know her as Yemanya… here we call him a Saint. St Pierre, and the ritual ‘s just the same. Flowers ‘n boats, drums ‘n horns, ‘n the holy spirits of the swell.  We smile ‘n Captain Jose Ramon Delostrico tells me that it’s just the same ritual as they have back home in the Philipines. Colored boats ‘n flowers. Aren’t we all just the same?  They must be lovers, Yemanya and St Pierre. Short the distance between Sete and Salvador. On my way back home. And you know it. You are part of it. Your look is just the same. Are we lovers? We accelerate and the rain reaches violently for our fearless eyes. When the prayer is heared and the flowers divided, them fishing vessels proceed back to the port. We pass them all and make another round in open water, epilogue of the ceremony, whispering a last prayer, enjoying the ride. The amphi-theatre, watching oversea, just above the city walls, shows us that we aren’t unnoticed and that we do serve somehow a greater story.  

 To be continued ...