It was actually two strangers: a 70 something-year-old man from Chile and a 14-year-old local (Santander) boy. I was there for the summer, enrolled at the Universidad de Cantabria to further my acquaintance with the Spanish language and culture.
The year was 2004, a lifetime ago. I was 27 years old, about to start a new teaching job in the fall and engaged to be married in December. I was a completely different person – relatively decent but full of edges and prickles that were yet to be dulled by life. Twenty years had done its job of mellowing me.
I had just arrived that very afternoon, via a bus ride from Madrid where most of my friends had chosen to stay. I didn’t want to suffer through a madrileño summer, so I headed to the Green North where the weather stayed cool even in the most punishing of Augusts.
Feeling out of sorts and rather lonely, I chose to immediately head out for a stroll. It was my first time traveling to a place completely alone. Not only did I not have a companion, I literally didn’t know anybody in the city. That certainly offered no comfort to somebody like me, who was the worst kind of introvert. The fact that the place was so gorgeous and I had no one to share my oohs and aahs with (this was before social media became part of the norm) heightened the disconcerting sense of solitariness.
I found myself at the Grúa de Piedra, an old stone-based crane situated at the pier and one of Santander’s most popular sights. It seemed like a safe enough environment for a woman who was out by herself in a strange city. In any case, I found it interesting to watch the fishermen, so I parked myself on a bench to enjoy the afternoon sea breeze and waited for one of them to get lucky.
Before long, an elderly man sat beside me and started lecturing me on the merit of different worms as bait. Scintillating topic, but I’m a trivia nut, so I took it all in. A little later, a teenage boy sat on my other side, and he was included in the conversation as well.
They were soon both regaling me with their fishing tales. It was fascinating to learn about their background. Tío Cacho, the Chilean, was retired and well enough off to be traveling to different fishing spots around the world. Diego, the local boy, was lucky to live in a place like Santander, which afforded him a slew of options to keep himself entertained while school was out. Fishing was obviously one of his favorite activities. He was there most afternoons.
For about three hours, we sat at that bench, trading stories and cheering for catches. Somebody caught a blowfish and the three of us joined the simultaneously curious and revolted crowd around it. They persuaded me to cast and reel despite my protests that I didn’t have a license. They brazenly pshawed my fear of apprehension and perhaps even deportation, rule breakers, both of them.
I got us all cold drinks, but Tío Cacho preferred the tea he had brought in a thermos, so Diego drank his as well. Diego had a bag of pipas (seeds), which he chewed and spat out. I told him that wasn’t how we ate them where I was from, but he preferred his way. They found it funny that I had a big jumble of keychains that included a Swiss Army knife and a pepper spray. The fact that my phone was a Nokia 3650 (one of the earliest phone cameras, borrowed from my then-fiancé) had them chuckling that it was all very Mission Impossible.
They happily showed me their catch and Tío Cacho detailed how he was going to cook his. Diego confided in me that he thought Americans couldn’t pronounce the letter R, which was a surprise to me. I never thought Americans had a problem with it, but I guess they did to a Spaniard’s ear. 😀
It was so easy and amiable. I felt blessed to be sitting there with two instant friends. Tío Cacho was a sweetheart, and Diego was a fine boy – no impertinent swagger, no flippant rudeness, no sullen posturing… Maybe fishing simply didn’t evoke these behaviors, but there was just nothing obnoxious about him (as far as I could tell from that brief encounter). It was really a pleasant surprise for a high school teacher such as myself.
Soon, Diego had to go home. Coming from near the equator like I did, I was startled to see that it was past 8pm. There were still people sunbathing.
For some reason, I completely assumed that I would be seeing them again, especially Diego, but I never did. On my last full day in Santander, I sat at our bench, convinced that they would materialize, but they didn’t. All I’m left with is the memory of a beautiful afternoon spent with two lovely souls.
We were an unlikely trio (three different nationalities, three different generations), but we came together that time, rather like a family for an afternoon just when I was missing mine. I had gone out feeling unsure and quite despondent, and I came home feeling joyful and resolute to take up fishing.
I think about Tío Cacho and Diego from time to time. Diego would be in his 30s now. I hope he’s happy and doing well, still friendly and good-natured. Tío Cacho could still be alive; he’d be in his 90s. I hope he got to fish at all the places on his list.
Ships that passed in the night and all that. They’re but a blip in the big picture of your life, but they still have the power to make it richer and more beautiful.
This Small Life 