For Thursday, August 26, 1999 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 747 words

Glub grub

Our good buddy and traveling companion, Ron West, almost drowned in the Mediterranean Sea on his 44^th birthday.

Our European travel group had left Rome and driven north to Cinque Terre, a string of five small villages along the rocky west coast. There are no roads to speak of in this secluded portion of the Italian Riviera. The villages are linked to civilization by a railway line that spends most of its time inside the mountain. It pops out only at train stations.

Back before the trip began, when Ron discovered he'd be seaside on his birthday, he made a vow: He was going to take a swim in a foreign sea to celebrate the start of a new age.

The minute we climbed the 100 steps to our hotel rooms in Vernazza, Ron was shifting into his shorts and running back down to the shore, ahead of the rest of us who were still lying on our backs, panting. Ah, the vitality of youth.

About an hour later, we heard Ron, through the wall, coming back in. He and Jane shared the room next to ours. We heard him groaning and talking in spurts. We heard Jane oohing and aahing. Susan and I assumed he'd had a champion swim in a robust sea on a stellar day. It was not until that evening at his birthday party the story was told. It unfolded like this:

Ron walked eagerly out to the edge of a manmade stony pier, beyond the calm harbor waters of Vernazza. The calm harbor opened into the churning sea at the northern end of town. The stony pier was at the southern end.

From the pier's edge, Ron could see the heads of 10 other swimmers. The warm waves that crested frequently over the pier, washing across Ron's feet, beckoned. He jumped in.

Ahhh. He felt beautifully buoyant on a salty, sultry sea. The waves dipped and popped. He frolicked. He capered. He gamboled. He wore himself out.

Whew. It was time to swim to shore. As he approached the stony pier and the waves that crashed against it, several Italian voices called out, "No! No! Danger." They waved for him to stop. "You cannot get out that way. You will be thrown against the rocks."

"So, how do I get out?" Ron asked.

"You must swim into the harbor. That way." They pointed north about 80 yards to the settling sea. Yeow, thought Ron. He nodded thanks and swam off, already exhausted. He swam on his back, on his side, his belly, with feet only, with arms only, trying to rest and swim at the same time. He grew increasingly tired and made little headway. What he didn't know was that beyond the entrance to the harbor it was another 60 yards back south to the ladder. The old locals saw him struggling. They knew he was in trouble and swam to him.

"Help? Aiuto?" they asked.

"Yes," said Ron, gasping, but with a strong grasp of his sense of humor.

"Americano?" they asked.

"No, Stupido," said Ron.

They laughed, then grabbed him on three sides and swam him to the ladder. He climbed it and collapsed on his back on dry land. The oldest guy, perhaps in his 70s, stayed and made sure Ron was all right. When Ron's color finally returned, the old man walked off to the showers.

At the birthday party Ron's arms were so tired he couldn't lift his wine glass. At one point he tried to turn in early, but we wouldn't let him. The night was young, we explained, and now he had two things to celebrate: He was 44 and alive.

Ron acquiesced, and we walked through tiny Vernazza under a moon. He gave us permission to make jokes at his expense all the way to midnight. At one of his more lucid moments, he made this declaration: "You know people are always waiting on trips like this for their unique experience, their defining moment. Well, I think I've found my defining moment."

The next night at Vernazza's finest restaurant, Ron had the best meal of his entire trip -- a salmon pasta that nearly brought him to tears. He raved over it. Still does. Now, when we say the word Vernazza around Ron, the first thing he thinks of is good food; only later does he recollect that he almost died there.

Next week: Paris and the end.