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 »  Home  »  Tourism  »  (E) Croatian lighthouse Sv. Ivan na Pucini, Beacon of light
(E) Croatian lighthouse Sv. Ivan na Pucini, Beacon of light
By Nenad N. Bach | Published  09/12/2004 | Tourism | Unrated
(E) Croatian lighthouse Sv. Ivan na Pucini, Beacon of light

 

Beacon of light

 


By Eugene Brcic
The Associated Press
Posted on Sun, Sep. 12, 2004

SVETI IVAN NA PUCINI, Croatia - A picture-perfect lighthouse in the Adriatic Sea stands out like a weathered relic above the cobalt-and-crimson horizon.

Built in 1853 as a beacon for 19th-century mariners, this Croatian lighthouse and others like it are now being used as 21st-century retreats. For a couple of days or a week of splendid isolation, tourists can escape the hectic pace of modern life with a Robinson Crusoe adventure in one of 11 lighthouses up for rent this season.

The lighthouses -- some close to 200 years old but all still working -- are the twinkling jewels on a bracelet of islands strung out along Croatia's crystal-clear Adriatic coastline.

After island-hopping for four days, Sveti Ivan Na Pucini -- St. John of the High Seas -- was my pick for a brief overnight escape.

It was barely the size of a regulation baseball field, taking me only a few minutes to circumnavigate its rocky perimeters, though barefooted thrill-seekers should calculate the extra time needed to negotiate some of the razor-sharp ridges.

I had planned to do lofty and constructive things during my stay. I couldn't wait to abandon the rat-race of the office, to unwind and recharge my batteries, perhaps even to contemplate the finer elements of life, such as nature and humanity.

But the novelty of solitude began wearing off soon after I disembarked from the dinghy that was my lifeline to civilization.

Tick, tick, tick. There's no doubt about it, even the seconds and minutes are on holidays out here. I was a stranded whale, waiting helplessly for Greenpeace to haul me back home.

The lighthouse keeper, Zoran Marovic, was just that, "keeping" mostly to himself and to Tara, a crossbreed terrier. He made his presence known mostly through his croaky voice, as he radioed in a carefully examined synopsis of meteorological data that included water temperatures, wind velocity, shape and makeup of clouds.

Legend has it that St. John, the southernmost isle on an archipelago of 13, owes its name to a Venetian duke. The duke beseeched the saint to spare his life and those of his shipmates after sailing into troubled waters on a voyage to the nearby town of Rovinj.

Reaching the shore safely, the unknown duke neglected his vow to light a candle in tribute to St. John in a chapel on the mainland. A wrathful tempest sunk his vessel upon return to the gates of Venice, killing all on board.

A good bedtime story. But it wasn't even noon, and I was already yawning.

In desperation, I turned to yoga. No experience, but how difficult can it be to do some deep breathing, stretching and meditation?

The setting was right. Nothing but blue skies, blue seas and blue -- ouch -- bruises. Untrained and inflexible, I gave up on trying to twist my limbs into new shapes. Besides, I already was in a state of bliss; this was after all a deserted island, with just me, Friday and his scruffy dog.

Then, a flash of nirvana. How about just relaxing, kicking my feet up and doing nothing -- zip, zilch, nada?

Words cannot do justice to the feeling of a gentle breeze caressing your cheeks, bringing with it fresh juniper- and salt-scented air as you gaze into pristine waters, while sun and clouds conspire to create turquoise, emerald or quicksilver reflections.

Then there is the breathtaking closeness of the universe at twilight; the luminescence of the moon or the brilliance of the stars, and the taste of Zoran's grilled block-tailed sea bream, lathered in olive oil, with a sprinkling of garlic and parsley, washed down with a glass too many of robust red wine.

Once I reached the right mood of contemplation, the minutes and hours flew by. My respite from reality was over much too soon, and bliss was replaced by pangs of regret as the same weathered dinghy that brought me here slowly began carrying me away.


http://www.centredaily.com/mld/centredaily/living/9645483.htm

 

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