Wine and Kissing

Au Claire de la Lune

Early September 1987 was a glorious time. My lovely fiancée and I had traveled to the Turkish Riviera for a two-week sailing adventure with friends from San Francisco. From the water, the Gulf of Fethiye region of the southwest Turkish coast is surprisingly similar in appearance to San Francisco Bay. The main difference lying in its point of latitude which is much further south where the Aegean meets the balmy waters of the Mediterranean.

The wines of the region are typical of what we would consider Greek-style vintages. Not surprising, since this area was Greece until just after World War I. Our small crew of four quickly learned to stay away from the Retsinas and focus on the much more drinkable Kavak (whites) and Dikmen (reds) bottlings. The chilled Kavaks, even though refreshing in the heat, were simply much too tart and acidic, lacking in body for our California-conditioned palates. The Dikmen, on the other hand, proved to be very light, yet satisfying in the classic Rhône Valley style and very drinkable both in the late afternoon and evening, with dinner and late into the night. I might add that the brandies of Turkey were more akin to drinking kerosene, which brought us back for frequent purchases of the reds in the local chandleries dotting the coast.

We were bobbing at anchor one balmy evening. From our cove you could peer up into the surrounding hills to notice the local olive groves dotting the landscape. My imagination rambled to thoughts of ancient Lycian warriors sneaking up on our little pleasure craft, perceiving us to be some invading Greek force and using the olive trees for cover. For refreshment from the heat, we’d jump from the gunwales into the tepid sea only to discover the marbling of frigid, fresh water emanating from natural springs on the bottom and mixing with the salty brine. This gave us such a pleasant surprise that it made us giggle out loud as the ice cold swirls licked the insides of our thighs. This would only lead us back on deck for another quaff and a repetition of the delightful cycle.

My love and I would find ourselves in each other’s arms both on deck and while swimming. Our embrace suffused with successive rounds of ever-more delightful and erotic kissing – like carousing, amorous dolphins in the titillating swirl. It was the kind of moment that upon reflection, later in life, one holds onto for an eternity. The kind of erotic, suspended state that captures the imagination and leads one to thoughts of the Garden of Eden and that singular moment of creation. There was ‘time’, yet at the same time, ‘time’ was non-existent.

As the glowing silver disk arose from the eastern horizon, we found ourselves once again seated in the ship’s cockpit intermittently savoring the red ambrosia and continuing our slow waltz with each other’s probing lips. Suddenly, in the distance we heard giddy laughter. Peering out across the calm water we could see the slow motion of oars and an emerging silhouette of an inflated Avon raft filled with passengers. “Ahoy!” we hailed to the revelers. They responded with a raucous, “Bon soir!” My French was not perfect, but I managed to carry on a perfunctory dialog with our carousing neighbors who were anchored for the night about 100 yards off our stern. Their wine-infused curiosity had spurred them to come pay us a visit. As the raft pulled up alongside, it became quite clear in the dim light of the full moon that not one of them was wearing a stitch of clothing! They were all buck naked – and not unflattering in the least I might add, especially the women. They rebuffed our invitation to join us onboard for a glass, and while waving their own open bottles in the air let us know that since we weren’t in possession of any contraband, they would continue their quest to the other remaining boats at anchor in the cove. We all laughed uproariously at their proposition. Especially, since the movie Midnight Express had only recently debuted on screens across America. As the reveling ship of fools pulled away into the darkness, we could only hear their intoxicated and jubilant chorus amongst our own chuckles and the lapping of waves against the sailboat’s hull…

“Au claire de la lune, mon ami Pierrot…
Prete-moi ta plume, pour ecrire un mot!
Ma chandelle est morte, Je n’ai pleut du feu…
Ouvre-moi ta porte, pour l’amour de Dieu.”

B.B. Mak

Truchard on the Trinity

Fall in the Siskiyou Range of Northern California borders on being a contemplative time. The days rapidly grow shorter. Morning and afternoon shadows grow longer as the sun follows its seasonal migration into the southern sky. The midday temperatures finally begin to cool. The smell of straw, dry leaves and dusty logging roads fills one’s nostrils. Both the morning and evening air carry the chill of winter. Crawling out of the sleeping bag in the predawn darkness proves to be an increasing hardship and that first steaming cup of ‘Joe’ is not only welcomed on the way down, but a great hand warmer to the seemingly frostbitten digits.

The first light rains of September provide a signal. Like a semaphore alongside the railroad tracks they shine a green light to the schooling pods of steelhead just offshore in the chilly waters of the Pacific along the Humboldt coast. The sweet smell of fresh water awakens the awaiting hordes poised to charge upstream into the rain-flushed rivers in order to find love, romance or simply to fulfill that uncontrollable drive to procreate. A similar signal is also deciphered by the local ‘Homo fishermanus’. RRRRRRR-i-i-i-ing!

“Yeah?”
“They’re startin’ to move up!”
“No shit? Great! Call me when it’s time.”

A few days pass, and the inevitable communiqué is received. I throw my gear into the Land Cruiser and grab the elixir for this year’s fall ritual from the wine cellar. This is a great one…no… a FANTASTIC ONE! – no less than a magnum of 2000 vintage Truchard Vineyards, Carneros Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon.

“Oh yeah, baby! This one’ll do just fine!”

At about four o’clock, after a six-hour drive including stops for gas, beef jerky, an ample supply of rib eyes, snacks, chocolate and whatever else we can think of we arrive at our destination – Delloma, on the Trinity River. We’re motivated, so making camp is a cinch. The tent goes up, we’re eager for one of those mouth-watering grilled steaks, and of course we gotta pop the cork on that big, beautiful Cab. After all, it is a celebration. We’re here to see our old friends who come back to visit about this time each year.

Over the past couple of decades, our ritual has developed into a rather civilized pursuit. This section of the Trinity makes it easy. For the most part, the stretch of State Route 299 running between Redding and Eureka follows the river canyon. Different from most fly fishing for trout – which entails a lot of walking along remote river banks, rocks and cliffs; you can view the river from above while driving. It’s as close as it gets to helicopter fishing. Most of the riffles, runs and pools are easily visible from the comfort of the car. When a pod of our prey is spotted down below, we can generally get to it fairly easily via one of many dirt access roads or foot trails. This makes bringing the giant bottle of vino with us appear to be a completely sane idea.

This evening, we’re in luck. The goliath sea trout are stacked like cord wood in an easily accessible run that bows around a large, flat bend in the river. There are plenty of rocks sitting on the sandy bank ready for us to prop our refreshment and a couple of clear plastic glasses while we wade into the water to start our casting. But first, a toast!

“Here’s to our little buddies who’ve come back to see us, again!”
“Bless their little hearts!”
“With this most excellent fruit of the vine, we honor you and the expectation of an exciting evening of battle!”

With that we nestled our empty glasses in the sand, pushed the cork back in the bottle making sure it was also secure and headed into the water. Mitch followed the bank upstream about a hundred yards, so that we wouldn’t get in each other’s way. As I cast up into the flowing current and watched my puffy, fluorescent-yellow strike indicator drift down towards me, to keep it from dragging I gingerly snapped a couple coils of line behind it with the tip of my rod. My thoughts wandered to the intense taste of Romanian cheese, pepper and green olives lingering on my palate. What a fitting vintage for such a noble pursuit!

I’ve heard it said that fly fishing for steelhead is like pounding a tennis ball into a backboard. Load up…cast…drift…snap…drift some more…lift…do it, again. You can repeat this process a hundred times, covering slightly different stretches of water on each pass with absolutely no result. There are times when you’ve spent three or four hours on the river with a thousand casts to your credit and absolutely nothing to show for it other than a very tired arm, aching and sore shoulder. And then, there’s always that one cast when…BOOM!…the stick of dynamite explodes at the end of your line…

“FISH ON!…I GOT ONE!!… I GOT ONE ON!!!”

It’s for this single instant that the battle weary spend hour-after-hour wading into the ice cold water with feet completely numb…this fantastic moment!…and the subsequent battle which ensues.

Spawning steelhead generally range from four to seven pounds in weight. They possess the size and muscular ability of a small salmon with the explosive power of a trout that’s lived its entire life in fast moving water. They’re fierce fighters and maintain all the physicality and cunning one would expect from the genus ‘Oncorhynchus’. Once hooked, they run away as fast as they can taking dozens of yards of line with them in a matter of seconds. They leap like acrobatic seals a couple of feet into the air twisting and turning in slow motion above the water’s plane. They’ll charge at their tormentor making the line go completely slack and forcing the angler to strip it back as fast as he possibly can in an effort to keep some tension, so that the hook doesn’t dislodge itself from the fish’s mouth. This mad succession of maneuvers can easily continue for twenty minutes, and more. I can hardly think of a more exciting roller coaster ride. The battle becomes one of wits, agility, reaction and brute strength. Who will tire whom out first? Will the fisherman not only be skilled, but fortunate enough to keep the hook sunk in his prey? Will the brute manage to execute every trick in his book in order to throw that damned barb? Will the fisherman’s knots remain intact? Will the tippet, leader, fly line or backing hold their strength? Or, will they snap like a frail, dry twig in a hurricane? Seconds, turn into hours…minutes into a lifetime. The pumping adrenaline on either side of that fly line makes this a classic battle royal between the hunter and the hunted.

Then, almost as suddenly as it started the angler senses the first signs of weakness in his prey. The leaps are less frequent. The runs less vigorous. As he retrieves line into his reel he catches glimpses of the panting beast just below the water’s surface. Their eyes meet – testing, questioning, speculating. Who’s gonna be the first to call the bluff?

Fishing always poses the threat of losing the wild game. That’s why they call it fishing and not ‘catching’. The angler’s interests are always best served by landing the beast as soon as possible. By doing so, he removes the threat of loss from his side of the equation. The prey seems to sense this. The difference between agonist and antagonist in ‘this’ drama is that for the hunted, the struggle is one of life versus death. It is for this reason that frequently the fisher brings his captive onto the rocky shore only to find that when he attempts to approach his prize, the trophy explodes back into the water for a final death-defying fifteenth round. And so again, the battle rages – however, only briefly. For this time around, it is the final death dance before the exhausted goliath lies panting on his side, unable to muster yet another ounce of fight in the face of his victor.

This is the moment of truth. The most glorious instant when the exhilarated angler is able to hold this most beautiful of beasts in his bare hands…one of God’s most magnificent creatures. So stunningly sublime, that words can’t even come close to describing the vibrancy of red and green color…the shimmering of gold and platinum scales…the delicate webbing of masterfully designed fins…the humbling gaze from one’s eye into the other’s…the recognition of incredible beauty and the sheer joy of feeling this great animal’s breaths next to your own. Full well knowing, that without the use of such sophisticated hi-tech trickery like a high-modulus graphite fishing rod manipulating a masterfully tied artificial fly, this moment would have most likely never happened. We only get to spy these magical creatures from afar. We never get to experience the joy of actually holding one of these darting, hydro-rockets within the confines of our frail human fingers.

With all these crazy thoughts racing through my wine and adrenaline addled brain, I finally offered the majestic bull, ‘Oncorhynchus mykiss’, thanks – planting my delicate kiss on the tip of his wet snout; and cradled him back into his icy world. Holding him gently by the tail while resuscitating, I could feel the strength come back into his exhausted form. I released my captive, while managing to catch one final glimpse of his shimmering shadow as it slowly returned to the river’s blue-green depths…

“Goodbye, pal…same time next year?”

The voice of my beloved!
Behold, he comes,
leaping over the mountains,
bounding over the hills.

My beloved is like a gazelle
or a young stag
Behold, there he stands
behind our wall,
gazing through the windows,
looking through the lattice.

My beloved speaks and says to me:
“Arise, my love, my beautiful one,
and come away,
for behold the winter is past,
the rain is over and gone.

The flowers of the earth appear,
the time of singing has come,
and the voice of the turtledove
is heard in our land.

Arise, my love, my beautiful one,
and come away,
let me see your face,
let me hear your voice,
for your voice is sweet,
and your face is lovely.

How beautiful and pleasant you are,
O loved one, with all your delights!
Your stature is like a palm tree,
and your breasts are like its clusters.
I say I will climb the palm tree
and lay hold of it’s fruit.
Oh, may your breasts be like clusters of
the vine,
and the scent of your breath like apples,
and your mouth like the best wine.”

Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth!
For his love is better than wine…
It goes down smoothly for my beloved,
gliding over lips and teeth.

I am my beloved’s
and his desire is for me.

The Song of Songs, which is Solomon’s