new icn messageflickr-free-ic3d pan white
Parallel worlds, Souls wandering in those distant winds. Until then, I did not believe in anything, in other words, I was an atheist. That day was not just another day, I would call it a moment of revelation, an unparalleled event, one of those that chang | by a.venicioarmin
Back to photostream

Parallel worlds, Souls wandering in those distant winds. Until then, I did not believe in anything, in other words, I was an atheist. That day was not just another day, I would call it a moment of revelation, an unparalleled event, one of those that chang

Parallel worlds, Souls wandering in those distant winds.

Until then, I did not believe in anything, in other words, I was an atheist. That day was not just another day, I would call it a moment of revelation, an unparalleled event, one of those that change the life of any human being.

The port is one of my favorite places. I grew up in a small fishing village. Nothing compares to the sunrises in my town.

Not that I am fond of waking up before the sun greets the new day. But my fishing grandfather, like his father, followed the same life guide. That is, he would wake me up at 05:00 in the morning.

When he was only 8 years old, he already knew that a fishing boat had to be prepared before leaving for deep waters. Preparing the nets, checking the oil levels of those engines, which for my 20 cm meter were destructive monsters. They were tested every day. They were the difference between life and death, in one sense, and in another, they had a big job, towing, hauling those tremendously heavy nets. When we came back from the magical and daily adventures, there my brother was waiting for us, right next to the moorings, those famous and iconic T-shaped irons where the ropes are tied with those strange knots.

For all this and much more I return to the port as often as my time permits. There it happened. I was looking at the horizon, in those hours where the fishermen's life has to do with their homes or the town bar where they gather to tell their adventures, exaggeratedly magnified or simply invented.

The murmur of a conversation not so far away, alerted me to those presences. I approached to observe them and as each step brought me closer to them, my movements slowed down. Their clothes, was the first thing I noticed, then being only a meter and a half away, I greeted them. But they did not seem to notice my presence.

Apparently they could not know of my proximity, let alone hear me. But I, for some reason that I could not explain, heard them. My astonishment produced in me a state of nervousness and also of fascination. They were two brothers who were worried because their father had not returned to the port, after having sailed at 06:00 in the morning. They must have been about 8 or 9 years old. They seemed to be no more than a year and a half apart. The one in the striped shirt began to cry and immediately his brother calmed him down. But he kept crying and babbled that now he understood his mother, her fears and her anguish; that was probably why she died of heart disease, he said, between tears. Don't worry, the sea is calm, surely she must have had a technical problem, you know that daddy is very knowledgeable about everything that refers to the mechanical and especially the weather. Maybe he has dropped anchor and waited for dawn, when the other fishermen go out to work.

That comment was a wake-up call for me, how come the boats did not come to the rescue?

The night was falling over the port, the lights that were turned on were a sign of it. When the little boy in the striped shirt stopped crying, he looked to the east, where the open sea could be seen, he looked at his brother and asked him:

- Do you hear that?

- What are you talking about?

- The sound of the wind.

- ahh, yes, you know that you always hear the whistling of the winds coming from the sea.

- no, it is a strong wind, it is a foretaste of a storm.

There was a moment of silence, between those little ones. I concentrated on trying to hear such a sound, but the night with a starry sky did not suggest anything that would allow us to think of a storm.

At that very moment was when the eldest of the children, I suppose, began to pay attention to what his brother was saying.

- I apologize, you were right, it started to rain, we should go home and wait there.

-No, no," replied the youngest, "I'll stay here.

-Okay, let's go to the bar, to find out if the radio is saying anything about the weather.

Seconds later, as if they had vanished, only his little dog stood there still, looking somewhere. As if he had not seen the children or simply because his instinct forced him to wait.

With such a baggage of sensations, I walked towards the Hotel, where I would stay for the weekend. The old Hotel that was an inheritance inheritance. Currently run by the great-great-grandson of the man who built it.

It had been three years since I had seen Jorge, he was my age, he was surprised to see me. Then we gave each other the kind of hug that only old friends can give.

He bought me a drink and we sat down to talk about life. But I couldn't resist telling him what I had just seen and heard.

I thought he would laugh and tell me if I had taken something illegal or something like that.

On the contrary, his look was one of surprise and some sign of confirmation, as if what I had just told him would give him what he needed and finally hear that story from someone, especially a friend, although he would have wanted to be the one to have that experience.

I take a good gulp of whiskey and with a trembling voice he says to me:

- I always knew it was true, but never until today nobody confirmed it. It was just some drunks bragging about seeing them. But now, wow, now you come here after three years and have the incredible experience of seeing and hearing them. I still can't believe it.

- Jorge stop beating around the bush and tell me, I'm getting anxious already.

- Ok, this is what my grandfather told my father. Around 1932 a friend of my grandfather Jerónimo, that was his name, had been with Humberto Rodríguez, a close friend, the night before when in a bar Jerónimo told him that he had news that far off the coast, near the islands, there was a place where schools of tuna were gathering. It was a trip he could not make and return the same day, for that reason he took his two sons. Fearing that the news would be known by other fishermen, he only told his friend. The next day he set sail very early with his two sons, but he disregarded the weather conditions that he heard on the radio they reported. Knowing the winds and tidal conditions, he thought it was just another one of the wrong forecasts. But his years as an old fisherman led him to face a fierce storm at nightfall. His boat ran aground on the shores of the islands and two days after the tragic accident we learned that he had died. The bodies of his sons were never found, surely they were left in the depths of the sea. Years later my father heard a fisherman, one of those who are not very credible, say that the day before he had seen Rodriguez's children standing on the edge of the place where his father always moored his boat. Nobody believed him. But I do remember when my father told me that the children's dog had stayed in the house on his father's orders. That wonderful animal, every day, close to the time his owner used to return from his fishing trip, would sit waiting for him to arrive. One evening, walking slowly to his place on the moorings of his owner's boat, he died. He did so for 12 years until his old body no longer arrived.

 

Mundos paralelos, Almas que vagan en aquellos vientos lejanos.

Hasta ese entonces, no creía en nada, en otras palabras, era ateo. Aquel día no fue un día más, lo llamaría un momento de revelación, un acontecimiento sin igual, de esos que modifican la vida de cualquier ser humano.

El puerto es uno de mis lugares preferidos. Crecí en un pueblito de pescadores. Nada se compara a los amaneceres de mi pueblo.

No es que sea amante de despertar antes de que el sol salude al nuevo día. Pero mi abuelo pescador como lo fue su padre, seguía la misma guía de vida. Es decir, me despertaba a las 05 de la mañana.

Con apenas 8 años ya sabía que un barco de pesca debía acondicionarse antes de su partida a aguas profundas. Preparando las redes, revisando los niveles de aceite de esos motores, que para, mi metro 20 cm eran monstruos destructivos. Ellos se probaban todos los días. Ellos eran la diferencia entre la vida y la muerte, en uno de los sentidos, y en otro, tenían una gran tarea, remolcar, arrastrar esas tremendamente pesadas redes. Cuando volvíamos de las mágicas y cotidianas aventuras, allí mi hermano nos esperaba, justo al lado de los amarres, esos famosos e icónicos fierros en forma de T donde se los cabos (las sogas) son atadas con esos nudos tan extraños.

Por todo esto y mucho más vuelvo al puerto tan seguido como mis tiempos me permiten. Allí sucedió. Estaba mirando el horizonte, en esas horas donde la vida de los pescadores tiene que ver con sus hogares o el bar del pueblo donde se reúnen para contar sus aventuras, exageradamente aumentadas o simplemente inventadas.

El murmullo de una conversación no tan lejana, me alerto sobre esas presencias. Me acerque para observarlos y a medida que cada paso me acercaba a ellos, mis movimientos se ralentizaban. Sus ropas, fue lo primero que observe, luego estando a tan solo metro y medio, los salude. Pero ellos, pareciera que no notaban mi presencia.

Aparentemente ellos no podían saber de mi cercanía y menos escucharme. Pero yo, por alguna razón que no sabría explicar, los escuchaba. Mi asombro, me producía un estado de nerviosismo y también de fascinación. Ellos eran dos hermanos, que estaban preocupados porque su padre no había regresado al puerto, luego de haber zarpado a las 06 de la mañana. Deberían tener unos 8 o 9 años. Parecían que no se llevaban mas de año y medio entre uno y el otro. El de remera rayada comenzó a llorar e inmediatamente su hermano lo tranquilizo. Pero seguía llorando y balbuceaba que ahora entendía a su madre, sus miedos y sus angustias; Seguramente por eso murió del corazón, dijo, entre llorosos. No te preocupes, el mar está tranquilo, seguramente debe haber tenido un problema técnico, sabes que papi es muy conocedor de todo lo que refiere a lo mecánico y sobre todo del estado climático. Tal vez haya tirado anclas y esperar al amanecer, cuando los otros pescadores salgan a sus tareas.

Ese comentario, fue un llamado de atención, para mí, ¿cómo es que los barcos no salieron al rescate?

La noche caía sobre el puerto, las luces que se encendían daban cuenta de ello. Cuando el pequeño de remera rayada dejo de llorar, mira hacia el este, lugar donde se puede observar el mar abierto, lo mira al hermano preguntándole:

- ¿escuchas eso?

- de que hablas?

- del sonido del viento.

- ahh, si, vos sabes que siempre se escucha el silbido de los vientos que llegan del mar.

- no, es un viento fuerte, es un adelanto de tormenta.

Hubo un instante de silencio, entre aquellos pequeños. Me concentre en tratar de escuchar tal sonido, pero la noche con un cielo estrellado no suponía nada que permitiera pensar en una tormenta.

En ese mismo momento fue cuando el mayor de los niños, supongo, comenzaba a prestar atención a lo que decía su hermano.

- te pido disculpas, tenías razón comenzó a llover, debemos ir a casa y esperar allí.

-No, no, replicaba el mas pequeño yo me quedo aquí.

-Ok, vamos al bar, para saber si en la radio algo dicen del clima.

Segundos después, como si se hubiesen desvanecidos, solo su pequeño perro quedo a allí quieto, mirando hacia algún lugar. Como si él no hubiese visto a los niños o simplemente porque su instinto lo obligo a esperar.

Con semejante bagaje de sensaciones, camine hacia el Hotel, donde me hospedaría por ese fin de semana. El viejo Hotel que era herencia de herencias. Actualmente atendido por el tataranieto de quien lo construyo.

Hacía tres años que no veía a Jorge, tenía mi edad, se sorprendió al verme. Luego nos dimos un abrazo de esos que solo los viejos amigos logran dar.

Me invito un trago y nos sentamos a charlar de la vida. Pero no pude resistirme a contarle lo que acababa de ver y escuchar.

Jorge me miro con cara de susto, Yo pensé que se reiría y me dijera si había tomado algo ilegal o algo así.

Por lo contrario, su mirada era de sorpresa y de algún signo de confirmación, tal como si lo que acaba de contarle le diera lo que necesitaba y por fin escuchar esa historia de alguien, sobre todo de un amigo, aunque hubiese querido ser él quien tuviera dicha experiencia.

Tomo un buen trago de whisky y con la voz temblorosa me dice:

-Siempre supe que era verdad, pero nunca hasta hoy nadie lo confirmo. Solo eran algunos borrachos que hacían alarde de haberlos visto. Pero ahora, wow, ahora vos llegas aquí después de tres años y tienes la increíble experiencia de verlos y oírlos. No lo puedo creer todavía.

-Jorge deja de dar tantas vueltas y cuéntame, ya me estoy poniendo ansioso.

-Ok, esto se lo conto mi abuelo a mi padre. Cerca del año 1932 un amigo de mi abuelo jerónimo, ese era su nombre, había estado con Humberto Rodríguez, un íntimo amigo, la noche previa cuando en un bar Jerónimo le conto que tenía noticias que muy lejos de la costa, cerca de las islas era un lugar donde los cardúmenes de Atún se agrupaban. Era un viaje que no podría hacer y volver el mismo día, por esa razón llevo a sus dos hijos. Por temor a que la noticia sea conocida por otros pescadores, solo se lo comento a su amigo. Al día siguiente zarpo muy temprano con sus dos hijos, pero desoyó las condiciones climáticas que por radio informaban. Conocedor de los vientos, y las condiciones de las mareas, pensó que solo era uno más de los equivocados pronósticos. Pero sus años de viejo pescador lo llevaron a enfrentarse a una tormenta feroz al llegar la noche. Su barco encalló en las costas de las islas y dos días después del trágico accidente supimos que había muerto. nunca encontraron los cadáveres de sus hijos, seguramente quedaron en las profundidades del mar. Años después mi padre escucho contar a un pescador, de esos que no son muy creíbles, que el día anterior había visto a los hijos de Rodríguez parados en el borde del lugar donde su padre siempre amarraba su barco. Nadie le creyó. Pero si recuerdo, cuando mi padre me contaba que el perro de los niños, se había quedado en la casa por orden de su padre. Ese maravilloso animal, todos los días, cerca de la hora en que su dueño acostumbraba a volver de su viaje de pesca, se quedaba sentado a la espera de que llegara. Un atardecer caminado lentamente a su lugar en las amarras del barco de su dueño, murió. Lo hizo durante 12 años hasta que su viejo cuerpito ya no llego.

 

 

6,490 views
229 faves
24 comments
Uploaded on June 13, 2021