sandbanks are invisible from the poop deck. Past the islands of
Mazzorbo and Burano scuds their little ship, and makes course
south towards the narrow inlet between the long line of dunes that
separates the lagoon from the Adriatic. A blue swell topped with
silver foam mingles here with the green waters of the calm lagoon.
Il Delfino is completely in her element, riding the waters as fearlessly
as her namesake. Antonio enjoys the waves less. He likes being on
board a boat, just as long as it doesn’t rock about too much.
Fortunately, the choppy conditions do not last long, and they are
soon in the shelter of the Lido. Behind them pass fully laden
merchant vessels, lying low in the water, and swift excise-and-
customs boats. Now and then they see a returning fishing vessel,
covered in scales. Navigating nimbly around a buoy, Tomaso brings
them within sight of Punta di San Antonio, the sand dunes at the
southern tip of Venice. Against the distant skyline they can make
out the slightly tilted campanile of San Pietro di Castello cathedral.
Letting down the sail, Tomaso brings his vessel round in a graceful
swoop until she lies alongside, opposite the church of Santa Maria
Elisabetta on the Lido. Among the houses surrounding the church is
a trattoria, where Paolina and Antonio order lunch. From here it is
just a short walk to the Adriatic coast. Neither has ever been on
a beach before, and they cannot contain their glee at the tide
rushing onto the shore as if to devour it. Down at the edge they can
see children playing, offspring of the fisher folk who live in the
shelter of the dunes, racing helter-skelter in and out of the water,
splashing and shouting. Paolina and Antonio decide to wander
along the waterline and, taking her cue from the children, Paolina
soon kicks off her shoes to paddle through the foam. Antonio feels
the wind blow through his hair as if for the first time. Licking the
salt from his lips, he realises that he is breathing freely and without
pain.
Reclining languidly against the warm hummock of sand at
the base of a dune, they watch the white peaks of breakers shatter
and leap free of the incoming tide. As wave after wave is thrown
upon the shore, it seems to Vivaldi that the rhythm of the sea forms
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