The night of the armadores

I arrived in Illetas in black, the way I always do. August in Palma gives you no quarter.

The Shipowners’ Cocktail opens the Copa del Rey every year. Forty-four editions. Three hundred people in a garden hanging over the sea, with the whole bay behind them.

I know nothing about the sea. I know about stages. But I recognise straight away the people who spend their lives training for three minutes: the face is the same on a boat as in a theatre.

I stayed up late listening to talk of wind and headings. I took one idea home with me: they compete against time and against themselves too.

Then the music started and I got to my feet. It always happens. I cannot stay seated when someone plays well.

I slept at Hotel de Mar, in Illetas, and the last few days at the Victoria, on Palma’s seafront. Four days without picking up the phone.

I went back to Madrid with my head somewhere else. In August I ask nothing more of a trip.