Breaking The Waves

Every year on the first weekend of March the small town of Bayona sets aside its easy seaside town reputation and becomes a medieval village. The occasion is, of course, the arrival of Piña, the first of Cristobal Colón's ships to return from America in 1493. Having heard from the locals that this was something definitely worth seeing, a few of the American exchange students and myself headed towards that mysterious town, about 5o km south of Vigo.

As we stepped off the bus we could see the Piña,

or more accurately its exact replica tied to one of the long peers in front of the seaside boulevard. Obviously we had to take all the necessary Titanic and "land AHOY!" photos until we could concentrate on the history part of the ship. There was an older gentleman who was happy to enlighten us on the details about the vessel. For instance, it had a crew of 23 seamen (hahhahaah), which to my opinion is a lot, because the ship wasn't as big as one might think. Below the deck we found the captain with a worried look on his face, some nets for fishing, and chests filled with gold from America, probably paid for by glass pearls or lead, delivered into the natives breast pockets with an extremely rapid velocity. There were coins, nuggets, and all sorts of jewellery, which was also made to look as it would have back then, said the ship guide.

After the Piña we picked one of the narrow alleys that led towards the town square. A lot of people were wearing medieval clothing, there were blacksmiths, ladies with their cavaliers, jesters, wizards and monks. On both sides the were small tables and stands where the Bayonans were selling local delicacies, arts and crafts, clothes and beverages. At times there were men walking around with some sheep, pigs or a pair of bulls or cows, some real, some made of plastic for security reasons. At the main square musicians with medieval instruments, some of which I had never seen, were entertaining people while the latter exchanged compliments about each other's costumes. And no medieval fair would be complete without an extremely street-credible blacksmith, casually puffing on a Cuban.

Mingling with the locals paid off, as we were soon able to extricate some inside information about a traditional joust or a medieval tournament, that would take place on the beach in short order.
On our way there we were faced with a rather peculiar sight to say the least. There was a large tent next to the beach area, with several pedestals or columns inside. And on those columns were live birds. Well, birds isn't actually a very accurate depiction, for these geezers were from the badass-end of the bird gene pool. There were owls, hawks, a vulture and the don of the group: a huge eagle. This noble creature was tied to its pedestal with a rope so thin, that if it would have felt like it, it could have surely ripped anyone's eyes right out with it's nasty talons. So I decided not to pet it. Plus, it seemed to have eaten some spicy bees, hornets or even june bugs earlier, so it just concentrated in looking cool.

The joust was actually quite impressive. I feared it might be really lame, since there aren't really that many knights hanging around these days, but I'll tell you, these guys had some serious skills. The black knight (also a crowd favorite cause he was yummy, I was told), with his black stallion took the rest to school....two times. Although he had only one horsepower (ouch!), its engine seemed to have some extra pistons or something, because he made the green night, for example, his bitch, and made him look bad. Sadly his outstanding maverick was not enough to beat the purple knight in the thrilling final, and had to settle for second place. The silver lining was that the queens and kings in the audience were merciful, and he got to keep his life.

After this unforeseen and extremely entertaining event we decided to walk around some more since the weather was really nice, at times it was so hot that it felt like there would have been be two suns shining on us. There was a peninsula that looked interesting with a seashell-covered small beach,

huge waves crashing on the rocks and a breathtaking view of the sea and the nearby islands. Ever the adventurer (read: idiot), it didn't take me long to come up with the idea to go as near to the waves as possible, in hope of getting some nice and dramatic photos.

Well, we all know how that turned out. I spotted the most dangerous-looking rock,

over which every eleventh wave crashed, when the rest only came really close. The first photo was a success.

After that, however, I tried to leave that rock, but failed critically. The "every eleventh wave"-thing didn't really apply and I saw a huge wave rising above me, so I put my head down and grabbed the rock with everything I had. It washed over me, after which the second photo was taken.

(notice the water running down the cracks on the right) By now I was extremely sure that this had not been a very clever idea and tried to leave again. Unfortunately "every eleventh wave" had turned into "every other wave" so I had to take two more of those on my back. After taking about 8 tons of water in my face I finally managed to get to the shore. By an insane coincidence I was wearing my Fjällräven wind and waterproof jacket (top 4 things that rock, remember?), so my torso had remained dry. My camera still worked, because it had been in the jacket pocket, but my phone and mp3-player had not been that lucky. (After having tried everything else, I actually washed them both under running water once I got home. The mp3-player came back to life a couple of days later, but the salt had short-circuited something inside my phone, so I had to let it go.)

So there I was: pants, socks, shoes and head completely soaked and salty, feeling like a true winner, while the Americans laughed their asses off, repeating the mantra: "I can't believe you did it, you crazy Finnish bastard!!" I regained my cool, reminded them that they are fluent in only one language against my five, AND I could beat them in any sport they could think of, so they shut up. Three hours later I had had it with my wet clothes and marched into a chic seaside boulevard boutique that had a sale. The two female attendants were clearly a bit surprised to see a soaking wet Finn with an arguably awesome beard walk in like he owns the place, and ask to see their collection of pants. Oddly enough, I found a pair of jeans that weren't half bad, and walked happily away, going commando due to the lack of (well-chosen) briefs. I also found a pair of OK sneakers for 14e and the day took a turn for the better. The heat from the sun allowed me to remove my salt-covered [F-jail-rave-n] jacket and things could not have been dandier.

Just before we muscled ourselves into the last bus to Vigo that day we caught a glimpse of the epic play about the Pinta's travels,

its brave trail blazers and its celebrated return to Bayona. The rockets from the over-the-top fireworks properly culminated the somewhat eventful, and almost a magic excursion to this adorable little town.

P.S. How many NBA teams can you find in this story?