Cut to us four hours later, struggling to wake up so we wouldn’t miss the day-long boat ride to Capri and back that we had chartered.  Breakfast was rough and difficult to keep down due to a little visitor called HANGOVER.  We made our way, shakily, down the spiral to the beach and our waiting boat.  It had a bathroom below deck and a couple of benches and chairs up top.  Our group, besides us girls, included a couple on their honeymoon.  I hoped I wouldn’t throw up on them.  At the helm was our fearless, maybe insane captain, Stephano.  He plowed us through the waves and I fought back waves of my own nausea.  Just when I thought I would baptize Stephano with the remains of some ten-euro drinks, he pulled to a stop in an area he called the green grotto: calm, emerald-colored water next to a rock formation with caves and tunnels to swim through.  We immediately jumped off the boat and into the cool water.  A few minutes later we boarded again and forged ahead to the island of Capri.

Our hangover meal of pizza, fries, and Coke was served at a restaurant owned by a man from Vermont who had up and moved to Capri years ago.  We got advice from him about what to do on the island.   He described a tram-like ride up to the shopping area.  This image immediately evoked memories of my ride on the Ferris wheel at the Alabama State Fair.  I was about eight and my sister, seven.  She had always been prone to motion sickness but I guess my parents thought the wheel was calm enough for her.  WRONG.  She held it together until we reached the very top, then leaned over the side and puked.  When we got off the ride, we guiltily watched as people behind us wiped her vomit off their clothes.  In other words, I did not take the tram in Capri.  But Vermont told me where I could find beach access, so I was all set.

I split off from the group and stopped first at an internet cafe to check my email for the first time on the trip.  The BF, then just an F, had sent a message asking how the trip was going–my only personal message.  Everyone else must have been too jealous to write.  Understandable.  I headed to the beach, which was really just a pile of rocks and a bunch of locals making out.  Not comfortable.  I couldn’t even get in the water for fear that the Naples-esque crowd would take off with my stuff.  So far, I didn’t see what the big deal was about Capri.  Then again, I was only seeing about half a mile of it.  But this moment on my own was just what I needed.  I leaned against my backpack and felt very independent.

I didn’t feel quite so confident a few minutes later when I couldn’t find the girls at our meeting spot.  But P. eventually came and retrieved me and we climbed back aboard the boat.  Stephano had a beer in hand–not his first, judging from his constant giggles.  But no problem, since he offered us some.  On the way back to Positano, he pointed out landmarks (an island where a famous actor had once lived alone, a Pharaoh’s head-shaped formation in the rocks) and stopped for us to swim in an area of open water where dozens of other boats were parked.  After spending the day with us, and the afternoon with a case of beer, Stephano had grown comfortable enough to give us a nickname: the Pamela Andersons.  (Cue giggles.)  The swim was the perfect ending to our boat day and felt like a European version of all the boats pulled up to the marina at Lake Martin in Alabama, where my grandparents had a house when I was growing up.  Free, fun, and safe.  Like being a kid again, with not a care in the world except what was for dinner.

What was for dinner was Bruno: not a man, but the restaurant next door to the hotel.  We were too tired to manage more, and we went to bed right after.  Before passing out, I wrote about seeing God everywhere around me in the beauty of Positano.  And trusting him for the fulfillment of all things.  Like relationships with friends who send personal emails…