It’s been said; if you want to lose something forever take it to the sea and let it go. No one knew this for better or worse than Alverino Tidone.
Some say he lost his love to the sea, others say he lost his soul to it.
No one loved the sea more than Alverino. It gifted him with fish and pure joy when he watched the golden sun rise over the sparkling waters. There was only one thing he loved more, Tenerina.
I imagine them on this beach in Scilla, sorting their catch into baskets and cleaning them to sell. Dreaming, laughing, and singing, Alverino playing songs he wrote for her on his guitar. I can see Tenerina’s dark espresso eyes brimming with hope and desire.
There’s a legend that says if you have loved and lost you can sit quietly on this beach, and if the sea chooses to know your heart, you will hear the dirges of Alverino Tidone. The sea will play them for you in hushed melodic tones and the rhythmic waves will sing them.
I’m alone at the beach cove where Alverino collected his salty tears and filled the sea with them. I face the waves as if I’m sitting in a front row seat at a concerto, enchanted by the soft light surrounding me like a warm hug in contrast to the relentless, ever-changing sea. The pebbles are various shades of sand and ocean in every mood. The beauty and serenity of this place beckon me to stay. No wonder Alverino and Tenerina fell in love here.
No one knows why they took their small fishing boats out to sea on that stormy afternoon. Their boats were seen a distance apart until the rambunctious sea spit Alverino to shore but kept Tenerina. From that day on, he beseeched the sea to return his beloved. Alverino died at 69. The villagers gently laid him in his fishing boat, clutching his guitar, and sent him out to sea to find his Tenerina.
There’s a portrait of him in the local café near the cove painted not long before he died. His shriveled body hangs over the guitar, crooked and bent, his bony fingers plucking the strings. Time drained him of all hope of seeing his beloved again.
I listen closely to the rhythmic waves whispering the dirges of Alverino Tidone. My tears blur ocean and sky. Some say Alverino sang to the sea. Today the sea sang to me.
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Anna Celotto is a Hudson Valley writer who wrote in private for almost 40 years before sharing a word with anyone. Ten years ago a friend suggested she show her unfinished novel to the scariest person she knew. That scary person has since become her biggest supporter and writing friend. She writes a weekly newsletter on creativity and emotional growth at aferalhousewife.com. This is her first piece in Lightwood magazine.
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