The seven-lived seagull
I came to the world in 1938, at Genova's Ansaldo shipyard. These same facilities produced the Andrea Doria after the war, an ocean liner that sank shortly afterwards in the Atlantic after a fatal collision with another boat.
I had my own wreck too, but survived. As a matter of fact, I'm seven-lived. In the beginning I was meant to transport bananas to Italy from its African possessions, Somalia and Eritrea. The initials of the company owning me - Regia Azienda Monopolio Banane - gave my my first name, Ramb III.
Before however I was used at all for commercial purposes, my country entered the war and transformed me into a warship. Under the same name I escorted Italian convoys, until I retired to Trieste, hurt by a British torpedo. There I went through the Italian capitulation, following which I changed hands and name. As the Kibbitz I was laying mines for the Germans in the Adriatic, until I fell on one of those myself. These things happen.
The damage made me dock at Fiume. During the allies' attack, I was one more target for their warplanes. They sank me - and when I came back to the surface, the town had a different name and a different country. It was Yugoslavia's Rijeka. Apparently my hull was robust. My new homeland's Navy took me to the town with the Roman theater and transformed me into its educational boat. This withdrawal from the frontline felt like an honor, although a bit premature: I wasn't even fifteen years of age.
There, in Istria's Pula, by the name of Galeb (Seagull), I attracted Marshal Tito's attention. The President used me as his personal yacht to the end of his life. I travelled him all the way to Greenwich on an official visit to London - and entertained important guests of his: leading politicians like Nehru and Khrushchev and stars like Kirk Douglas and Sophia Loren.
I'm still known as the Seagull, despite changing countries and owners after my country collapsed. The Yugoslav Navy took me to Montenegro after Croatia's secession in 1991. From there, a Greek shipowner bought me in 2000: John-Paul Papanikolaou, a friend of Onassis' and the owner of, among others, the yacht that has his daughter Christina's name.
The tycoon had great plans for me: he would convert me to a luxury boat and would lease me for a hefty price. He took me to the top shipyard of Rijeka - but never got me back. A financial loose end - rumored to amount to a six-digit amount in English pounds, but I don't swear (I'm a seagull, what do I know?) - gave the Croatian authorities the opportunity to confiscate me. My final handover to the City of Rijeka, in 2009, made a lot of people happy, including the left-wing mayor Vojko Obersnel and the local anti-fascist organization.
I didn't escape damage to my body at times of peace. I nearly sank at least once during my standstill; and today I'm rusting away at a corner of the main port. But I got optimistic again in the last few days. The reason was the 69 million kuna -almost ten million euro- approved by the European Union to support Rijeka as the cultural capital for 2020. An important part of that amount will be earmarked for my repair and display (the rest will be granted for the iconic onetime sugar plant, dating back to the 18th century).
Maybe my wings cannot stand the effort of travelling me across the tough Adriatic, especially when the northerly Bura or the southerly Jugo are blowing. And so what? I have lived seven lives, in peace and in wars. It is enough that someone will look after me and spruce me up, me the old seagull. And, who knows, maybe through my own lifting the city of the Italian-mannered carnival could pick up as well - exactly a century after the treaty of Rapallo, granting to it a short-lived independence and making it a test-field of fascism. It isn't only good things that have come from the powerful neighbors on the west.
And this is something that even the seagulls know.
