If you’ve been following: We cruised Corsica to Sardinia and from Sardinia along the Costa Smeralda where there’s not much more than rocks, sun and sea. One day we tied up on some rocks off an uninhabited little slip of an island not far from Porto Cervo. The crew put out the waverunners (or jetskis) for us which I and another used to explore the jagged coastline. The rest of the gang jumped off the back of the ship into the warm salty water for a swim, and otherwise we just lolled on the upperdeck (or the party deck as Cheri, the head stewardess calls it because of its Cannes days). After lunch the captain pulled up anchor and we cruised several hours down the coast to Ponza.

A natural harbor in Ponza

Ponza is another huge hunk of volcanic detritus, part of the five Pontine islands, parts of crests of craters. They are fairly close to Rome and in July and August day-trippers either on the ferries or on their own boats come over. Ponza was colonized by the Romans (by the Volscians before that in 313 BC). Augustus built a villa for himself there. And Caligula, Mr. Hideous himself, used it as a place of exile for certain members of his family, like his brothers, and his sister Agrippina who was the mother of Nero. Ponza is very remote (which is one of the reasons why everyone on the boat loved it) and dramatically rocky and desolate, so you can imagine way back in Roman times without the advantage of cell phones (which are everywhere of course) and power boats, Agrippina must have hated her crazy brother to the point of going mad herself over that one.

We put down anchor in a natural harbor called Cala Inferno not far from a tanker which sits there much of the time supplying some kind of energy to the few houses on the island. After our swim and our jetskiing and our massive and leisurely luncheons which habitually were finished off with coconut, chocolate or orange gelatos (or a combination thereof), some of us went into the one small harborside town, also called Ponza. I was always looking for a newspaper, hungry for any news to restore my natural anxious New York state of mind. There isn't/wasn't much.

Harbor hotel in Ponza

The village of Ponza is very rustically Italian and they live a life unperturbed by the fanatics who bedevil our daily lives back in civilization (i.e., the fast, last lane). So there was a Herald-Tribune to be found, yesterday's issue. After obtaining a copy, we walked around and took in the atmosphere, finally stopping at one of the cafes overlooking the harbor and having a beer, and watched the world go by untroubled by its languor.

These are lazy days, the very best kind, sated by salt and sea which makes you either hungry or sleepy or hungry or sleepy. Back on the Big Eagle after a trip to the town, a lot of the party retired to their cabins (or the lounges on the upper deck for sun) and took naps.

In the main saloon The cabin after naptime

From Ponza, as we sat down for dinner, the Big Eagle moved on for a several-hour cruise south and east to Ischia. There was a crescent moon directly behind us at eye level, illuminating the frothy wake of the boat as we arrived in the outer waters of this fabulous island, also part of the volcanic crest that created this part of the world back before anyone existed to have a memory of it. Ischia still has hot springs, which indicates to the geologists that there is still activity way down deep underneath it all. The island had its last big eruption in the 300 BCs when the Greeks were occupying it. After that came the Romans. It was always famous for its hot springs said to be good for those suffering from arthritis and rheumatism.

We awoke the next morning in a harbor off Ischia. There was a pretty little red hotel with a white parapet on a point above the harbor where we were staying, and on a narrow, curved strip of beach were set out a couple dozen blue beach umbrellas in neat rows. And a few boats bobbing in the waves. By noontime or one, however, there were dozens of boats of all sizes that had come into the harbor and dropped anchor. By the end of lunch, I counted more than 100 boats in this harbor, crowded to the point where anchor lines were getting crossed. Not a pretty picture. A little like the island of Coney on a Sunday afternoon. Or the Beach of Jones. Time to go for those of us seeking solitude. About three o’clock we pulled up anchor and left that nautical melee, and set out for the ride of two (or was it four) hours over to Capri.

This was the second time I’ve come to Capri. It has a magic to its name and that magic is there on first sighting. Capri is where the Emperor Tiberius, another lovely, had his famous villa and his famous orgies during which it has been said (historians claim it is false) that when he finished with whomever, boys, girls, etc., he was having his way with, he threw them over the cliffs to their jagged rocky fates. Nice. Stories like that always make me think that the Roman Empire definitely had it coming, that which they finally got (and got and got).

Capri has been a favorite island in modern times for the wealthy and social and chic. Mona Bismarck, the former Mrs. Harrison Williams had a villa and spent the best part of the end of her life gardening there. Water for her extensive gardens was brought in especially on her own tanker. Noel Coward went there and even wrote about it (In a bar on the Piccolo Marina, life began for Mrs. Wentworth Brewster). As did his American counterpart, Cole Porter. So did Maxim Gorky, the revolutionary who attracted Stalin and Lenin here (and who probably ended up acting out like Mrs. Brewster in their many spare moments). Friedrich Krupp, the German arms manufacturer came too (not for revolutionary reasons, however). Nowadays it is said to be over run by tourists and therefore things are not what they used to be. Ever heard that one before? As in: what isn’t?

The famous Quisisana

We passed by the Marina Grande and found ourselves a spot in a remote harbor once again. The following morning we went into the harbor and took a berth for the boat for our final night and day on the island. Once settled, most of us, at varying times, took the taxi or the funicular up to the town where all the action is. I took a taxi, these stretch open air Fiats, so comfortable. Just as we reached the top of the hill, on the very narrow, sharply winding road, we stopped to make space for another taxi about to make the descent.

At just the moment of stopping, I noticed a young couple in the back seat of the opposite taxi. He looked familiar to me, or at least that was what I was thinking as he was looking at me, as if thinking the same thing. Then he said: "David Patrick Columbia, we read New York Social Diary everyday and it’s a fantastic site!" Really. I’m not kidding. Way up there above the bar on the Piccolo Marina. Thrills and chills.

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