Sailing Oximore: Italy Golfo di Napoli
May 25, 2024 - May 31, 2024
Pozzuoli - Ischia - Capri - Sorrento - Pozzuoli
May 25, 2024 - May 31, 2024
Pozzuoli - Ischia - Capri - Sorrento - Pozzuoli
Oximore Italiano & Twelve Minuto to Spaghetto
Pozzuoli greeted us with two certainties: the sulfur smell of the port, and the universal law that one crew member will always be late. This time, it was Emma. The rest of us learned the art of strategic loitering — sipping espresso with the posture of people who might leave any second, but absolutely won’t.
By evening, we were still tied up in port, shoulder to shoulder with an Estonian boat whose crew had clearly graduated summa cum laude from the University of Loud Deck Music. They provided the soundtrack, we provided the side-eye.
Meanwhile, Nadya orchestrated provisioning like a seasoned quartermaster. She returned with armfuls of Italian narezki (prosciutto, salami, things we couldn’t name but happily ate) and loaves of bread that deserved their own postcard. It wasn’t the maiden voyage yet, but the maiden picnic was already a success.
Thus Day 1 closed not with sails raised, but with bellies full, berths claimed, and the knowledge that tomorrow, surely, we’d actually leave port. Probably.
Emma finally appeared in the morning, and with that, Oximore shook free of Pozzuoli and slipped into open water. Spirits were high, stomachs were empty — the perfect recipe for our ambitious plan: a quick stop in the postcard-perfect bay of Procida for lunch.
Except the bay had other ideas. Waves rolled in from every angle, a hundred boats danced like marbles in a blender, and half our crew went pale enough to blend in with the mozzarella. Lunch was declared a tactical failure. We raised anchor, skipped the picnic, and improvised sandwiches under way instead. Not glamorous, but far less nausea-inducing.
On deck, Nadya proved her bravery by taking the helm in the swell, while Antosha, with theatrical seriousness, helped raise the sails — a performance equal parts muscle and flair.
By afternoon, we slid into Marina di Casamicciola on Ischia. The girls transformed from sailors to explorers in record time: Nadya set her sights on the island’s famed thermal baths, Antosha insisted the “real” treasures were off to the right, and everyone scattered to chase their own adventure.
When the island wandering was done, we regrouped on Oximore’s deck for the evening show: a sunset painted in citrus colors, followed unexpectedly by local fireworks. The kind of finale you can’t plan for, but that makes you feel like the universe penciled you into the guest list.
Ischia rewarded us with a split mission. Mike and I went full historian, climbing through ruins and stone alleys that looked older than most nations’ constitutions. From the galleries to the viewpoints, it was one of those days where you take more photos than you’ll ever organize — proof that we were there, though the stones didn’t need convincing.
Meanwhile, Antosha and Nadya hiked into the hills and returned with intelligence: a local man’s whispered recommendation of a legendary restaurant serving the island’s delicacy — rabbit. This tip launched what felt like a side plot from a thriller. Our taxi veered onto a narrow, twisting road, dark enough to raise questions about passports, organ markets, and how many crime dramas we’d all watched. Not a single other car in sight.
And then, suddenly, the top. A restaurant perched above the world, views that could silence even the loudest dinner guest, and rabbit cooked to perfection. Nadya’s find turned near-panic into triumph — thank you, Nadya, for the sketchy road and the unforgettable feast.
We returned to Marina di Casamicciola for one last night aboard, the island now thoroughly explored in both ruins and rabbit. Tomorrow, the course was set for Capri.
We slipped lines from Ischia and pointed Oximore toward Capri, spirits high and water cool enough to keep sensible people dry. Naturally, some of us jumped in anyway. Midway through the Golfo di Napoli, in sight of Anacapri’s cliffs, a few brave swimmers proved that “cold” is just a matter of opinion and poor circulation.
Sails went up, wind filled in, and for a while the boat was pure poetry: spray, speed, and a rotating cast at the helm. Nadya steered like she’d done it forever; Antosha wore the posture of a man auditioning for a captaincy. Then came the omen — a tiny sparrow (воробей) landed squarely on Antosha’s foot and took a nap. If Capri required a blessing, that was surely it.
We circled the island in awe, cameras out, jaws open. Cliffs and caves gave way to the chaos of Capri’s marina, where the waves competed with the queue of boats. Mike called in ten times until, at last, the voice on the radio sighed: “Oximore, ok.” With cautious hands and the calm of a surgeon, Mike slid us in. Not a scratch.
Showers were the marina’s first miracle. Gossip was the second: apparently our next-door neighbor was none other than Charli D’Amelio, TikTok royalty, dancing from the deck of a yacht parked two boats over. Oximore may not have had a production team, but we had snacks and saltwater hair.
That evening, we climbed the endless steps to Capri Town, rewarded at the top with lunch at the famed D’Amore, sunset from a terrace, and drinks that tasted better for the uphill effort. Capri had already delivered.
Morning began with Nadya doing what Nadya does best: provisioning like a true Italian. She disappeared into a local store and returned not just with groceries that belonged in a Michelin-star kitchen, but also with two Italian men who gallantly carried her bags back to the boat. No one complained.
Antosha then launched his campaign: “Let’s walk up.” to Anacapri. By steps. Thousands of them. Each landing promised to be the last, only to reveal another staircase lurking just ahead. By the top, we were equal parts victorious and ruined, legs shaking but spirits soaring. The aerial views stretched forever, Capri showing off in every direction.
The day unfolded in a rhythm: drink, Seggiovia chairlift up; drink, chairlift down; taxi shuffle. Antosha, apparently powered by some secret reserve of energy, hiked all the way back down on foot and still managed to beat us to the boat. The rest of us admired his determination from the comfort of cushioned seats.
By evening, no one was eager to test their quads again. We surrendered to technology and took the gondola up for dinner and back down after. Capri had proven its point: it will give you views worth dying for, but only after it kills your calves first.
We pointed the bow toward Sorrento and slid into Marina di Cassano, where our first mission was fuel. Easy enough, except the fuel dock looked abandoned — lines flapping, no attendant, and docking instructions that must’ve been written in invisible ink. Eventually a man appeared, casually, as if materializing from the rocks, and we got our fill plus a parking slip.
The real drama came at departure. In the excitement, Mike forgot to straighten the helm, and Oximore drifted sideways with slow-motion menace. We grazed the neighboring boat, whose captain leaned out and bellowed, “Oximore! OXIMORE!!!” like a man simultaneously cursing us and announcing the title of our memoir. We, of course, were already gliding forward, waving our most apologetic goodbyes.
Once ashore, the day split into different adventures. Nadya hopped a train, the rest of us climbed toward the city on foot, reuniting with her over brunch (thank you, mystery brunch companion). Antosha paused to admire a school choir — because why not? — while taxis hurled us back down the hillside with three-point turns and a prayer.
Sorrento itself dazzled, all bright streets and cliffside drama. By evening, we were back aboard Oximore, singing our unofficial trip anthem, drinking what was left of the wine, and catching the warm breeze.
Trip note of the day: Italians may not dock with clarity, but they do wash yachts non-stop. If boats could blush, every one in the marina would be spotless with embarrassment.
Emma disembarked early, leaving us with fewer hands but the same sea to cross. The final leg back to Pozzuoli came with downwind drama: sails raised, waves stacked tall, and safety jackets zipped tight for the first time. Oximore pitched and rolled like she wanted to test our commitment.
Getting the sails down was its own battle — halyards stubborn, canvas thrashing, the whole crew moving with the precision of people who’d rather not star in a rescue report. Twice we thought we had it, twice the wind reminded us otherwise. But eventually, carefully, we tamed the rig and steered into port. Windy, wild, but ours. And really, that’s what counts. Hooray.
We toasted survival at a local restaurant that night, salt still in our hair, laughter loud enough to rival the sea. By morning, the crew split paths: some back home, some to Naples, others southward in pursuit of more Italy.
Oximore’s week was done — scratched, salted, sung through, and unforgettable.
Drives the boat, drops the wisdom.
Perfectionist flirting with chaos.
Always ready, always steady.
Looks like a postcard, eats like a local.
Always smiling. First to dive in.
Claims she has relatives in Italy.
Explore a breadcrumb trail of ports, countries, marinas we’ve boldly wandered.
