Historic Boats are like Bonsai: Enthusiasts at the Helm of a Dream

A Race Against Time

Remember my topetta? I’ve been trying to sell it for two years. And the first call only came a few weeks ago. Just a request for information, nothing more.” Gigi Divari told me this—a friend and one of the leading experts on traditional Venetian boats, as well as the artist behind the well-known watercolors that portray them. “No one seems to care about vintage boats anymore,” he continued, dipping his brush into sea-blue. “Just think, last year in La Spezia, at the Festa della Marineria, crowds were flocking to the stalls looking for souvenirs. But the cultural initiatives and book presentations were almost deserted. Even we, the enthusiasts, are less present. Years ago, I used to spend dozens of days a year aboard my old little boat. Today, I mostly navigate virtually. I write about boats, and I draw them.

He is right. Moreover, almost all associations report that the number of participants at rallies is steadily declining. A case in point: in Aix-les-Bains, up until the nineties, nearly a hundred contestants would show up; today, barely a dozen boats take part in the parade. This is certainly an undeniable fact. However, the passion we share must transcend the number of people who appreciate traditional boats and their history today. Those of us who love them know full well that these are monuments of the past with immense cultural value, deserving of great respect. And we have a moral duty to preserve them.

Fortunately, many of us are still dedicated to traditional boating. There are those who run associations or museums, such as Davide Gnola of the Cesenatico Maritime Museum, or Giovanni Caniato and Stefano Medas of Istiaen (the Institute of Naval Archaeology). Others collect historical data and write about our nautical past, like Giovanni Panella from Genoa, or Gianfranco Munerotto and Gilberto Penzo, both from Venice. There are those who rescue ancient vessels—sometimes the last surviving examples of a traditional type—as Giorgio Suppiej and the friends of Venice’s ‘Arzanà’ have been doing for years. Or Piero Gibellini, president of the Riva Historical Society, who safeguards every detail of the history of the world-famous Carlo Riva shipyard.

But there is still much to be done. We must, therefore, continue on this path, striving to find new strategies and join forces to save what remains of traditional boats and their history. And we must act immediately, before time erases their traces forever.

At Risk of Extinction

Every time an animal species goes extinct, life on Earth is impoverished. And with it, the human race, because our wealth also lies in the variety of everything that surrounds us. Likewise, when a boat type—along with the history tied to it—disappears and its memory is lost forever, it is culture and humanity itself that pay the price. Mankind is diminished.

We must therefore rescue the last remaining examples of historic boats, tracking them down in warehouses where they lie piled up in total neglect, pulling them from the waters where they are left to slowly sink, and sheltering them from rain, snow, and the wear and tear of time. But that is not enough. Their history must also be saved—that heritage of local culture, traditions, and the knowledge of how they were built and used. Steam, for example, but also the heat of embers. There are very few left today who know this secret for heating, softening, and bending wooden planks until the hull takes on the rounded shape necessary for perfect seaworthiness. In a few years, perhaps, no one will remember it anymore. We cannot ignore this treasure. We must intervene to stop its extinction.

Like a bonsai: a dream spanning hundreds of years.

“Happiness is not being at the top of the mountain, but the walk to reach the summit.” I don’t remember where I read this, but I couldn’t agree more. Happiness is working to make our dream a reality—a dream that, at times, only future generations will see fulfilled. It is an Eastern concept, far removed from the Western philosophy of “everything, right now.” The Japanese say: “The beautiful garden is seen by the grandson.” Or perhaps, I might add, the grandson of the grandson’s grandson. It takes hundreds of years for a bonsai to become truly beautiful. The plant is inherited and passed down from father to son, or from master to apprentice, for generations. I have calculated that if it takes about four people per century, inside a beautiful bonsai there are at least eight people who have dedicated their lives to it, working toward a common goal. It is the dream of what it will become that motivated them.

The same has happened with the historic gardens surrounding ancient villas. There are many along the shores of the pre-Alpine lakes—monuments of beauty mostly created during the 1700s and 1800s, some even in previous centuries. A while ago, I was chatting with Professor Emilio Trabella, an agronomist specialized in historic gardens, particularly those on Lake Como, while walking along the paths of Villa Camilla, amidst rare species and water features. ‘We are very fortunate today,’ he said, his eyes satisfied by the colors of the azaleas in bloom. ‘We have the opportunity to enjoy the splendor of these ancient gardens because someone two, three, or more centuries ago decided to design and build them, knowing that only after a long time would they become true museums of nature. If these gentlemen had not ventured into what was surely a demanding undertaking back then—in every sense, including financial—we would not have this pleasure today.

I like to think that one day, in a museum, decades or centuries from now—breathing in the scent of the lagoon among gondole, pupparini, and mascarete; touching the worn wood of navet, batel, and spingarde; and imagining, even hearing, the lapping of lake waves—someone, moved by the taste of time, will repeat Professor Trabella’s same words. It will be our bonsai.

The Guardians of History

Whenever I can, I walk along the mule tracks that climb the mountains and valleys surrounding Lake Como. Some time ago, by chance, I found an extraordinary object: a pair of wooden clogs, with pyramid-head nails driven into the soles. I found them in a small niche in the wall of a ruined house.

They had surely been there for more than half a century. Farmers used to make them themselves and wore them in winter to avoid slipping when the paths were frozen. Shoes, on the other hand, had to be bought. I had heard of these hobnailed clogs before. And finally, here they were, in my hands to touch, to observe, to admire: the details, the dimensions, the thickness of the leather strap, the number of nails. From a virtual image to a real object. They are worth nothing—just two rotten, dirty pieces of wood—but within them lies the life and the toil of some muncecch, the farmers of the valleys around the Upper Lake Como. And I am happy with my discovery.

I feel an intense joy whenever I discover an object, a photograph, a document, or any trace of history—especially involving boats. I immediately save it however I can: I record it, photocopy it, photograph it, or write about it. It is for the pure joy of being able to preserve it. In the Pianello Museum, there is a Venetian gondola from 1860. It is not the oldest, but it is certainly the most important in the world because it has never been restored. It still has its original leather fenders, for example, painted in white.

And there they are—you can touch them and look at them. The only other trace of gondola fenders is in an aniline-tinted photograph on a glass plate from the late nineteenth century, showing the Rialto Bridge and a gondola with two tiny white dots on its side. Apart from those dots, nothing else is known. If, through a series of strange and fortuitous circumstances, I hadn’t managed to recover that gondola, no trace of those fenders would remain. Feeling like the architect of this fragment’s recovery gives me a profound emotion—the same emotion shared by all enthusiasts. It’s as if we were all the guardians of history.

Pure, authentic emotion.

Last year, the Rahmi M. Koç Museum in Istanbul received an Italian Littorina railcar on loan from a museum in Florida. They requested it solely to restore it, exhibit it for a few years, and then return it. Because historical objects matter. And when enthusiasts discover something that—by chance, sometimes in the most daring and unexpected ways—has managed to reach us, they feel an intense emotion. No hidden motives. No agendas. Simply authentic. It is a feeling that few can truly understand and share. One need only think of how Italy managed to demolish the Elettra, Marconi’s great yacht, upon which he conducted his most significant radio transmission tests in the Mediterranean.

An emotion, then, that goes against the grain. In today’s world, the prevailing mindset is that it is better to throw an object away than to preserve or even repair it. It is a strange phenomenon: a few decades later, enthusiasts feverishly seek out exactly what was being discarded shortly before, and are willing to pay a premium for the last remaining examples. Such is the case with the Ericsson—the 1960s telephone where everything was integrated into the handset, with the rotary dial beneath the base. It was one of the first objects designed to amaze, following the principles of design. Yet, it was incredibly inconvenient to use. And so, after perhaps years in a drawer, almost all of them were thrown away, aided by the advent of touch-tone phones and later, mobiles. After decades of oblivion, the Ericsson is highly sought after by collectors today and, moreover, holds significant economic value.

Of course, there are also those who recover and preserve for ‘commercial’ purposes. That has nothing to do with authentic emotion.

The desire to pass it on.

My gratification? It is imagining that in the future—decades or centuries from now—someone will be happy to discover that a certain type of boat, or some fragment of maritime history, has been saved from destruction and oblivion, surviving in a drawing, a photograph, a story, or as a still-existing example. And that they, in turn, will feel the same joy that discovery gave to me.

It seems to me that thinking of doing something for those who will be born centuries from now is also a form of altruism. It does not imply the idea of a financial return, which will never exist—only the instinctive and irrepressible desire to pass it on. And, at most, the hope for gratitude. It is the very same spirit that animated the creators of grand gardens and the growers of bonsai.

I do not know if all boating enthusiasts think as I do. I feel that I already love these future generations. How is that possible? It is automatic: they will share my passions and will feel, with the same intensity, the emotions I felt when I discovered what I then saved. Or perhaps even more so, because those objects will be even more ancient then. And being in tune is the first step toward loving one another. I consider them friends already. And this ideal bond is enough to justify and motivate the work I am doing right now.

A bridge between past and future

Paolo, a boat enthusiast and a friend of my son, lost both his father and his uncle within just a few months. I knew them well; his uncle had been one of the very first to donate boats to the Pianello Museum and was the fortunate owner of a historic villa on Lake Como, which Paolo recently inherited. He wanted to meet me to learn more about the history of the villa and his family’s boats. Curiously, my memory represented the only remaining link between him and that heritage of memories.

The emotion this young man showed while I was telling these stories was a further stimulus to continue the research and conservation of historic boats that I have been carrying out for over forty years. The fact that this is not popular today, and likely will not be in the future, takes nothing away from this satisfaction. It is worth continuing, even for a very few people. ‘Even for just one person,’ Paolo Lodigiani once told me. And, I would add, even if I were the only person in the world looking after traditional boats, even if I were surrounded by the complete indifference of my contemporaries and ridiculed for what I do, I would still continue. Because historic boating deserves every effort to be saved. And I, like my fellow enthusiasts, want to continue being the link between the past and the future.

Saving Memory

“Every time an old man dies, a library burns down.” This is a Senegalese proverb, a precious concept that I deeply share. Listening to the stories of the elderly means safeguarding a few books from that unique library. It is like recovering the last surviving example of a historic boat: the important thing is not necessarily to restore it and return it to use, but to preserve it somewhere under cover so that it is not destroyed. And it is equally important to save its memory by gathering the stories of those who witnessed that history.

It is both a responsibility and a duty for those involved in historical research. Once a testimony is lost, it is lost forever. Anyone who cares about preserving the culture of the past must commit to writing the knowledge of those still living—knowledge that is almost always transmitted only orally. Because memory, if not saved in some way, lasts only as long as people remain clear-minded and able to tell their stories.

Imagine what an emotion it would be today to hear the voice of a nineteenth-century Clipper captain recounting his adventures rounding Cape Horn—perhaps against the wind, as the Windjammers did. Or the voice of his boatswain, revealing the tricks and trade secrets that centuries of experience had taught him for maneuvering such a massive ship using only the strength of his arms. Of course, literature gives us such tales, but hearing a voice conveys a very different emotion. Back then, the technical means did not exist. But it is possible today, thanks to technology: a digital recorder or a camera is all it takes. It doesn’t matter if these concepts aren’t immediately refined into a text or a film. The important thing is to have captured and archived them. The more time passes, the fewer chances there are for them to be saved. And in some cases—too many, unfortunately—it is already no longer possible.

A chest of gold coins

Before the museum in Pianello opened back in ’82, I met Mr. Galli from Lecco. At the time, he was nearly 90 years old. He shared his story with me—a story common to many shipwrights of the lake. He started working as a young boy in a major shipyard in Lecco. His first job was ‘spustaa i grusezz’ (moving the ‘bulks’)—that is, keeping in order those squared wooden blocks used as supports under the jacks. Later, he moved on to his second task: ‘bufà via la segadura’ (blowing away the sawdust). This dust gathered as the boards were cut using the ‘refendin’, a large two-man pitsaw. The cut followed a line marked with a taut string soaked in dry chalk. Because he was skilled, he moved up the ranks. Back then, we used red glue; it had to be melted in a small pot using a bain-marie. And Galli, just a young lad, had to ensure the glue was kept at exactly the right temperature. Once, he got distracted and the glue overheated—it started to boil. Without saying a word, the master shipwright dipped his brush into the pot and smeared the glue across young Galli’s lips. It burned him. And learn he did. As time went by, his responsibilities grew, one task leading to the next. Galli was ‘stealing the trade’: he was determined to learn from the skilled craftsmen—the ones who hated being watched by potential rivals. And he, too, became a ‘finished workman’—a title that, back then, carried a weight and prestige almost superior to that of a modern-day engineer.

Then, around the 1970s, everything changed: plastic took the place of wood in boat construction. Bringing an end to thousands of years of history. A turning point. And suddenly, the wealth of experience that Mr. Galli had so painstakingly accumulated—his chest of gold coins—seemed to be worth nothing at all.

When I shared Mr. Galli’s story with Divari, he pointed out that listening to these figures, writing down their memories, and passing them on is a way of paying them tribute. It means remembering their knowledge with gratitude and ensuring that their lifework remains forever alive. And so, my mind turned back to the many ‘Mr. Gallis’ I have encountered and interviewed throughout my years of research. In fact, a strange phenomenon occurs: their perspective on their own lives begins to shift. They suddenly discover that all those gold coins—the sacrifices, the experience, the sweat, and the commitment—far from being worthless as they had feared, are so precious they deserve not only to be preserved, but to be honored in a museum. So many ‘Mr. Gallis’ have returned to Pianello, to the halls of the museum—perhaps holding a grandchild’s hand, proudly showing them the very boats to which they had dedicated their entire lives. To their tears of emotion and nostalgia, mine were often added.

The way ahead

What more can we do, then, to save the immense heritage of traditional boating—our beautiful bonsai? First and foremost, as suggested, every enthusiast should create their own ‘archive of memories’—recording unpublished information, written documents, images, photos, and videos.
The second step is collaboration: ensuring that these many individual archives do not remain isolated but instead merge into a single, vast, and invaluable library. How so? First of all, by encouraging opportunities to meet and by sharing our experiences. It isn’t enough to limit ourselves to official events, like the Festa della Marineria in La Spezia or the conference in Cesenatico,” Divari suggested. “It is only by meeting more often that we can exchange ideas and opinions, update each other on the knowledge we’ve gathered, and listen to the discoveries others have made. This is how different realities are compared and brought together, creating new knowledge about the history of traditional boating—and, of course, increasing our own sense of satisfaction.

I am in complete agreement with Divari. At Asdec in Milan, having dedicated ourselves to historic boating for 27 years, we too will commit more assiduously to this path. Because, beyond building culture, these encounters also strengthen the bonds of friendship between people who share the same philosophical principles and the same passions. And last but not least, they are opportunities for fun and joy. After all, I believe that even for Aristotle, this was one of the most pleasant things in life.

*With the assistance of Marcella Molteni