Not the shouting and clapping of the happy crowds thronging the banks of the Grand Canal. Not the colourful array of pennants or the splendid gilding of the boats in the parade. And not even the supporters' yells urging them on and the coarse cries of the Venetians. My first and most thrilling recollections of the
The dazzling August light shimmering in the waters suddenly changed into the semi-obscurity of the boatshed where those noble old vessels reposed. So as not to waken them from that yearlong lethargy I would whisper. Or perhaps I would, without so much as a word, just admire those finely ornate wooden sides, with their much too gaudy ornamentation, the pointed prows shaped like monstrous marine animals or dragons with gaping jaws, or gigantic serpents. Their aggressive features probably were intended as a reminder of the Venetian warships in the centuries of the Serene Republic's conquests. And now I alone could approach them - to my mind an enormous privilege - and climb on the back of those huge sleeping serpents (bissona means huge serpent) with their exaggerated colours which, a few days later as though by magic and only for a few hours, would plough through the waves and show the whole world what a Venetian boat was capable of.
