We had docked in the harbor in Bol, a Croatian resort town on the island of Brač. Sun-bleached stone houses were dressed up with green shutters and red roofs. So much bougainvillea draped the limestone walls that they looked as if they'd been kissed by a crowd of girls wearing magenta lipstick. Nearby, a taverna served spit-roasted lamb and octopus placed over embers and cooked under a terra cotta lid.
This idyllic Dalmatian Coast moment was everything I'd hoped for when my friend, Cristina, and I reserved the Luna, a 31-meter motor yacht, for our two families — 17 people total, including seven teenagers, a boisterous collection of aunts and uncles, and my 80-year-old mother.
What I hadn't imagined was that on our first night, hundreds of bistro chairs would be set up along the curved promenade that fronts Bol's harbor. But instead of facing the Adriatic, they were turned toward huge TV screens which would, in a matter of minutes, broadcast Croatia playing Russia in the quarterfinals of the 2018 FIFA World Cup.
That the soccer extravaganza held once every four years would take place during our summer vacation wasn't even a blip on our collective radar when, to get a discounted rate, Cristina and I booked the Luna a year in advance. While there seems to be no ceiling on the costs for Adriatic private cruises — think models in string bikinis draped over their billionaire boyfriends — the Luna was in the range of a Hawaiian beach resort. We minimized the cost-per-person by making certain every bed was filled; husband Walter and I shared a triple below deck with daughter Luisa.
Croatia has rightly earned its reputation as Europe's latest "it" destination. And the accolades have ushered in a surge of visitors to places such as Split, Dubrovnik and the town of Hvar on the island of that same name. Visiting the country by sea allowed us to spend time in untouristed places and also meet the crowds on our own terms.
My pre-trip excitement hit a snag two weeks before we left Minnesota, when my 16-year-old son, Henrik, figured out we were going to be on a boat — and therefore without TV or Wi-Fi — during the tournament's quarterfinal and semifinal games. He and his siblings — Peter was 19, Luisa was 13 — had been following the entire tournament, presumably doing the Iceland Viking clap chant from our family room couch.
"I'm not happy about this," Henrik groused. Unlike most of our mom-son communications, he made eye contact with me, I assumed to emphasize his point.
I wasn't sure how a week on a yacht could come up short when compared with a soccer game, but apparently it did.
Cristina's family and mine had traveled together before, so we knew that the magic carpet option — get on and get off according to a predetermined schedule with breakfast and lunch provided — is the best way to cut down on group travel friction. We planned the route in consultation with the Luna's rental agent, bracketing the water portion with three nights each in hotels in Dubrovnik and Split, including a private tour of Diocletian's Palace, led by Dino Ivanvčić, a tour guide and historian with a bawdy sense of humor that made the human elements — defecating and fornicating, basically — of this UNESCO World Heritage Site come alive. In Dubrovnik, which is where the King's Landing scenes from "Game of Thrones" were shot, we walked the walls of the city; some date back to the ninth century. The area was heavily shelled during the Croatian War of Independence in the 1990s, and you can spot those buildings that were damaged by their new orange roof tiles. Three of us used Dubrovnik as a launchpad for a day trip to Bosnia and Herzegovina and Mostar, a fascinating city that draws on the traditions of its three main ethic groups: Croatians (who are Catholic), Bosniaks (who are Muslim) and the Orthodox Christian Serbs.
We also spent a night at the magnificent Plitviče Lakes National Park, where we drove through nearly deserted towns on the border with Bosnia-Herzegovina; many buildings were pockmarked with bullet holes from the brutal War of Independence, where Croats fought against the Serb-dominated Yugoslav People's Army.
Croatian victory
We were greeted by a six-person crew when we boarded the Luna in Split. The captain, Duje Ercegović, was in his late 20s and is from an extended family of sailors; his father owns the Luna.
Realizing that Henrik wasn't the only person in our group who cared about the World Cup, especially now that Croatia was having a storybook run, I'd sent an e-mail earlier in the week asking if it would be possible to watch the quarterfinal game. I hadn't even unpacked when Duje pulled me aside and recommended a few changes to our itinerary, suggesting we spend the first night docked in Bol.
"This is your trip," he insisted. "We will do whatever you want."
It wasn't until we disembarked in Bol and Duje and the chef, Filip, reappeared in red and white checked Croatian jerseys that I realized it would have been a huge disappointment to them if we had been indifferent to this enormous cultural moment. Duje showed us to an open table and treated us to a round of beer. The Croatians were playing well, but they were facing off against Russia in Russia. A win seemed impossible.
As the horizon darkened to black Peter texted me; he and a few others from our group had decided to explore Bol and were watching the game at a park nearby. Croatia was gaining momentum.
"You don't want to miss this," he said.
When the whistle sounded and it was official that a team from a country of 4 million people had beaten Russia, the scene in the park felt like the inside of a Roman candle. People shot to their feet and hugged and cheered. Car horns blared. Flares sent sparks into the night sky, drenching everyone in a sparkling wash of red.
Morning discovery
The next morning, I woke up in a remote cove off the island of Hvar and I saw firsthand why Croatia is known for its legendary coastline. Limestone crags topped with pine trees reflected off water that shifted from turquoise to cobalt.
Knowing that most of the group had been up late celebrating Croatia's win with the crew, I went for a swim. The water was a perfect balance between refreshing and relaxing and was so clear I could count the freckles on my legs.
Afterward, I sat on the bow and sipped my coffee; Cristina was the first to join me.
"Fantasy Island," she said, putting up her hands up in a can-you-believe-this gesture.
We spent the day floating on innertubes, jumping off the Luna's top deck, water skiing, paddleboarding and swimming to shore to hunt for shells and rocks on the white pebble beach. We read and ate and laughed.
That routine turned into the backbone of our week. Every morning, Duje steered us into another miracle location, where we'd float in the water, pausing occasionally to notice the aquamarine scrim of mountains far away on the mainland. Then, when the sun turned toward the horizon, we'd head ashore to a new island.
On Vis, which was a closed-off Yugoslavian military base until Croatian independence, we strolled through the fishing village of Komiža, passing olive trees and grape vineyards on our way to the Church of St. Nicholas, named for the patron saint of sailors. In the churchyard cemetery, cedar trees cast long shadows against honey-colored walls. On Biševo, we toured the famous Blue Cave, a limestone grotto where the sunlight refracts through a crack, turning the water into a backlit sapphire. On the island of Mljet, which is a national park, we swam across an inland lake and rode bikes through forests thick with Aleppo pine and holly oaks.
Soccer serendipity
When we reached the medieval walled town of Korčula, on an island of the same name, Duje had arranged a private tour, including stops to see an altar painting by Tintoretto in St. Mark's Cathedral and the home where Marco Polo was purportedly born (even the tour guide admitted the evidence of this event isn't solid.) Korčula's narrow alleys are designed to catch the sea breezes, so we lingered, delighting in the cats that meowed from windowsills. Nearby, a nun mopped a cobblestone plaza.
And the locals brought out their Croatian flags in anticipation of that evening's semifinal against England. We watched the game on a TV hung on the outside of a pizza parlor. When Croatia won 2-1, the island seemed to sink further into the sea from all the jumping and screaming.
By the time I made it through the crowds back to the Luna — I'd lost Walter and the kids at this point — Duje was already standing behind the bar. The stereo was so loud that on any other night, he would have received a noise violation.
"Elizabeth!" he shouted, handing me a shot of honey-flavored liqueur, a traditional Croatian spirit. It would have been rude to refuse, given the circumstances, but it was also delicious. So I had another. Cristina's brother, Al, didn't even take off his GoPro before he started his all-night rounds of toasting Croatia's success.
Soon enough, the rest of our party was back on the boat, hugging and jumping and shouting "CROATIA!!!!!!!!" into the salty night air. Walter broke into the floss dance (who knew?). Duje dropped to the floor mid-move and did a pushup.
The World Cup has been criticized for promoting nationalism, and I wouldn't pretend that two weeks in Croatia gave me any insight into whether or not this triumph had a dark side. All I know is that on that boat on that night, it was clear that making it to the finals — Croatia would go on to lose against France — had made the crew of the Luna feel like the country they loved so much mattered. I would have been delighted if the vacation had been what I'd expected when we made our first deposit: a movable beach with some culture along the way. But the truth was that soccer transformed a dream vacation into a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Before I went to bed, I went over to Henrik, who had added a red and white checked Dr. Seuss hat to his theme wear.
"This is the best night of my life," he said. Then he put his arms around Duje and Filip and danced.
Elizabeth Foy Larsen is the author of "111 Places in the Twin Cities That You Must Not Miss."
