I will remember that flight for the rest of my life. A “cardboard” Piper suspended between the Santa Gilla pond and the exclusive Cala di Volpe. The Costa Smeralda, fiscally, was no longer his, but no one had ever dreamed of taking away the sceptre of the Prince. When the commodore, director of land and sea in that port famous throughout the world for at least forty years, rang the phone at Villa Devoto, he did not linger in long pleasantries: I put you through to His Highness Prince Karim Aga Khan . The morning in the Gregorian calendar was that of April 9, 2003.
The Patriarch
The tact was that of a Prince, the firmness that of a patriarch. He did not leave me many alternatives: his presence in Porto Cervo is indispensable tomorrow morning. He did not give in for even a moment to a possible defection linked to the fireworks of the regional budget under discussion in the Sardinian Parliament. He used the aplomb of the Prince, but did not leave out the subtle threat of a diplomatic incident. Foreign authorities, of international prominence, will be there. The presence of the President of the Region is essential, he suggested with the impetus of duty.
Island State
Adding and emphasizing: “Autonomous” Region, as if he had the perception of being in an Island-State, almost independent, sharecropping between the Italian Republic and the Ismaili Republic. It was he who suggested a small cardboard “bird” to fly across the Island from the far south to the Emerald destination in time to safeguard the votes in the Regional Council and honor the State guests on Sardinian soil. When I showed up on runway 14 of Elmas airport, however, the certainty of that flight was not granite, if only for the subtle “sneer” of the ground controllers. The sky in the lagoon, after all, was agitated like never before, with gusts that seemed like knives at every altitude.
Mission
Between staying on the ground and taking off, that gentle voice echoed like a mantra, invoking the duty of the mission on the “emerald” land. At the , instead of a pilot with flight stripes and a uniform, there was a “owner”. Dangling glasses, uncertain Italian, Corsican , as befits the last journey. The phrase was famous, addressed to the daredevil passenger who had become skeptical even in his physical features: don't worry, he seems light, but he won't fall. The crossing was a bit like flying over paradise, passing through the pains of hell, a sort of motorized paragliding between Su Gorroppu and Cala Luna. The landing at the “Costa Smeralda”, opposite the first airport of Vena Fiorita, was as soft as a ruinous fall from the first floor balcony.
