Palagruža – Beyond the Open Sea

At the height of summer, our editorial team set off on a journey beyond the open sea. The destination: Palagruža. We returned brimming with impressions and already resolved to sail back there next year.

Ever since spring, Mladen, Marko, and I had been making plans to visit Palagruža. None of us had been in years, yet all of us shared a wealth of memories tied to the place. I’d been there a few times by boat—mostly visiting lighthouse keepers, and once on a fishing trip. Twice, I even sailed there aboard an Elan 36 during the Palagruža Regatta, back when it was still held. I still remember the sight of us rounding the island under tramontana winds, the sun slowly sinking into the sea.

Among us, Marko is the true Palagruža veteran. As a boy, he spent days and nights there fishing with his father’s crew, back when nets were still cast around the island. He slept aboard a leut and on the shores of Mala Palagruža, and even climbed its peak. Mladen, too, had anchored off the island around ten times during his years skippering, ferrying boats, and on personal voyages. We had long planned to sail there together, tie up to the black buoy, and stay for a few days. But, as it often happens, the right time never seemed to come. Summer was well underway when we finally made the decision to go.

The opportunity came in the form of Defender—a fast, uniquely designed Finnish speedboat, built for all seas—which friends kindly lent us. It was more than capable of carrying us safely into open waters, twenty miles off the Italian coast. Naturally, we decided to first swing by Hvar to pick up Marko, and then head straight for Palagruža. So, on the early afternoon of August 1st, Mladen and I departed from Marina Agana en route to Vis. The first stop was Trogir to refuel, followed by Podstine. We cruised slowly through the Vrata passage, then, with a fresh tramontana wind, set our course for Hvar and soon moored to a buoy just below Marko’s house.

Palagruža, As It Once Was

True to his fisherman roots, Marko welcomed us with a hearty meal of soup and boiled veal. We toasted to his future fishing trips and, with a glass of Plavac in hand, stayed up chatting until 3 a.m. By five, we were up again, loaded the boat with gear, and finally set off. The sea was like glass. At a steady 25 knots, the 47 nautical miles to Palagruža would take just two hours. Fuel consumption was minimal, and we had plenty of time to talk.

Marko was, of course, our chief storyteller—and we didn’t let up. What did you bring to eat and drink? Where did you sleep? How many were in your crew? He answered with delight, recounting how they’d arrive in the afternoon, melt down the floats (popovnice), then slip the leut close to the shore at Medvidina on Mala Palagruža. There they’d dine on whatever provisions they’d brought from home and turn in early.

At dawn, they would haul in the nets, which then took all day to sort and clean from ašpringa—a small, hard coral that tangled them up. In the afternoon, they’d cast the nets again, ready to haul them up the next morning. The catches were abundant, mainly lobsters—the primary reason they came—along with scorpionfish, combers, red mullet, and occasionally a dusky grouper. By the second day, fresh catch was already on the menu, usually comber and mullet, which didn’t keep long. Marko even managed to climb the 51-meter peak of Mala Palagruža. The first time, he barely made it back down—but it got easier after that.

They would stay three, often four days, until their iceboxes were full or they ran out of ice. The lobsters were stored in wooden crates originally used for Jaffa oranges, lined with gošćica—a type of sea grass that preserved moisture—and submerged in the sea. Even then, they wouldn’t last much longer than a few days.

Emerging from the Haze

There was hardly anyone at sea that morning, and visibility was poor due to haze. At six a.m., the charter fleet and recreational boaters were still asleep—only the occasional fishing boat dotted the horizon. After passing Sušac, even those disappeared. Two cargo ships loomed in the distance, and then we began spotting longline markers—a sure sign we were close. These are usually set on the sea shelf just three and a half miles from Palagruža.

And then, suddenly, there it was—rising from the haze, reddish-brown and solitary in the middle of the sea. Our spirits lifted instantly. We reached for our cameras, ready to capture the moment. We even considered sending a selfie with the island in the background, but thankfully, the signal was too weak—and we didn’t even try.

Chasing the Perfect Frame

We decide to circle the island first—both Velika and Mala Palagruža—before setting foot on land. So we do just that. I steer as Mladen directs, trying to catch the perfect angle of Mala framed against Velika. But he quickly notes that we’ll need to return in the afternoon when the light will give us a layered shot of both islets. I nod in agreement, and we head toward Velika, where a German sailboat is moored in front of Žalo. A small Plovput vessel approaches us, carrying Vojo Šain and a charming lady who, we soon learn, is his future wife, Manuela. They’re trolling as they wait, hoping to catch something for brunch.

They’d arrived the day before to start their monthly shift, joined by Krešimir Tomašić. Vojo has been stationed on Palagruža since 1998, and Krešo is his fifth lighthouse partner. Vojo and Manuela—both remarrying happily—live in Čara on Korčula, where they tend a small vineyard of Pošip and a larger olive grove. Ever since her first visit to Palagruža, Manuela fell in love with the place and has vowed never to miss a shift, even in winter.

As their trolling nets come up empty, we leave them to it and slowly cruise beneath Palagruža’s imposing dolomite cliffs. Towering 87 meters above sea level, the cliffs rise steeply from the sea, crowned by the 29-meter-tall lighthouse. We steer toward Volić and the Western Tip.

A Glimpse into History

As I gaze up at the largest lighthouse ever built by the Austro-Hungarian Empire on the Adriatic, I’m reminded of how quick we are to credit Austria for our ports and lighthouses—forgetting that much of the real work was done by our own people. In fact, the contract to build this lighthouse was awarded to Ante Topić from Vis. The project manager was Bože Poduje, also from Vis, while construction was overseen by Vicko Marinković from Komiža. A hundred men, mostly locals, worked on it for a full year, hauling materials by traditional boats—gajete and bracere.

But enough history. Anyone who wants to dive deeper should pick up Palagruža: Diomed’s Island by archaeologist Branko Kirigin. It explores how the first people arrived in the Neolithic, and whether this island was really home to the Trojan hero Diomedes. Did he have a sanctuary here? What do the ancient ceramics and artifacts tell us? Did the Romans build a lighthouse or a temple on Palagruža? What about the fortress that once stood here? Why does even the Middle Ages cast such a dark shadow?

The book also covers the Italian garrison stationed on the island, the Austrian bombing during WWI that damaged both military installations and the tiny church of St. Michael, and partially destroyed the lighthouse. Then there’s the invaluable work of Joško Božanić, tireless chronicler of Komiža’s fishing heritage, where Palagruža holds almost mythic status.

Under a Sky Full of Stars

Back at Žalo, we tie up to the lighthouse keepers’ buoy, help Vojo unload his boat, and begin the 800-meter hike up the winding path to the lighthouse. In summer, nothing much blooms on Palagruža, though the caper bushes are still green, their large, unopened buds swollen with seeds. In spring, picking them is a favorite pastime for the lighthouse keepers.

We follow the ridge-top trail that runs across a small plateau called Salamandrija. From here, the view sweeps out across the open sea—a scene that even seasoned islanders from Vis and Hvar would call kulaf. To the north lies a slope with a thin layer of soil where, once upon a time, grains and grapes were cultivated. Today, it’s overgrown with a forest of tall Euphorbia dendroides. I’ve never seen that hardy shrub grow so tall.

We pause on a bench along the trail. Marko, our resident botany expert, launches into a lecture on the toxic sap of the mlječika, how it will soon erupt into brilliant color. Palagruža has no woods, so the familiar summer soundtrack of cicadas is missing. Instead, swarms of tiny flies come buzzing in waves—flapping at them with our hands, we must look like helicopters from afar.

Brunch and Story Time

It’s not even 9 a.m., and the heat is already oppressive. We finally reach the lighthouse and retreat into its thick stone walls—cool in summer, warm in winter, no air-conditioning needed. Once home to three lighthouse keeper families, the building now houses well-appointed apartments. They’re empty today, but tomorrow, two Slovenian families are arriving for a peaceful week off-grid.

As we dig into brunch—homemade food brought by Vojo and Manuela—we swap stories about past guests. There was a group of Italian freediving champions who were caught spearfishing illegally and had to be sent packing. Then an Austrian surgeon couple working in smoggy Singapore, who spent every evening on the terrace, mesmerized by a sky bursting with stars. Slovenians, it seems, are frequent visitors—and very much welcome. To them, Palagruža is sacred ground.

We chat about the winters—mild and dry, but often cut off completely during storms—and about what it’s like when the lighthouse shakes under a siege of thunder and lightning.

The Vanishing Fishermen

And inevitably, the talk turns to fishing. Just a few years ago, as many as thirty boats would gather at Žalo—mostly Komižans and Višans. When their deck lights came on at dusk, it looked more like a town than a remote rock. Now, there are only two or three boats, still mostly Višans and Komižans—who respect the sea and follow the rules. The traditional nets that Marko’s father used are now banned, to help preserve the marine habitat.

We could have kept talking forever, but we wanted to see everything. No need to recount it all. We climbed the lighthouse tower, visited the weather station, wandered the island. We even trekked to Stora Vloka, a cove on the northwestern side that offers shelter from the jugo. I couldn’t resist a swim in the crystal-clear sea. Then we crossed to the other side, toward the radar and surveillance cameras monitoring the border.

I don’t know if the crew at the National Maritime Data Center in Zadar recognized us on their screens, but they surely saw three enthusiastic, slightly graying men stumbling about like schoolboys on a field trip.

Twilight and Kanjac

Back down at the shore, we interrupted Vojo’s nap, took another dip at Žalo (Marko and I swam, Mladen stayed dry), and noticed a small fishing boat from Vis anchoring nearby, waiting for dusk. But we weren’t done—Mladen still had to capture his perfect shot, and Marko was determined to fish.

After gathering a few lupari (hand lines), Vojo and Manuela ferried us back to the boat, and we spent about an hour circling Mala Palagruža near some pot markers. Not in vain—fifteen fine kanjci (combers) made their way aboard.

Not that Mladen and I got to eat them. After nearly three hours of rough tramontana winds, we dropped Marko off at Mala Garška on Hvar and continued on to Marina Agana to return the Defender. Then home: Mladen toward Rab, me back to Makarska.

No matter—we’ll return next summer. This time, for three full days on a sailboat, with daily catches and meals at sea. And maybe we’ll even sail out to Galijula to see if the biggest kosmeći in the Adriatic still reign there.
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