The boat would smell of tar all summer, and whenever in later life I came upon the peculiarly distinctive odor of tar and water I instantly visualized our graveled landing area, with my father, in shirtsleeves, plying the paint brush, bluish smoke curling from his pipe into the summer air, brilliant sulphur butterflies unsteadily performing their hesitating flights.
Horregatik, handik urte askotara, nonbaiteko itsasoan kresala eta bikearen usain nahastua sudurretaratzean, gure ontzirategitxoa jartzen zitzaidan begien aurrean, eta berriro aita mahuka hutsetan ikusten nuen pintzela pipari zerizkion hodei urdinxkak ikusten nituen udako aire isilean eta oinaztargi koloreko tximeleta horiak hegal baldar lotsatiei eragiten.