We tie Croatian tourism to the summer. It is a crude truth. At the beginning of the autumn, tourism analysts disclose multimillion balances of overnight stays, guest departures and arrivals. Every year these numbers become impressive as testimonies to the development from our former Socialist Federal State. In this region, lying to oneself is part of folklore. When the Bora winds start to blow and, after a few days, the Jugo weather accompanied by rain makes a watercolor of the sea and nervous pines, the Adriatic tourist destinations silence. With the last harvested olive, all these buildings suddenly become, as my friend says, slumbering concrete. Only port cities remain awake. Palm trees on deserted waterfronts go crazy near neatly tied ferries named after our greats. On the Adriatic, everything is dramatic, exaggerated, from rain to wind, to sea, to people and customs. This Fellinian dramaturgy is perhaps understandable only to people from the sea. Such Springsteenian atmosphere. I experienced coming to the Šibenik peninsula Mandalina. For me, Mandalina has always been a little Manhattan. As Bruce Springsteen watched Manhattan from his New Jersey, I believe that Nikola Bašić, coming from his hometown of Murter, watched Mandalina from the Šibenik waterfront