Perhaps, it would be better to say not 'Deer and the Sea', but 'Deer is the Sea'. What else is this village of sailors if not a sailing ship ready to launch, a winged stone sailboat bitten by the saline, which from above explains the baroque sail of the Church of Corallini decisively aiming for the open sea?

Cervo was born from the sinking waves under the lashes of the libeccio, it was born from the iridescent foam of the sea flown up here century after century to patiently model every rock until the dream has not been fully realized; because this is Deer: a dream made of stone and sea water. And the Man.

The man of that time, that of the centuries and millennia of effort and adventure on the seas all over the world, strong with a faith with a sour taste of salt, rich in the extraordinary epic of coral fishermen, that for centuries have left here every spring to challenge openly the risks of the sea and the felucians of the 'Turks', as well as with his bare hands he faced and won the Oceans of all the world.

Cervo has always seen his children go by sea, and one can well say that there is no house here where at least one of the men has not been, or is still, sailor; fisherman, nostromo, captain or sailor on the fragile sailboats that promoted them Caphornier on the seas on the other side of the earth; for everything I set “sack and bunk”, and on for the great adventure.

Distinctive memories remain here, secretly enclosed in models of sailing ships that are now pudically hidden in the living room, good to tell those who know how to listen about times and men who they don't come back. That, that was “people of the sea.”

And for those sailors, upon returning to land, there could not be another house but a house made by the sea in a village that knows everything about saline, where appropriate houses still raise from their terraces, trinchetti. and pennoni in the anxiety to run to the sea that awaits them below, that a slime of wind is enough because you seem to want to walk through them foaming the shady alleys like boiling blood in the veins.

A dream called Deer made of memories, hopes, of wind, of sails under the stars, of albatrosses high in the sky, of rugged stone that the wave has over time lovingly politus in an amplex perennially renewed of murmuri caresses in the moonlight, of buzzing at the breeze, of sensual summer languors, of mighty marous reiterating endlessly, a possession which Cervo all abandons : Deer is all of its sea, Stag is the sea. (Franco Ferrero)