Seeker

by Rita Pomade

  We sailed into a quiet bay that held one of Thera’s satellites named Nia Kameni, which translates as Burnt Island. Nia Kameni, as the name suggests, was a chunk of lava in the middle of the caldera brought up from the sea floor by a volcano that erupted about four hundred years ago and has remained active. The bay offered a safe haven from the sea, but Bernard’s eyes were on the depth sounder. “It’s too deep to drop anchor,” he said.

  “Does that mean we can’t stay?”

  “Um ... no,” he said.

  With ropes knotted to the stern and bow of the Santa Rita, he tied the yacht between two lava rocks jutting out of the water. With the yacht secured, we jumped into the dinghy and were off to visit Fira, the capital of Thera.

  Fira sat atop Thera’s steep cliffs that rose up nearly a thousand feet. I felt dwarfed by their height and at the same time protected, enclosed as we were, from the open sea on three sides. I remember feeling like a tiny embryo tucked inside the womb of the earth. Looking up towards Fira, I saw a number of homes built into the sheer face of the cliff, some with only their terraces visible to the sea.

  I thought about Lord Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott confined by magic to a tower and only allowed to view the world through a mirror. She wove stories into a tapestry until she spied Sir Lancelot in the glass, was besotted by love, and defied the curse. Escaping the tower, she found a boat to follow him, but died in a storm before reaching Camelot.

  I loved the poem, saw some relationship to my own story, but planned to write a different ending. Coming back to earth, I took a closer look at the perched houses and wondered how the dwellers got around. Perhaps they used the donkeys that waited patiently at the foot of the cliff to take passengers up to Fira. There were a number of donkeys, but no one around but us. Santorini hadn’t yet been inundated by honeymooners and cruise ship tourists.

  “Ready to ride?” Bernard asked. “We can keep an eye on the Santa Rita from the top.”

  “I’m not riding a donkey!” I said. “They look sad enough without me on their backs.”

  We hiked up the 588 steps stopping now and then to look out over the wide expanse of azure sea. The sight made the exertion worthwhile and encouraged us to continue the steep climb. When we made it to the top, Bernard took my hand, something that hadn’t happened in a long while. My whole self melted into the soft cushion of his flesh. It felt like coming home to a warm hearth, and I hoped we’d find again the early part of ourselves that brought us together.

  We strolled along narrow, stepped streets, browsed the small shops, and perused the menus of tasteful but over-priced restaurants crowding the cliff’s rim. The jumble of whitewashed buildings appeared etched into the brilliant blue of the sky. Walking along the rim of the caldera, with the sea on one side and the narrow sliver of town anchored on the other, felt as though I was crossing a great void on a tightrope. The sensation made me think about my relationship with Bernard and the way it swung precariously between unexpected moments of affection followed by rejection. Yet, if I were to have given my impression of paradise, it would have been that moment in Fira when Bernard took my hand. Reflecting back, I don’t think I could have visualized paradise so strongly without that feeling of the devil nipping my heels.

  We found a small restaurant with open windows facing the sea and ordered a Greek salad with Santorini tomatoes and a side dish of fried tomato balls called keptedes. Santorini’s tomatoes are tiny and sweet, and can be found only on the island. I asked for a dish with the island’s eggplant, which could be found nowhere else, and we washed it down with local wine. The waiter told us the island had no water and its produce and wine were watered by dew. Volcanic soil and the island’s dryness gave the produce a special taste not found elsewhere in the world. His story conjured up Thera as an enchanted island with hidden gardens tilled by elves.

  “I love this place,” I said.

  “We have to go,” Bernard replied.

  I’d felt his agitation growing from the moment we entered the restaurant. He had gone silent and hardly listened to the waiter’s stories about the island. “The yacht’s too isolated and too far from shore,” he said. “If the wind picks up, the ropes won’t hold.”

  “Whatever you say,” I mumbled, but I would come back. I needed more time to absorb the allure of Fira.

  Throughout the night Bernard was anxious about how well the yacht would hold tied between the two rocks. In the morning he suggested we motor further up the island where he thought it would be safer. Another yacht, owned by a French couple, was already there when we arrived at the new anchorage. As we were the only boats in the vicinity, we agreed with the other couple that we’d feel more secure being near one another. With the yacht safely anchored, Bernard and I went ashore to further explore Thera’s storybook terrain.

  The town overhanging the cliff was Oia. We trekked up the stairs to Oia and explored the stores along the lone cobbled street that wound through the town. Oia was more laid-back than Fira, with a plethora of galleries and small artsy shops overflowing with handicrafts and handmade jewellery. Its many homes carved into the cliff had blue domed roofs that gave an appealing contrast to the completely white town, and offset any possibility of visual fatigue. The layered buildings flowed one into another, and looked as though they were sculpted from sugar icing with the cliff as the cake that held them.

  At my insistence, we hopped a bus to Fira and took in the basketshaped vineyards and various cave houses along the way. The striking landscape of the countryside seen from the bus window reinforced for me that Thera was a special place. But our visit to Fira was too short to savour the uniqueness of the area. With the Santa Rita out of sight, Bernard was too nervous to relax. We took the next bus back to Oia and ate an early dinner before heading down the cliff for home. Halfway down the steps, we stared in disbelief as a ferry entered the harbour and passed near the Santa Rita, unsettling the water in its wake. On what had been a flat sea, a huge swell rolled in sideways and passed under our yacht and the neighbour’s causing them to collide. We watched in horror feeling totally impotent before the sight. My heart pumped wildly as we raced down the remaining steps, taking them two at a time. Back on the Santa Rita, we were relieved to see there was no damage to our hull, but our yacht had gouged out a sizeable chunk of wood from the railing of the other boat. Fortunately, there was no blame. I think they were as pleased as we were that the damage hadn’t been worse.

  Although the Santa Rita wasn’t hurt, watching the approaching collision of the yachts from our helpless position midway up the cliff unnerved me. I tried not to think about how vulnerable our sailboat was or how we’d ever find the funds if the collision had been serious. Words from one of the sea shanties I’d heard Ewan McCall sing when I was a young girl popped into my head. Back then, the rollicking tunes of sea shanties held promise of freedom and adventure, and I used to play them over and over. But now the poignancy of the lyrics held greater meaning for me. I felt their undertow.

  Oh the times was hard and the wages low

  Leave her, Johnny, leave her

  And the grub was bad and the gales did blow

  And it’s time for us to leave her

  I thought I heard the Old Man say

  You can go ashore and take your pay

  Oh her stern was foul and the voyage was long

  The winds was bad and the gales was strong ...

  Most sailors were fishermen who went to sea out of need, not for adventure. I wondered if I was daft to have chosen this life. As for Bernard, there was no way he could have known he had anchored in a ferry lane until that fateful moment. It exacerbated his already welldefined anxiety about something happening to the Santa Rita.

  Finding a safe spot for the yacht was iffy, and he didn’t want to chance another mishap. I shared his unease, and agreed when he suggested we sail on rather than spend more time exploring Santorini. We missed Oia’s sunset, touted as the most beautiful in the world, but that didn’t bother me. On the sea we had seen
many sunsets, utterly breathtaking in their colour and intensity. I was sure they matched those of Oia.

  My one regret was that we never made it to Akitori, a Minoan settlement in the north of the island that had been preserved in volcanic ash. Akitori homes had pipes with running hot and cold water and flushing toilets, the oldest ever found. That was enough for me to give credibility to Plato’s argument that Santorini was the site of the lost continent of Atlantis believed to have supported a civilization more advanced than any today. When I was a child, outhouses were still in use in parts of America, and here was an ancient civilization that had indoor plumbing long before the birth of Christ.

  By noon we arrived at the small port of Karavostes on the tiny island of Folegandros. Its humped, rocky back rose high above the sea. Along the edge at its highest point, the capital city of Chora glowed a brilliant white under the Mediterranean sun. Chora was known for its old section, but I questioned whether it was worth the hike, though it had been my original plan.

  “What do you think?” I asked Bernard.

  “Let’s do it,” he said. “If we tie up along the pier, we’ll be pretty secure.”

  In the short sail from Santorini to Foligandros, Bernard’s mood as well as his enthusiasm had picked up. Sharing some good time together in Foligandros seemed possible, and I looked forward to the walk.

  Before trekking up to the old quarter, we settled in at one of the outdoor cafés along the waterfront for a light lunch of grilled sea-bass and indulged in a bottle of wine. The street was crowded with small cafés and shops selling novelties, but no one pressured us to enter or buy. The relaxed pace of the locals gave the island a gentle feel in spite of its jagged, almost barren landscape. While checking out the Cyclades, Bernard and I decided not to visit the most travelled islands, and Folegandros seemed to have been entirely overlooked by the tourist crowd — perhaps overshadowed by its bigger, more glamorous neighbour, Santorini. Their loss, as Folegandros offered tasty cheap fare, less crowding, and a languid lifestyle that made the place seductive and worth the visit.

  Chora, like Fera and Oia, was perched on the edge of a cliff with whitewashed houses and narrow streets — all of it wrapped in that warm Mediterranean light that turns whatever it touches luminous. The old section known as the Kastro was built in the thirteenth century, its houses knitted tightly together, their backs to the sea, creating a solid wall of defense against marauding pirates. This jumble of connected white houses, with their stone paved streets and paved steps leading up to the front doors, has been in continuous use since they were built.

  It impressed me knowing that my own country had only been around for a little over 250 years, and the 150-year-old house I was raised in was considered a historical site. I couldn’t conceive of a people staying put for so many generations. Bougainvillaea, jasmine, and potted plants along steps and beside doors softened the stone and enhanced the elegance that the patina of age had given the area.

  Bernard was as pleased as I to take it all in. I warmed towards him as I watched him ease into being more adventurous and accommodating since our arrival on the island. I marvelled at how effortlessly he drifted into the relaxed lifestyle of the local people. He reverted to the partner with whom I had wanted to share this journey, and lulled me into my old affection for him.

  Our next port of call was Milos, the home of Venus de Milo, the beautiful lady whose marble body sans arms was now ensconced in The Louvre in Paris. A number of sculptures belonging to the island had been confiscated by other countries and are now seen in their museums. It attests to the early development and wealth of Milos, a place blessed with a plethora of mineral deposits coveted by many countries going back further than the Bronze Age. I knew none of this before arriving, other than from having seen the Venus de Milo at The Louvre. The wealth of knowledge I acquired through our travels was one of the real joys of our adventure. And the history of a place became so much more alive and relevant after I’d visited where an event occurred.

  Milos, like the rest of the Cyclades, was a volcanic island but ceased its rumbling about 90,000 years ago. Unlike Santorini, there had been no cataclysmic blast, but a series of small eruptions over millions of years that left layer upon layer of mineral deposits in its wake. And though it had the usual array of charming whitewashed houses set high above the sea, its attraction was in the topography of the land. While Folegandros had a rugged crudeness offset by gracious people and a gentle dusting of age, Milos had drama. Almost devoid of vegetation, the island looked as one might imagine a distant planet in the outer reaches of our solar system. Huge rock formations, pushed up by sheer will from the bowels of the sea, rested at the water’s edge like behemoths taking the sun.

  We circled a coastline composed of undulating rock formations that looked like bleached pelvic bones of prehistoric animals fused together. In places it looked as though stone had been melted and moulded into organic shapes by a gigantic furnace. I envisioned a giant sculptor commissioned to arrange the massive hunks of rock into these aesthetic shapes. Had I been a sculptor, I would have used Milos as my inspiration. Mineral deposits coloured some of the terrain in shades of burnt umber and sienna, and the sea in places had hints of emerald, crimson and violet. We sailed past small beaches tucked around the stone, but neither Bernard nor I felt compelled to visit them.

  The following afternoon we left the Cyclades for the Peloponnese Peninsula on mainland Greece, but not before a final lunch of fried sardines at one of the waterfront taverns in Adamas, the main port of Milos. I had become addicted to dawdling at outdoor eateries over cups of coffee or a glass of wine — a relaxing habit I still indulge in.

  We sailed for a day and a half before reaching the port of Gefira on the southeast coast of the Peloponnese. From Gefira, a short causeway led to Monemvasia Island, a huge slab of rock that had broken off from the mainland during an earthquake in the fourth century. We had spotted the island from the Santa Rita as we sailed towards Gefira.

  “Why don’t we visit?” I suggested. “The island’s within walking distance of the port.”

  Bernard agreed.

  Monemvasia supported an intact medieval village that had been carved into its rock. The remains of a fortress dominated the apex, and stone houses with red tile roofs cascaded down to the sea. Much of the town was in ruins and many of the houses empty. The few inhabitants who still lived there seemed determined to preserve its twelfth century architecture and earlier way of life. The quiet, contemplative aura that infused the town captivated me, and I played with the idea of leaving the Santa Rita in the harbour and spending some months in Monemvasia. I envisioned myself in one of the stone houses, gazing out over the clear, turquoise water while writing profound thoughts inside my hardly-used journal. The town was the perfect writer’s retreat.

  But I didn’t think about it for long. Monemvasia had no electricity, and I was too dependent on my few creature comforts. I couldn’t give up my late night reading in the aft cabin or hot sponge baths however meagre my water supply. We didn’t have many amenities on the Santa Rita, but electricity was essential for quality of life. After a good night’s sleep and re-provisioning at a market in Gefira, we set sail again, this time for Pylos on the southwest coast.

  After sunset, we found ourselves becalmed at the southern tip of the Peloponnese near the lighthouse of Faros. The sea was flat and there wasn’t a shred of wind.

  “Let’s call it a night,” Bernard said. “The wind will pick up in the morning. Why don’t you take the first watch?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you in two hours.”

  It must have been about ten at night when Bernard went below deck. I looked around and saw nothing but a sky full of stars and an empty sea. After a while I drifted off into a light sleep, lulled by the gentle bobbing of the boat. A disquieting sensation of something nearby jolted me awake. In front of the Santa Rita, and almost upon us, was an enormous wedge of steel at least sixty feet high. Oh my God, a tanker
! I hadn’t seen it approaching, and it was moving fast.

  “Bernard!” I shouted, paralyzed by the implication of what I saw. “Bernard!”

  Alerted by the urgency in my voice, Bernard raced onto the deck and leaped towards the ignition. In a split second he started the engine and swerved the yacht aside. The tanker raced past us never knowing we were there. It came so close I could have reached out and touched its hull. For a split second I drifted out of real time. Everything appeared in slow motion, even a fantasy of my reaching towards the tanker. And then I came back to my senses. I was shaking. We could have been split apart and sunk.

  Bernard was speechless for the next twenty-four hours. His refusal to acknowledge my presence shouted louder than words that I had shirked my responsibility, and he was right. I made myself as invisible as possible, and stayed out of his way.

  Late afternoon the following day, we arrived in Pylos and entered the main harbour in the Bay of Navarino. The waterfront, shaped like a large horseshoe, was protected on its sea side by a long, narrow stretch of island called Sfaktinia. The Santa Rita was in a circle of safety. After the experience of the night before, it offered us security until we got our bearings. The town hugged the semi-circular shoreline and was a comforting sight with its huge, umbrella-like trees and many outdoor cafés. I hoped it would settle our nerves. However, still traumatized by the night before, neither of us was in the mood to explore.

  As we motored towards the pier, we discovered the harbour was filled with hulking tankers. With good reason, Bernard remained vigilant. At one point a wine tanker came into the port and decided to tie up next to us. As it swung around to come along the pier, it was about to bump us. Bernard leaped on shore and pulled the yacht only a fraction, but that small move averted a collision. We no longer had to worry about pirates as we had in the East, but the Mediterranean would present its own set of problems. I was reminded again that the sea was not a stable home.