EDITOR'S NOTE: Today, we offer Part Two of a seven-day series on boat-related vacations that leave the steering, cooking and maintenance to somebody else. For more about this series and why we did it, please see the Room 13 blog.
I'm talking to Pavlo the Sailor in a back-alley Piraeus café, where mustachioed old men come each morning to sip Greek coffee under bluing Titanic posters and generic wall murals of the Acropolis. It was two days before I was scheduled to sail the Greek islands, and this is my favorite way to pass time in Athens' old industrial port town. The harbor sits just three blocks away, and apart from the café, every shop in the alley sells buoys, lines and life preservers.
Though he tells me he has plenty of experience at sea, Pavlo doesn't look much like a sailor: no wool cap, no bristly beard, no faded tattoos. He looks more like a scientist: slight build, clean-shaven, graying hair and an intense gaze. When I tell him what I do for a living, he nods approvingly and lights a Marlboro. "If you're going to write an article about sailing in Greece," he says, "you must mention Odysseus."
"I don't want to write about myths," I tell him. "I want to see the Greek islands as they are today. Besides, Odysseus sailed to Ithaca. I'll be sailing in the Cyclades.
Pavlo puffs on his cigarette and thinks this over. "I have seen the Cyclades many times," he says. "Each visit to each island depends on when you go, who you go with, and how long you stay."
"Exactly," I say. "It's subjective. That's why Odysseus has nothing to do with me." Pavlo's eyes glitter at me through a cloud of smoke. "Ah, but you're wrong," he says. "That's why Odysseus has everything to do with you."
MYTHIC SEAS, REAL WAVES
There are many ways to get on the water, and not all of them involve sitting in the captain's chair. While we all love our boats, planning a vacation as a passenger this winter will allow you to travel to exotic waters while leaving the hassles to someone else. It's a strong antidote to the dreary, landlocked days some of us have in store.
To lend some inspiration to your planning, Mad Mariner is publishing a story every day this week that highlights vacations both exotic and aquatic - vacations to places like the Greek islands.
Three hours after my conversation with Pavlo, I find myself in eight-foot seas off the coast of Serifos Island, trying not to vomit as I wrap the mainsheet onto the winch of a 55-foot sailboat. The boat's skipper, an unflappable 33-year-old Californian named Max Fancher, comes over to assess my work. "You almost got it," he says diplomatically. "Only you should probably wrap it clockwise instead of counterclockwise, since the winch only goes in one direction."
Nodding at my own mistake (as all sailors know, this is a blatant flub, vaguely akin to putting on underwear over the outside of your pants) I unwrapped the winch and started over. In spite of my seasickness and nautical ineptitude, I'm happy to be sailing into the heart of the Cyclades–a stunningly beautiful archipelago of two-dozen major islands spread across 5,000 square miles of the Aegean, south and east of the Greek mainland. Indeed, when most people envision Greek islands, the Cyclades are what they see: dramatic cliffs and golden beaches; ridges crowned with blue-domed churches; harbors clustered with whitewashed cubist houses.
To glimpse these islands from the seat of a plane or the deck of a commercial ferry is no doubt a thrill, but I've resolved to explore them in the purest sense. Just as the Sahara is best seen by camel and Machu Picchu ideally approached by the Inca Trail, I was wagering the Cyclades are best experienced from the deck of a sailboat.
The only problem with this plan is that I know very little about sailing–and that's why I joined on with a six-boat flotilla organized by Berkeley-based OCSC Sailing. Our two-week goal was to island-hop through the Cyclades to the gorgeous volcanic crescent of Santorini, then loop our way back to Athens–a journey of nearly 300 nautical miles. Most of the 46 sailors in our flotilla are folks who have trained for months on San Francisco Bay specifically for this kind of experience; others, like Gar Dukes and Nicole Friend, who helm the Dafne, are sharpening their sailing skills in anticipation of buying their own boat and sailing it around the world.
Max FancherThe Cyclades are two dozen islands spread across 5,000 miles of sea. Among them are popular destinations like Santorini and Mykonos, and less-traveled areas like Serifos.
My boat, the Assos, consists of Captain Max, his wife Maggie Holmes, a first mate, a photographer, and five female novices ranging in age from 25 to 36. Like me, the other novices came here to mix a hands-on vacation in the Greek islands with informal sailing instruction. Unlike the sailing lessons OCSC offers on San Francisco Bay, this experience does not involve book study or comprehensive training. Rather, those who want to get a taste of sailing are invited to learn the lines by helping with the day-to-day operation of the boat.
Amidst the learning, Max continually reminds us we're on vacation, and the atmosphere onboard the Assos is fun and relaxed. Most of my mates are friends of Maggie's, and they share her insouciant intelligence, a predilection for wearing bikinis, and the tendency to giggle whenever they hear the name Assos. I have a boyish crush on each and every one of them, even though most of them have thrown up at least once this afternoon.
BLISSFULLY MAROONED
Rewrapping the sheet, I ground the winch and adjust the mainsail. The Assos pitched in the waves, and sea spray whipped across the cockpit. As we cleared the lee of Serifos Island, the wind edged up past 25 knots, and Captain Max decided the crew had enough drama for one day. Sheeting in the sails, we motored across the channel to the island of Sifnos, where we moored for the night.
We awakened the following morning to angry whitecaps churning the channel, and reports of 60-knot gusts along the 53-mile route to Santorini. Until these winds let up, Max tells us, we'll be marooned on Sifnos.
Compared to the marquee islands of the Cyclades–Santorini, Ios, Mykonos–Sifnos doesn't have much of a reputation. According to Herodotus, the Classical Era gold and silver mines on this 30-square-mile island made it the richest in the Aegean; a century later, Sifnos won notoriety as the site where the Spartans met with the Persians to plot against Alexander the Great. For the most, part, however, Sifnos has existed as a nondescript suburb of an island, with 2,000 or so inhabitants, known more for its poets and pottery than political or geographical distinction. During Ottoman rule, the Turks never bothered sending a garrison to the island, and though pirates periodically haunted the Cyclades, the patron saint of Sifnos, Panaghia Chryssopighi, is best known for protecting the island against grasshoppers.
Still, the Assos (as my boat-mates and I have taken to calling one another) immediately fell in love with Sifnos. The tourist crowds have left with high season, and we have the island mostly to ourselves. Renting motorcycles, we cruised up intricately terraced valleys to the central plateau, where the houses of Apollonia town lay scattered like big white dice among blue-domed churches and olive groves. We wandered out to the far coast and swam on empty beaches under ridges dotted with almond trees and clumps of wild juniper. We explored the maze-like alleyways in the hilltop fortress of Kastro, where bright pink bougainvillea crept over shuttered windows, and stray cats blinked in the sunlight. In the evening, we sat outdoors at wooden restaurant tables and dined on tzatziki, olives, stuffed peppers, lamb, and local white wine.
Max FancherCaptain Max: "Sometimes you learn best by going out to sea and letting things happen."
After dark, we hiked up to the empty monasteries overlooking the harbor, where we listened to the sound of the wind and the tinkling of goat bells. One day on Sifnos stretches into two in this manner, and two days stretch into three.
The longer we spend on the island, the less ambitious we get. By the third afternoon on Sifnos, most of our time is spent swimming in a lovely turquoise cove under the cliffs of Kastro, and talk of winds and weather has given way to sunbathing and cliff diving. As the sun went down over the water, I swam slowly along the cliff's edge, watching schools of fish dart beneath me in big, watery beams of late-day sunlight. I flipped over onto my back and watched butterflies skim the water as doves dart in the sky above. If the lotus-eaters of Odysseus's day had it any better than this, I'd be surprised.
BACK TO SEA
After three wonderfully indolent days on Sifnos, Captain Max reports that the winds have calmed. We raised anchor, tossed lines, and my crash-course in sailing resumed. As I practiced tying soggy half hitches and sheet bends in a rainy stretch of sea near Folegandros Island, Max assured me that the willingness to make mistakes speeds the learning process. "Sometimes you learn best by just going out to sea and having things happen," he says.
The more I spend aboard the Assos, the more I appreciate how sailing connects me to the rhythms of weather and water. Away from land, moment-by-moment life is less of an abstraction, and the sea gradually reveals itself as an intricate and powerful wilderness. I also discovered that so many metaphors we use to describe life on land originate from the rituals of the sea. Aboard our vessel, when asking if we're "making headway" or offering to "batten down the hatches," I found myself using correct sailing terminology entirely by accident. With each day at sea, through trial and error, I got more and more comfortable with my role on the boat.
Two days out of Sifnos, the rain cleared, and we sailed into the caldera of Santorini under brilliant blue skies.
Often associated with the lost city of Atlantis, this caldera dates back to 1500 B.C., when the biggest volcanic eruption in recorded history collapsed the middle of the island and sent deadly tidal waves surging out across the Mediterranean. Today, 3,500 years later, the dramatic, red-veined cliffs that rim the caldera are studded with elegant churches, flagstone paths, and pastel-hued houses. It's a gorgeous sight, and we trim in our sails and drift around the 32 square-mile caldera to take it all in.
Later, when my boat-mates and I traveled by dinghy to the Santorini shore, we discovered an island snarled with rental-car traffic jams, high-tension power lines, and billboards for places like "Senor Zorba's Mexican Restaurant." After the sleepy anonymity we enjoyed on Sifnos, this came as a letdown. As we made our way to the cliff-top village of Oia, we saw flyers advertising full-moon parties, tavernas touting all-day English breakfasts, and ubiquitous beachfront kiosks selling towels that bear the image of Bob Marley and Che Guevara.
Max FancherWith beach, water and mountains, the crew of Assos always had something to do.
Oia, with its twisting alleyways, cave houses, and grand Orthodox churches, proved more authentic, though visitors from places like Houston, Helsinki, and Hong Kong easily outnumber the 500 or so locals. The time-honored tradition here is to photograph the sunset as it glitters over the waters of the caldera below, and the crew of the Assos would not be left out. Brandishing our digital cameras, we positioned ourselves among hundreds of fellow tourists at cliff-side, each of us trying to catch the perfect angle of sunlight on the whitewashed mansions and church domes–without getting each other's arms and heads and cameras in the frame.
There's an element of postmodern farce here, but I'd reckon this has become a nightly ritual at all the strange and beautiful landmarks of the world–from Angkor Wat, to Iguazu Falls, to the south rim of the Grand Canyon. At best, we'll all come home with images indistinguishable from what one could buy at a decent postcard stand, but somehow–as with high mass, or a Buddhist kora–the ritual itself hints at a deeper reverence.
CHARM IN HUMBLE DOSES
In the end, of course, Santorini was never the goal of our flotilla so much as it was a pivot point. After two nights anchored offshore of the volcanic crescent, we begin our journey back to Athens.
As we follow the winds home, each new island yields humble discoveries. On Sikinos, I dined on wild rabbit and hiked at night under the stars; in the marble-studded mountains of Naxos, I talked politics and drank Nescafe with Greek shepherds; on Paros, I ate ice cream along the harbor while a film crew shot fight scenes for a Greek soap opera. Not the stuff of Odysseus, perhaps, but I found charm in each little adventure.
On our final day at sea–the 39-mile leg from Kea to Athens–a pod of dolphins began to flirt off our port bow. Enchanted, we fired up the engine and wove along with the elegant gray sea creatures for the good part of an hour before running out of fuel. In an instant, the dolphins were gone, and the Assos was left bobbing in the waters off the Greek coast.
We had only a hint of wind for our sails–and Athens is still over 10 miles away–so Captain Max had us haul out a colorful spinnaker. With two weeks of sailing experience behind us, we rig the downwind sail with cheerful efficiency.
For a moment, we rolled with the waves as the spinner hung limp at the bow. Then, a slight breeze billowed the sail, and we witnessed a phenomenon as elemental and bewitching as a bolt of lightning or a spark of fire: Wind and boat connected, lines went tight and we surged forward. As the slight breeze pulled us slowly into Athens, I thought back to Pavlo the Sailor. Nearly 100 years ago, the Greek poet Konstantinos Kavais also used the example of Odysseus to downplay the importance of one's final destination. "Don't expect Ithaca to give you riches," he wrote. "Ithaca has already given you this journey."
Rolf Potts is the author of Vagabonding: An Uncommon Guide to the Art of Long-Term World Travel.