EDITOR'S NOTE: Today, we offer Part Six 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.
As I paddle my kayak along the mountainous edge of Crete's southwest coast, I hear a strange sound on the water and slow to a glide. Resting my paddle across my lap, I try to place the sound. Is it a wind-chime? The clank of cooking pot? For a moment, I hear nothing and carefully scan the sheer, pale cliffs of the shore for signs of activity.
Normally, a lone sound does not fascinate me so, but any sign of onshore life is a novelty on this empty edge of Crete. Yesterday, for example, I was entranced by a boatload of Greek women dressed in black, lined up outside a lonesome shrine to St. Paul. This morning, I was startled to spy two-dozen elderly German nudists spread out along a narrow cove.
After awhile, I recognize the strange sound as the tinkling of goat bells, and I spot a shepherd and his flock negotiating the steep slopes of the shore. I bob on the waves and watch the pastoral spectacle for several minutes before dipping my paddle into the water and moving on.
DESTINATION ISOLATION
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. 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 like touring Crete–by kayak.
Finding fascination in a lone shepherd underscores the remote feel of this corner of Crete, known as Sfakia, where deep canyons slice through the mountainous landscape, roads are few, and electricity has yet to arrive in many villages. To mainland Greeks, it is said, Crete feels far-flung and isolated. To Cretans themselves, Sfakia feels far-flung and isolated. The people who live here have a reputation as the most fierce–yet hospitable–folks in all of Greece. Come as a guest, and you'll meet warm and zealous hosts. Come as an invader, and you'll meet a vicious enemy. Even in the years when the Roman, Venetian and Ottoman empires lay claim to Crete, local insurgents thrived in the remote mountains and gorges of Sfakia, and the region was never fully colonized.
Such rugged isolation–a world away from the tourist throngs that populate the northeast coast of the island–is what brought me to this part of Crete. That, and the chance to sharpen my kayaking skills in a region where goats outnumber people, and rounding each new headland promises a new vista of dramatic cliffs, caves, and brilliant blue waters.
For the past several days, 11 of us have paddled our way along the Cretan coast. Our guide in this adventure is Rick Sweitzer, a fit, silver-haired Chicagoan whose outfitting company, Northwest Passage, has been leading kayaking and bicycling adventures in Crete for 25 years. After two days of kayak training at the 1960's hippie haunt of Matala, where Roman-era cave-mausoleums honeycomb the cliffs, we took a shuttle van west into the White Mountains of Sfakia and hiked 15 miles through the forested national park in Samarian Gorge, down to the deep turquoise waters of the Libyan sea.
Rick met us there with a support van and a trailer full of kayaks. From the coastal village of Agia Roumeli, our goal is to paddle the coast of Sfakia, sleeping in the coastal village of Loutro and visiting the regional capital of Hora Sfakion. Beyond Sfakia, we plan to paddle to the more traveled beach communities of Plakias and Agia Galini before negotiating an open-water crossing back to Matala–75 miles by sea.
Though kayaking this far in a little under a week is technically a challenging task, in practice it has proven quite pleasant and manageable, as the bulk of our gear is shipped ahead of us by van and ferry. Each morning, we wake up early and paddle for five or six hours, stopping en route for coffee, lunch, swimming or the occasional cliff-dive. At night, we stop in coastal villages to sleep in local inns and dine on grilled fish, Greek salad, and honey-baked Sfakiot cheese pie, all washed down with house wine and raki, a local Cretan firewater distilled from grape skins.
THE LOUTRO BODYBUILDER
Most of my companions are here to savor this sublime combination of physical challenge, natural beauty, and fine dining. My biggest thrills come in the small details that underscore our isolation in this typically touristed corner of the Mediterranean. On our third day of paddling, for instance, we come ashore to find that a ruined 14th century Venetian fortress sports a makeshift weightlifting set fashioned out of iron bars and cement blocks. Curious, I hike back down the ridge into the small village of Loutro in search of the bodybuilder.
Midway down the coast of Sfakia, Loutro is a lovely, palm-lined fishing town that rims the only natural harbor on the south coast of Crete. According to the Book of Acts, this harbor was intended to be St. Paul's winter haven in Crete, before a storm sent his ship careening toward Malta. My arrival proves much more pleasant and, with Rick's help, I eventually find the man who built the improvised gym in the Venetian ruins. Tall and broad shouldered, with sandy hair and a low-buttoned white shirt, he looks like the kind of guy who might find pleasure in smashing plates over his head, or picking up tables with his teeth. His name, he tells me, is Pavlo Kantounatakis.
"I don't lift weights that much anymore," he says as he prepares a table for us at Sifis, his taverna and inn. "I was in much better shape when I was living in Cleveland."
"Cleveland?" I asked.
"There was a time when the only jobs for young men in Loutro were with international shipping companies," he said. "A generation of men from Loutro saw the whole world this way." Pavlo tells the story of how, after many years at sea, he settled in Cleveland and made a small fortune painting bridges. Eventually, he took the money back to Loutro and opened the whitewashed, blue-shuttered Sifis Inn.
"We have a reputation for being provincial in this part of Crete, but Loutro isn't that way anymore," he said. "We're the most cosmopolitan town in Sfakia."
Pavlo is right: Though technically a fishing village, most every building along the Loutro waterfront has been transformed into an inn or restaurant. Small groups of French and Norwegian and Canadian tourists, most arriving by ferry from Plakias, lounge in the restaurants at night. With clear blue-green water, pebbly beaches and no motor traffic, the village has a wonderfully sleepy atmosphere.
PRESIDENTIAL GUN
The following day my fellow kayakers and I load up and continue our progress along the Cretan coast. Morning is my favorite time for kayaking here. The weather is still cool, and the early light bathes the cliffs in brilliant colors. I veer off from my companions and paddle slowly, enjoying the calm water and the morning silence. As I glide, tiny seedpods skitter along the water's surface and schools of small fish dart beneath me.
Eventually I catch up to the others, and we stop in the comparatively urban town of Hora Sfakion, which is connected to the rest of the island by road. Over lunch, a charismatic, mustachioed gentleman named Stavros Magelakis tells me about the time in 2004 when the president of Greece came to visit Sfakia.
"He gave a speech against the use of guns," Stavros says. "This is a big problem in Svakia: People are always getting hurt shooting off guns at weddings, or turning them against each other in family vendettas. The president's speech was very convincing, and the people of Hora Sfakion have him a huge ovation. Then we declared him an honorary citizen and presented him with a gun."
"A gun?" I ask.
Stavros smiles and shrugs. "They didn't mean to contradict the president; it's just that a gun is such an appropriate Sfakian gift. We have always been hunters here, resistance fighters, men of strength and honor. Nobody considered the irony."
After lunch, we leave Hora Sfakion and paddle for the rest of the day. We churn through 23 miles of gorgeous coastline–our longest day of kayaking–and finally arrive in a town called Plakias before dusk. Here, I notice that the random indicators of coastal solitude have given way to more conventional tourist landmarks: Sandy beaches lined with umbrellas, speedboats and water taxis, waterfront tavernas full of Brits blasting techno music.
A check of my map confirms my suspicion. We have crossed out of Sfakia and into the less mountainous, more accessible stretch of central Crete. Paved roads zigzag inland toward the island's major cities, and my sense of isolation is momentarily shattered.
Fortunately, I have two more days of sea kayaking to indulge my solitude. The following morning, I wake up, pull my kayak up the beach, and paddle out into the deep blue waters.
Rolf Potts is the author of "Vagabonding: An Uncommon Guide to the Art of Long-Term World Travel."