The lee of the mainland bares a lighter sea hue, we spy horses ahead frothing white o’er dark blue. The cape off port-bow portends wind’s sharpest teeth; “Reef the main, Missy Bear, and head east-by-sou’-east”.
The chart hints of isles lying oceans apart,
but it’s line-of-sight sailing each morn‘ we depart. The far, craggy rocks loom for’d of her shrouds, their high peaks caressed by white duvets of cloud.
Shearwaters wheel freely low over the crests, and dolphins may ‘porpoise’ with primordial zest. Approaching the shoals, we beware how we go, we pass a green turtle, paddling where we don’t know.
A white pan of salt on a shore that’s sun-burnt? No: as we approach, clearer shapes are discerned: sugar-cube houses piled-up high round a port formed of white-painted walls framing blue-painted doors,
…and little white churches, with bright sky-blue domes, with stumpy, white bell-towers calling worshippers home. Fresh white shining paint lines each step, path and street - children's white-painted fishes ‘swim’ under your feet.
Bougainville rambles up these cake-icing sides, but sensual assault is not lone for your eyes: jasmine and honeysuckle waft scent heaven-sweet, mixed with wood-fired grill-smoke percolating the street.
Hidden coves harboured fierce Turk pirate's lairs. Greek peasants existing in fear of corsairs. So, Choras were built - far away, out of sight on a high, rocky peak the village took flight.
Picture-card images draw crowds by the load, decanting from ferries, small yachts and speed boats. Drinking expensive cocktails in waterside bars, and buying chic apparel in boutique bazaars.
Her anchor-light star guides tired crew back to her. Clinging on to the tender, we board from astern, to peace and the soothe of the water-cooled air, we escape the hot quay and the discotheque’s blare.
Glide into a bay sheltering sea kept so flat,
with our view ever panning, we swing there and back on a hook that’s ploughed into soft yellow sand - not the grass! - that we spy through this gin-clear glass.
Shrubs green of all shades are shaped into small mounds by the drying north winds that cut through to the ground. Limestone beds twisted, tilted up from the deep, some baked into marble shining whiter than teeth. The leaping goats bleat, nibble herbs that prevail, the dull clanks of their bells often startle the quail - in Greek they’re perdika. In low, whirring flight, they skim o’er the foliage and escape out of sight.
A fisher winds nets over rollers, to spy any snags in his mesh now the filament’s dry. He tosses a fish as the netting rolls past, and a beady gull fields it, its beak a cutlass.
We slip Ursa Minor, in silence to shore,
electric prop whirring, keeping balanced, we four. The depth becomes shallow, the prop I retrieve, step into the water, haul her up on the beach,
…and under the shade of a Tamarisk tree.
We wander the tracks, inhaling scent from hot leaves, and espy old windmills with no corn to grind, its miller long parted, for his fortune to find.
We’ve glimpsed ancient lifestyles upon these bare rocks: subsistence fishermen; farmers minding their flocks; barley; square hay bales, and larks skimming by.
Drinking wine by half-kilo, or an ouzo on ice,
…sat on old wooden chairs, with raffia seats, at tables with paper cloths clipped tight to look neat, we’ve soaked up the esprit of Cycladean isles and long to return, as we’re bewitched and beguiled.
'Song of the Cyclades'
RMC 18 June 2022
s/y Missy Bear
https://www.noforeignland.com/boat/6108757043970048