Say It Ain't So

Third coat of teak stain

A bloomin' sanctuary

Now I can count the remaining days on one hand. Good things always come to end, and more good things always begin—for me it will be seeing my wife and family, Maine friends, the music scene, the garden.

Looking back at our mountain village--Akritohori--from my morning run

I resist taking on new projects, opting instead to reserve the lion’s share of my time for the beach, running, visiting with friends in the village. But resist as I might, there is still some touch-up painting, mortar and stucco repairs, light plumbing, and organizing and cleaning. I fancy the idea of returning—whenever that happens—to a house that is as close to perfect as possible. If only I could bring that ethic back with me!

On the run, part 2--Finikounda in the distance

Only Manny hasn’t yet seen our little spitaki (he was last in Greece in 2012; the old building was purchased in 2013), and the prospect of sharing this adventure with my son holds a special sense of excitement and newness. I look forward to introducing him to so many of my new-found friends who come from so many different countries—and, of course, very special local village friends.

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I try to sleep a bit on the beach between fits and starts of reading, writing, and walking through the dunes. Best of all, hands down, are those dashes across the hot sand and into the luminescent sea.

This is a special place on the Mediterranean littoral, the southwesternmost point of Greece, on the very tip of the Messenian peninsula, where the Ionian Sea meets the larger Mediterranean. This confluence of waters produces a notably famous pallette of ocean colors that defy any mortal description. The passion to share all of this, with friend and with family alike, is enormous. I wonder who will be the first to take my offer of the key? It’s so easy to get here, so hard to tear yourself away.

Lord of the manor--but missing the queen, the princesses and the noble prince

The deepest place in the entire Mediterranean, an ocean that spans from the gates of Gibraltar to the Turkish-Syrian coast, is quite literally on the horizon from my beach chair—at over 22,000 feet deep, it may well be one of the deepest ocean floors anywhere in the world. The depths create varying bands of colors, ranges in ocean temperature, and a wide spectrum of sea creatures.

It is enlightening to meet the small fishing fleet in the early morning and observe the varied catch. Beside the usual species (red mullet, sardines, occasionally swordfish and tuna) there is also a host of strange creatures that appear from the ocean depths—the fishermen themselves arguing about the names of infrequently seen fishes.

The routine

I park the car at the far end of the “big beach,” known as Mavrovouni (“black mountain”), and walk carefully through the sand dunes, careful to avoid loggerhead turtle nests and the curious flora that grows in only a 15-meter band, producing a dizzying array of blossoms.

I bring with me the essentials: plastic beach mat, towel, folding chair, umbrella, shock cords (to keep the umbrella from pin-wheeling down the beach in a gust), a 32-ounce water container, fruit, nuts, camera, my writing pad and the current book—and the all-critical sunscreen, hat, and sunglasses. Forgetting any of these (especially water, hat, and sunglasses) constitutes a show-stopper for the beach. It is that hot. Painfully hot—but with no humidity. If you can imagine a fantastic saltwater beach in the Arizona desert, this is it.

Happily encamped

After setting up camp—which includes finding flat rocks and dry bamboo—I take my first swim. I head out a few hundred meters, perpendicular to the beach, then turn either right or let, and continue to swim for a quarter mile or so. The combination of saltwater and warm temperatures provide sufficient bouyancy for even the most tenuous of swimmers. There are no currents, there is no undertow. Most often the surf is light, inviting, gentle. The perfect place to learn (or re-learn) to swim.

When I return to “Camp Yianni” I begin by meditating for twenty minutes—a daily practice for many, many years—watching my breath and letting those inevitable distractions (most of my own making) wash away. In the Mahayana style, I try not to push them away too strenuously. Instead I note the usual stuff as it enters my consciousness (thoughts of work, of financial insecurity, of the dire state of our hopeless political and social malaise) and then I let it go. These little intrusions on my twenty minutes feel like pieces of cork bobbing around aimlessly in a vast ocean of quiet. I gently push them to one side.

View from the beach chair, toes wet

After twenty minutes or so, I start the usual cycle: I write, read, nap, swim, nibble on snacks, drink water. Then I repeat. Again and again. Until it’s just two hot. That might be one hour or three hours.

I like to walk the beach. It is an act of faith, leaving your bag under you umbrella—with passport, wallet, the whole shebang. There is something like an unspoken solidarity among the folks on the middle beach, with everyone keeping a casual eye on everyone else’s stuff and alert to potential mischief. There is very little of it.

And I am confident in my ability to outrun most thieves half my age.

Translation: "This place is being watched"