Where Is Weare?

WHEN I GOT HOME there was a package for me from Jane Joyce. It contained a letter explaining what would be required of me, a letter of introduction to a certain Captain Bob Weare, and a brochure with details and pictures of the boat, as well as a receipt for a sum of money she had paid the said captain.

“I am about to go under the knife,” she wrote. “Meanwhile, here is what you must do. The boat is not at the island, Spetses, yet. It has been looked after this winter by Captain Bob, who I fear is a dreadful old reprobate. He has the papers and the keys and has undertaken some repairs that had become necessary. He can be contacted at Bar Thalassa, Euripides 5, Kalamaki. Good-bye, my dear, the best of luck and I look forward to seeing you and the refurbished Crabber in Spetses on my return.” There was also a check for a couple hundred dollars to cover expenses.

I looked at the pictures of my first command, a pretty little boat with a long wooden bowsprit and a picturesque suit of red canvas sails … a long way from my grandfather’s captured battleships, but it would do for a start.

“ABSENCE MAKES THE HEART grow fonder” I said to Ana as she took me to the airport … and I meant it. I flew to Athens and took a bus down to Kalamaki, where, humping my bag and my guitar with me, I trudged around the hot streets looking for Euripides. Thalassa means “sea” in Greek, so I figured the bar must be on the waterfront. But it wasn’t, and after a number of confusions and misdirections, I eventually tracked it down. It was a dreary sort of a dive, with plastic tables perched on the curb of a backstreet, beneath some stunted plane trees; but the barman was pleasant, spoke some English, and knew my man.

Captain Bob, it seemed, was in the habit of coming to the bar at about six or seven, though he hadn’t been seen for some days. I stowed my baggage in a corner of the bar and, ordering a salad and a jug of retsina, sat in the shade with my Greek grammar. Customers came and went, flies buzzed, cars and vans crawled along the potholed road. Six o’clock came and went, so did seven and eight o’clock. The sun set, and with it came the blessed cool of evening and the orange glow of streetlights; my Greek book was becoming increasingly tedious. With no sign of Captain Bob, I checked into a hotel recommended by the barman, conveniently located just beneath the take-off path of the airport, a cheap dump of a place that turned out, with the inevitability of these things, to be a whorehouse.

Next day I returned to Thalassa for breakfast and afterward headed down to the marina to see if I could find the boat. There were hundreds and hundreds of gleaming plastic boats all bobbing at their moorings on the foul, oily slop that constituted the sea in Kalamaki Marina. In the hot morning sun I marched along pontoon after pontoon, watching the glistening brown men and women beavering about on their boats. But there was nothing even remotely resembling a Cornish Crabber.

It wasn’t hard to tell, as a Crabber is a most singular design of boat. From the brochure that Jane Joyce had sent me, I knew that the hull was black; that her mast and spars were wooden as opposed to the more modern aluminum; that her sails were red; and her stem was plumb … and sure as hell she would be the only boat in all of Kalamaki Marina with a plumb stem. (A plumb stem is where the front of the boat or bow enters the waterline at the vertical, as opposed to the elegant streamlined curve of, say, a clipper stem. It’s the way fishing smacks are, and all the boats that feature in eighteenth-and nineteenth-century Dutch seascape paintings have plumb stems.)

All in all the Crabber was the choice of an aesthetically sophisticated owner who knew nothing about sailing but was determined that it should be beautiful. There was no sign, though, of such a boat among the slinky white craft moored stern to (parked backward) at the pontoons.

Next I checked the area where the boats were lined up in winter storage—again nothing resembling a Crabber. Finally, a little confused and worried, I went across to a sort of dump where the wrecks lay, poor old crippled boats who had given of their best and were now left to rot in this dusty corner of the boatyard. There were scores of boats here; I walked up and down the lines and in and out between them and suddenly, emerging from behind a rusting steel hulk, I saw the Crabber. There was no mistaking it. She was listing to one side, half propped by some flimsy timbers and with a tattered tarpaulin half on and half off.

I didn’t know a lot about boat maintenance then, but it was obvious that this poor old thing was in the most terrible state. Clearly nobody had done a stitch of work on it all winter. It was a wreck. I climbed onboard and looked it over. There wasn’t even an engine in it—the removal of which seemed to be about as far as the winter maintenance had gone. I sat there in the hot sun on the boat and studied the battered woodwork. It didn’t take much to see that the infamous Captain Bob Weare was a crook, or an incompetent, or both.

Having established the way things stood with the Crabber, I spent another afternoon in the bar trying hard to concentrate on my Greek grammar, but more often contemplating what looked like the ruin of my promising summer. There was no sign of Weare. I wondered how Jane, with all her apparent competence and authority, had been gulled by this person who had neither address nor phone number, but just a bar as a point of contact. But then again, she had contracted me as skipper and sent me a check for the boat’s expenses. Perhaps she was a little too trusting.

IT WAS MORE THAN a week before I managed to run Captain Weare to ground.

One evening I entered the Thalassa as usual, a little angry by now and far from confident of meeting the person whose deceitfulness was laying waste my plans for the summer. But on this occasion Yannis, the waiter, beckoned me over.

“Weare is here,” he said in an undertone, flicking his eyes toward an outside table. “There is Weare.”

Apprehensively I went over to the table, where the man was drinking a beer with some associates. “Would you be Captain Weare?” I asked, making an effort to be polite and unaggressive.

He half turned and looked at me without warmth for a moment before saying, “Who wants him?”

Weare, seated in his chair, was a short, stout man with no apparent neck. His face was a shocking red and dominated by a round and pockmarked nose and eyes of a watery and unlovely blue. He wore a filthy white boiler suit.

I extended my hand, which he shook perfunctorily.

“My name’s Chris,” I said. “And I’m looking after the Crabber this summer for Jane Joyce.”

He considered me arrogantly, then took a swig from his beer. “You are, are you?” he said. “Well, the boat’s not ready yet; there’s some finishing touches left to do.”

“I should think there are,” I said, struggling to contain myself. “It hasn’t even got the engine in …”

“The engine,” sneered Weare, “is the least of its problems. It’s got osmosis.”

It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep my temper, but the bastard held all the trump cards—he knew the boat and, more to the point, had the engine, keys, and papers.

“So what do you intend to do about it?” I spluttered.

“Know about osmosis, then, do you?” he asked, as he reached for the beer again and, with his eyes fixed on mine, took another long swig.

I stammered something incoherent about this not being the issue.

“Look,” he growled, “I haven’t time to explain it all to you tonight.” And he turned his back to me and spat some words out in Greek. From his friends’ raucous laughter I could tell they were obscenities.

Quaking with fury, I went to pay my bill at the bar. “I tell you what Bob Weare is like,” said Yannis, with a look of complicity. “He is of bad character.”

I went to a phone box and rang Jane in London.

“Chris,” she said, “I’ve always had my suspicions of this man, and from what you say I now doubt that he was ever a captain of anything. The title is mere mendacity. You have my full confidence and authority to do what needs to be done. I am so sorry for your trouble. It is entirely my fault for putting my trust in this serpent. I promise I will make it up to you, but now, if you will, I would like you to take the matter out of the detestable Weare’s hands, arrange to have done whatever work needs to be done to the boat, and sail her down to the island.”

There was something about the sincerity with which she issued this trusting and near impossible demand that seduced me utterly. I was impressed, too, by her ability to take command of the situation; even surgery wasn’t going to sideline such a tough and indomitable woman. At that moment I would have laid down my life for her. Certainly I would take on the task of sorting out the beastly machinations of the serpent Weare. But it would be far from easy, as I knew nothing of Greece, my command of the language was negligible, and I had never fixed up a boat before. On top of which there was Weare to contend with, and as the days went by he seemed, by his general intransigence and obstructiveness, to do everything in his power to make things even more difficult than they already were.

I had imagined, now that a whole month had passed, that I would be living on the boat in the pretty little harbor of Spetses, and that my days would be spent cruising pleasantly from island to island with my enchanting employer and her friends. Instead I was stuck in Kalamaki, one of the vilest spots in Greece, where the roar of the constant traffic on the busy coastal road to Athens was smothered every ten minutes or so throughout the day and night by the noise of aircraft taking off and landing. There was a long, grubby beach on the edge of the road and a line of enormous ugly hotels.

The marina itself was vast, and all the more galling for me as I watched boat after boat set off from the harbor mouth into the beautiful blue sea beyond. They were like flying ants, launching themselves one after another from a blade of grass, and me the poor earthbound ant, condemned to stay behind, wingless, and watch them, as the sun caught and then flickered in the beauty of their silver wings.

The only consolation—and there’s always at least one consolation—was a patisserie half an hour’s walk away in the town. Here I would sit at the end of the day, and with the joy of Nikos Kazantzakis’s Zorba the Greek—I had dumped the grammar—assuage the misery of my situation with a coffee and the most divine chocolate cake, or perhaps a mango ice cream. It is one of life’s great blessings that the safety valves of the human condition operate in such a simple way: misery’s turmoil sweetly stilled by a sip of fine wine; pain dulled by a bite of good bacon, or a smile from a pretty girl.

Little by little I made progress, too. I traveled on foot in the heat and the dust from one yacht chandler to another until I found somebody prepared, for a consideration, to help me sort out my problem. I hit upon a person who I reckoned was called Ecstaticos, although I was told later that it was Eustathios. He was a smooth operator if ever I saw one, in a sharp suit and shades, and with a glinting smile, but at least he was prepared to take on the job. “My men will be there tomorrow morning,” he assured me as we sat in his opulent air-conditioned office in Piraeus. “They will assess the problem and do the work and you will have your boat.”

I shook hands with him, and bounced off to ring the Boss. As a result of being so steeped in Zorba, I had taken to calling Jane “Boss,” which she seemed to like.

“We’re on the move, Boss,” I cried joyously down the phone. “Work starts tomorrow morning and I guess I’ll be bringing the boat down sometime next week.”

“Well, hot lickety dogspittle, I knew all along you were the man for the job. Well done, dear Chris, and thank you, thank you.”

A WEEK LATER, AS I waited disconsolately and alone on the wreck of my summer command, a disreputably shabby old three-wheeled tin van, known by the Greeks as a trikiklo, wormed its way among the potholes, rusting iron, and nautical detritus of the Kalamaki boat graveyard. I watched it with interest, and the smallest shred of hope kindling in my heart. Could this really be the manifestation of Ecstaticos’s promise? It pulled up uncertainly. The incumbents extricated themselves from the little cab and looked up at me.

“You Jane Joyce?” said the shorter of the two, squinting against the sunlight.

“No, I’m Chris.”

“I’m Nikos.”

We shook hands. The other one emerged from the other side of the boat, which he had been inspecting.

“Hi,” he said—they both spoke English with a strong transatlantic accent—“Nikos.”

“You’re both Nikos, then?”

“Yup,” they chorused. Not that you could confuse the two of them: one was tall and dark with an aquiline nose, the other slight with a close red beard.

“Y’know, Chris,” said red-beard-Nikos, “I would say that this ain’t so much a yacht like we was led to believe, more a boat, no?”

While he was making this observation tall-dark-Nikos was dragging a heap of junk, which might once have been tools, out of the trikiklo. “Right, let’s look see what we gonna do.”

They crawled all over the boat, poked it and tapped it and scraped it and confabulated unfathomably in Greek.

“Got some osmosis and it don’ seem to have no engine,” announced red-beard-Nikos. “The engine we can get a noo engine an’ put ’er in, the osmosis we gotta take the whole outer coatin’ of the hull off and give ’er another coat. Then we oughta clean up the spars a bit an’ touch up the woodwork … take about a week, I guess.”

A week … just a week! The scales of gloom dropped from my heart, and I skipped inwardly with sweetest delight. Ana was coming over for a holiday in a week—and the thought of having the Crabber to cruise her round the Greek islands before the boss turned up … well, I could scarcely contain my happiness.

And then I remembered I didn’t have the boat’s keys. I put this to the Nikoses.

“Keys, man?” laughed tall-dark-Nikos. “Keys are for engines. You got no engine. We get a noo engine, noo keys. No problem.” And having sprung me free in one simple phrase from the hold Weare had over me, he pulled the cord and started the generator. Each Nikos then connected up an angle grinder and laid into the hull.

I was jubilant and would have gamboled like a lamb and sung like a lark except that the whining and screaming of the grinders and the evil-smelling black dust of vaporized paint and glass fiber were choking out every impulse. The sun had risen and was hot as hell, too. But the Nikoses were young and tough, and it seemed like they knew what they were at.

“You wanna grinder?” asked tall-dark-Nikos.

“Sure, if it’ll make things quicker.” I tied a handkerchief over my nose and mouth in imitation of my new friends and got stuck into the other side of the hull. It was an awful job, the noise and the smell and the filth and the heat, and it had not been a condition of our agreement that I would have to work on the boat. But anything to expedite the process and, besides, I might learn something.

I was lulled into a sort of a trance by the roaring of the generator and the screaming of the three grinders. Every now and then the note of the generator would rise, as a result of one of the grinders being turned off, and one of the Nikoses would appear around the side of the boat, watch my work for a bit, and offer an observation on some subject not necessarily connected to the business in hand.

“Y’know Chris,” red-beard-Nikos addressed me one morning, “it seems to me that English medieval history is very poorly documented. What is your opinion of this?”

I switched off my grinder and laid it on the ground. I looked at Nikos for a bit and he looked at me.

“Hard to say, Nikos,” I said.

He considered this for a moment, then returned to his side of the boat. I started my grinder, the generator dropped, then picked up again as the other Nikos turned his grinder off, the better to hear what his colleague had to report. They discussed my noncommittal reply for a bit, then the generator took up the load again as both grinders got back to work, and we would all sink back into the working trance.

Ten minutes or so later the engine note would rise and, sure enough, the other Nikos, the handsome dark one, would appear. “You think Shakespeare wrote all the late plays, or you reckon it was that Philip Sidney?”

In this fashion the work continued until about two o’clock, when the heat became too intense to carry on, and the Nikoses downed tools, climbed back into the trikiklo, and went off for a siesta.

They didn’t come back that first evening, and the next day they didn’t turn up at all … but the day after they came and worked like lunatics without stopping, all day long. They were not what you’d call altogether reliable, but it was clear that they knew what they were doing, and little by little we got to like one another. But as the week passed, the wretched Crabber was nowhere near ready for sea. Maybe I found it hard to hide my disappointment as I waved good-bye to the Nikoses on my way to fetch Ana from the airport. I trudged off in the direction of the road. A minute later, there was red-beard-Nikos, panting by my side.

“Hey, man,” he said, dangling a primitive-looking key before my eyes, and giving me a conspiratorial wink. “Take the trikiklo. Impress her.”

I HAD ALREADY BEEN away for about a month and I was beside myself at the prospect of seeing Ana. She wore a straw hat with real cornflowers in the band and, as a consequence of a felicitous acquaintance in the airline industry, she had been plied with so much alcohol on the plane that she was almost unable to speak. Weaving in the trikiklo through the frenzied Athens traffic, I took her to the whorehouse where, in rather unpromising circumstances, we did what we could to become reacquainted with each other.

Later, with Ana fast asleep, I took the trikiklo back to the boatyard.

“So where’s your girlfriend, man?” asked the Nikoses, in what I thought was a rather conspiratorial fashion.

“Er … she’s sleeping. But she was certainly impressed by the trikiklo.”

“Well, bring her down to the boat tomorrow, man. We’d sure as hell like to meet her.”

Over coffee and cake I told Ana how disappointed I was about not having the boat to take her for a spin round the islands. I had been dreaming of this ever since I got involved with the Crabber, but now it was not to be.

“But I’d like to see your boat, anyway,” she said.

So next morning I took her down to meet the Nikoses and show her the Crabber. I thought I might have made a horrible mistake when the Nikoses turned on their Mediterranean charm and gallantry, and I felt wanting by comparison. I was just an ungainly Anglo-Saxon oaf. Ana was enchanted by the dazzling Nikoses, who had spruced themselves up to a certain limited extent for this meeting, and she also professed a certain admiration for the Crabber. All in all we spent a pleasant hour.

As we turned to leave for the shabby hotel and the grubby beach, tall-dark-Nikos beckoned me to follow him. He led us out of the boatyard and down onto the pontoons. We walked along past gleaming yachts and gin palaces, until he stopped at an unassuming little sailing boat that seemed somehow out of place among all the ostentatious opulence.

“There you go,” he said with a big grin. “There’s your boat. Take her away; she’s all fueled up. I guess you know how to sail, no?”

“B-but what do you mean, Nikos?” I spluttered.

“This is Nikos’s boat … well, it’s not exactly his, but we fixed things so you can use it. Nobody’s gonna know. Go on, take Ana for a trip down the coast; Sounion is a kinda nice trip … and it’s easy, too: just stick to the coast and turn left after a couple of hours.”

I HAVE TO ADMIT that the boat was not up to much … I mean, it was a great gesture on the part of the Nikoses, but it was disappointingly similar to Keith’s wretched tub. Nonetheless, I was ecstatic at the mere thought of getting out there on that glorious sea with my girlfriend, in any kind of boat. And to Ana one boat was much like another.

So we motored out of the marina, hoisted the sail, and, with me happily wielding the tiller and Ana taking instructions at the jib, we sailed away on that sunny afternoon, hugging the coast all the way down to Sounion. Toward evening we anchored in the bay about fifty yards off the beach and, with our clothes in plastic bags held high above our heads, we swam to the shore.

As night fell we wandered in the moonlight alone at the Temple of Poseidon, high on the cape of Sounion. We sat side by side on a warm rock and watched the play of the moon on the ancient white marble, and wondered at the loveliness of Greece. It put Ana in mind of poetry. She began to declaim little snatches of epic verse I’d long forgotten … if I’d ever known them at all.

“That’s nice,” I said, slipping my arm round her shoulders. “Did you just make that up?”

“It’s Byron,” she replied … with just a hint of condescension in her voice. “He sat perhaps on this very stone, and I think he carved his name on one of these pillars of the temple.”

“No? Surely not. What a dastardly thing to do.”

“Indeed. And I’m pretty sure he slept here too. He was very keen on sleeping wild in classical monuments, or maybe he just liked climbing up to them to see the sunset and got stuck in the dark.”

I thought for a moment how romantic it would be to curl up together in the shelter of an ancient marble block for the night. But then I remembered how cold marble gets, and how sharp and very stony it can be, and our snug boat lulled by the calm waters seemed a much better option.

We drank wine at a taverna on the beach, and ate a sweet pink fish, alluringly arrayed upon its dish, while the foam from the wavelets lapped at our bare feet in the sand. Sated with all that succulence and not a little sodden with wine, we swam out to where the boat swung on her anchor and settled down in the balmy night air to sleep on the deck beneath the moon and stars.

Next morning we headed home, scudding on a west by northwest wind back toward the loathsome Kalamaki. It was a matter of getting the boat, which the Nikoses had clearly nicked on our behalf, back to the marina before its owner discovered its loss.

“You wanna be careful get that boat back here before two o’clock, because if not she turn into a karpouzi,” tall Nikos had said, rather pleased with his variation on the Cinderella theme. (A karpouzi is a watermelon.)

The sea was the deepest blue but for the pale white foam of the bow wave. The scents of baked rosemary and thyme and pungent, hot pine swirled in warm currents of air off the land to delight us as we passed.

ANA HAD ONLY A few days left before she had to return to Sussex. She had a business to see to. Just before I left she had begun supplying greenery to local offices to brighten their gloomy reception areas and the idea seemed to be catching on. So after little more than a week, she said her fond good-byes to the Nikoses, and, loading her bags in the back, I drove her back to the airport in the trusty trikiklo.

For all their qualities, the Nikoses had only the shakiest grasp of the workings of time, and thus the projected week extended ever further into the distant realms of probability. Some days they came, some days they didn’t, but little by little the boat started to take shape. We spent several days stuffed into the trikiklo cruising the business end of Piraeus looking for an engine. We found one that fit, humped it back to the Crabber, and the Nikoses set about installing it. I busied myself with the less technologically demanding work of sanding down and oiling the mast and spars.

We were clearly on the final stretch now.

Then one particularly luminous morning—I remember that even in Kalamaki there was a special quality to the light reflected in the grubby scum of the harbor—Nikos handed over a crumpled message. It was from Jane, sent via Ecstaticos, whose contact details I had given her as soon as I had engaged him. She was at Spetses at last in their summer villa and there was her telephone number. I dropped my oily paintbrush and rushed to the Bar Thalassa, where as a regular customer they let me use the telephone.

“Hi, Boss. How’s the hips?” I asked.

“Much better now I’m here—nothing a bit of Greek sunshine and sea won’t cure. Your Ecstaticos tells me the boat’s nearly ready.”

“It’s looking good. I don’t want to be unduly optimistic, but I reckon within the week she should be done.”

“Well, that’s the most marvelous news, Chris. Now tell me, would you care to come across on the hydrofoil and join us for luncheon tomorrow? I’d love you to meet our friends here, and I can hand you the papers for the boat.” It seemed Captain Weare had only had photocopies…. Hmm, so maybe she hadn’t been quite so trusting after all.

SO THE NEXT MORNING I took the bus along to Piraeus and hopped on a hydrofoil, one of the “Flying Dolphins,” known by the Greeks as Flyings. The sea was rough, so the passengers were confined, moaning and subdued, to the cabin, and all I saw of the sea and the islands was a blur of rock and water through spray-soaked windows. I buried my nose in Zorba. In a couple of hours, squinting against the noonday sun, I stepped onto the long concrete quay of Spetses. Cries of “Ella, Ella” (“Here! Here!”) rang out around me as the crew nonchalantly tossed ropes onto the quay. The handful of disembarking passengers shouldered their bags, some hugging waiting families or lovers; a trolley manned by a handsome brown-limbed youth picked up the parcel post. I watched as the hydrofoil eased slowly away from the dock—more cries, more snaking ropes—then I turned and followed the Spetsiots up toward the town.

My first Greek island, a richly textured little city-state. It smelled of the sea, of which there was a lot, it being an island; also hot pine because what wasn’t beach or olive grove or town was pine forest … and then there was fish, fresh or frying, and roasting meat. As a subtle counterpoint there was burnt petrol from the little motorbikes and vans, and from time to time an agreeable hint of drains.

Little wooden boats, blue and white, the beautiful Greek caïques, jostled one another on the swell set up by the unruly sea. Gulls cried, flapping to and fro with beakfuls of the glistening bowels of fish. Outside the kafeneion, fishermen, dressed like Bolsheviks in worn shirtsleeves and frayed trousers, sat at wooden tables, idly clicking their worry beads and nursing little glasses of milky ouzo and water. The town was tiny, a labyrinth of cobbled alleys clustered round the dock. The buildings blazed white in the bright sunshine, with the woodwork picked out in blue. The scale, the proportions, and the color seemed perfectly contrived to make you feel at ease. Here and there handfuls of holidaymakers ambled among the alleys, happily displaying their newly browned limbs. They smelled of the sweetest scents and suntan lotion, and they laughed and twittered in that peculiar state of abandon and gaiety that holidays bring.

The euphoria was infectious; I gave a hitch to my bag and strolled among the squares and alleys, my heart lightened by so much beauty and pleasure. Little by little I left behind me the hubbub and the din of the town and, following the directions that Jane had given me, climbed up through the quieter streets to the north, hugging the shade to escape the fierceness of the glaring sun. A mottled dog loped by. Somewhere a turkey gobbled. A donkey tethered in the shade of a tall eucalyptus tree brayed long and loud, enough to break your heart.

“The reason a donkey makes that heartrending noise,” I reflected, thinking of country lore, “is because the donkey has seen the devil.”

To Spiti Joyce—The Joyce House—Jane had told me, could be located by means of a tall eucalyptus with a donkey tethered to it. I crossed a shadeless stretch of waste ground and pulled the bell set in a high white wall. I waited in the shade of an overhanging oleander; the hot air thick with the sweet scent of jasmine and the pleasant cat-piss smell of fig.

A fumbling on the far side of the door, and there was Bob. “Well, if it isn’t our new skipper. Delighted to see you, Chris. Come and join us; we have a few friends over for luncheon.”

I dumped my bag on the cobbles of the patio, mussed up my hair a little with my hands and dusted myself down, then followed Bob through into the cool of the house and out onto the terrace. Here, beneath the dappled shade of a spreading fig, was set the table, a simple calico cloth and some fresh flowers, some glimmering glasses with cool white wine. By this time I was steeped in euphoria; the contrast between the grimness of Kalamaki and this lovely Mediterranean island was almost too much to take in.

“Chris, what perfect timing,” called Jane from her seat at the head of the table. She seemed not a jot altered by her hospital ordeal. “I shall not rise to greet you, dear boy,” she continued, beckoning me forward, “as my wretched new titanium bones dictate that I remain seated, but help yourself to a glass of wine and come and give an account of yourself. These are our good friends.”

There were not many friends: the Nomíkoses, an elderly Greek couple, expensively dressed and coiffed and just a shade reserved; I shook their hands. Next to them sat a much younger woman, slim with thick dark hair twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck. She looked up at me, her brown eyes alight with amused intelligence.

“And this,” enunciated Jane, “is Florica.”

Well, I liked the look of Florica. She had a casual grace that immediately put you at your ease and a dazzling smile. I kissed her on each cheek and sat down rather presumptuously beside her. A hint of lemon blossom wafted across as she turned to ask me how the fiasco with the boat was going. Her voice was low, her accent cosmopolitan.

Jane surveyed us with the satisfied expression of a benign aunt. “Let’s wait for Tim, my dears; then we can eat lunch and Chris can tell us about the unfortunate Crabber,” she said. Then added, “I think you’ll hit it off with Tim. He’s English, you know, and a writer and can turn his hand to absolutely anything. He’s so wonderfully clever.”

As if on cue the bell jangled.

A tall, tanned man stepped into the courtyard and greeted Jane and Bob with unaffected warmth; the Greeks he greeted politely in Greek. Then, pulling up a chair next to Florica, he extended a hand, almost as calloused as my own. “I was doing a little carpentry on the house,” he explained to the guests, “and I completely lost track of time; do forgive me if I’ve kept you waiting.”

You could easily forgive Tim. He had a keen sympathy and a look of such absorbed interest in whatever you happened to be saying that stories just spilled out. Soon I was recounting the desperate goings-on at Kalamaki Marina, the perfidy of Captain Bob, and the surprising erudition of the Nikoses. All of which Tim translated fluently for the Greeks while I watched, smiling at his gently incredulous tone and the habitual way that he blinked whenever he was about to voice a new thought. It was obvious from their looks and their body language that he and Florica were lovers, and I decided to myself that a friendship with this delightful couple would put the finishing touches to my idyllic summer.

The lunch of course helped. There were bright salads of divinely sweet tomatoes, with Kalamata olives and chunks of fresh feta cheese; a bowl of taramasalata—creamed roes and garlic and lemon and heaven knows what else was in it; and tzatziki, too, with rich yogurt, salt, and the crispest cucumber. There were tin jugs of cold retsina with condensation dribbling down the outside, for those who fancied that pungent resinous taste. For the more delicate palates a big bottle of cool Cambas white wine. Later came a dish of delicately poached barbounia—red mullet—with some courgettes and aubergines done with parsley to perfection.

It seemed to me at that moment as if everything was in harmony: the food, the colors, the people, the hot sun, the view of the little harbor and the blue sea below … as if I’d passed through a portal into a different, more congenial dimension.

Tim was a walker and a climber and lover of the mountains, and was writing a book about the mountains of Greece. I dearly wanted to go to the mountains, too. One thing that we both emphatically agreed upon was that we always—and neither of us ever made an exception to this rule—traveled alone. So when Tim told me that he was planning to go for a ten-day journey into the Pindos Mountains, up near the Macedonian border, I thought about it for a bit, and then said, “Can I come along too?”

He looked at me in surprise, and hesitated just a moment before saying, “Yes, why not? That would be very nice.”

“And come to think of it,” I continued pensively, “I’m going to need somebody to help me bring the boat down from Kalamaki to Spetses. Are you a sailor?”

Now, to a seasoned nautical man, the business of sailing a Cornish Crabber single-handed down the Saronic Gulf in the summer would offer little difficulty … but you never know, and besides it would be nice to have some company.

“Never been on a sailing boat in my life,” he replied, blinking hard, “but I’d be very happy to give it a go.”