Ποσειδῶν

A formidable send-off from Poseidon himself

I am working backwards here.

I left Greece on August 5th. My departure from Paxos was a solo journey, much unlike my arrival to the island where I was accompanied by five close friends and clear skies. The cab driver dropped me at the main harbour on the island where a huge Kerkyra ferry loomed over half the docking area. I was thirty minutes early, and my ferry would leave almost an hour late.

In my idle time I paced up and down the port, sweating and observing confused tourists too timid to ask the simple question: where is our boat? Maybe for fear that the answer would be: it left without you.

In the growing hum of multi-lingual chaos I noticed a young couple carrying nothing but two white motorcycle helmets. The woman was crying on the shoulder of whom I assumed to be her boyfriend. He tried to console her while holding back his own tears from red, puffy eyelids. It was a cry of fear and of loss.

On the other side of the port was a group of three middle age Greeks, crying in a similar fashion. The woman was slamming her fist on the larger man’s chest in defiance, an adult tantrum full of grief and protest. That’s when I noticed a medical team surrounding an ambulance van on the lower deck of the massive ferry. There had been an accident, and someone needed to get to the mainland.

After the ferry holding the ambulance pulled out, my much smaller boat was able to pull in. The young motorcycle couple waited in line just behind me to board, perhaps going to meet the ambulance on the other side. The older group stayed behind on the island.

iPhone photos upon leaving the dock

I hurried to the top deck and grabbed a seat two rows from the back of the boat. The blue and white Greek flag was waving dramatically behind me, drawing my attention to the darkening skies beyond the curvature of the island’s shore. It seemed to take ages for the families to load onto the boat with their multiple children, strollers, and suitcases. Finally sea bound, the fresh air was soothing and the tones of blue moved me, though in a very different way than they had earlier in the week. I meditated on the time I spent on the island, trying not to let it fade like a dream upon waking.

In front of me sat a very tall, tanned, skinny boy maybe in his late teens, early twenties. He must have been out late the night before. His head and torso would go limp and bob dramatically from side to side as he fell in and out of sleep. A group of Italians in their early thirties were taking video and laughing every time he jerked back into an upright position. This meant they were taking video of me too since I was directly behind this rag-doll boy.

I turned my back to them and noticed the flag was strangled around it’s pole. We were only about twenty minutes from shore with 45 to go when the first drops of rain started to fall. I took photos of the ever changing climate surrounding us and tried to tune out the nervous laughter of the Italians. I untangled the blue and white flag and watched as it blew more violently now.

I desperately did not want to descend into the stuffy lower deck with inevitably crying babies and no visibility. I moved under the semi-covered area in the middle of the upper deck as the rain picked up. One by one as the conditions worsened passengers disappeared below until it was only myself, a young couple from the UK, and a strong middle age Greek woman and her (I think) younger girlfriend judging by the tender, reassuring touches she gave to her shoulder. The five of us gathered under the front most isle just before the captain’s bridge. I peered inside the door at our strong hipped, female captain in tight jeans, white sneakers, and a light pink t-shirt. She seemed at ease but focused with both hands on the wheel. Greek voices called out through the radio.

It got worse, and worse, until all of us were sitting on the floor holding onto the backs of the chairs, soaking wet. Water was spraying up over the sides and landing with a heavy thud. It was suddenly so dark, so cold, so violent and then, the engine stopped. A group of crew hands ran up yelling and waving and sliding all over the deck. The loading stairs on the back of the boat had fallen off. We sat idle as they tried to remedy the damage, waves pummelling the boat from all angles.

When we tried moving again the boat thrashed back and forth so violently that the horizon disappeared entirely. One moment there was only sky, the next only water. The captain was forced to cut the engine again and just let us drift until the wind and waves calmed enough for us to gain any momentum without rocking the boat out of control.

“Don’t worry” said the strong Greek woman, “Probably it is a seven. No problem for her, don’t be afraid.”

I looked up the scale later. From 0 - 12 it goes: 0.Calm 1.Light air 2.Light breeze 3.Gentle breeze 4.Moderate breeze 5.Fresh breeze 6.Strong breeze 7.Near gale 8.Gale 9.Strong Gale 10.Storm 11.Violent storm 12.Hurricane. So we were at the tipping point towards the more violent half of the scale.

One of the laughing Italians before he went below deck

My Greek Goddess who seemed to know the sea like an old friend, and who told us not to worry.

To be honest there was one moment where I was actually afraid. It was as though the boat was being thrashed in six different directions at once and with each dip you could feel the momentum of the rocking compound. I really could envision the top lip of the boat dipping so low that we tipped over. I am sure in reality we were one or two levels away on the scale from this being possible but Poseidon certainly was having his fun with us. Other than that moment it was truly exhilarating and beautiful to witness. The light was marvellous, the contrast of the shadows and highlights was unlike anything I’ve ever seen. (Storm lighting is always surreal and inimitable).

It was an appropriate ending to an extremely relaxing and radiant week, full of impossibly blue waters and friendship. I felt tested, like some Greek myth, where the heroine has to venture alone over rough seas to look back on where she came from with a heightened sense of appreciation and understanding.

A lone sailboat trying to reach shore as the weather finally started to calm

Shoreline of Corfu as we approached the ferry port