I went below, set up the chart for our area on the broad table in the main cabin and marked our present position. From here on in I’d have to mark our deviations precisely as we tacked back and forth against the wind, keep track of the precise time spent on each tack and hope my estimations of distance covered were reasonably accurate. It wouldn’t have been easy even with an experienced hand at the helm, but with Christina spelling me there it made things much more complicated and uncertain; after all, she’d never sailed out of sight of land before. On the other hand, I wasn’t exactly an old-timer at deepwater sailing myself.
We hit the little island on the nose, late in the afternoon. The day had turned golden as we powered our way into the lovely little harbor of Porto Gayo. At first glance it seemed like a primitive, undeveloped place; all we could see was the silver-green of olive groves that stretched in all directions as far as we could see. Then as we drew nearer we could make out the low buildings, white and brown and pink, with bare masts of moored boats bobbing in the harbor.
The town was small but busy; most of the houses stretched along the waterfront. A stone quay bordered the harbor; on the shoreward side was a row of small shops, tavernas, and a couple of tiny hotels. Without discussing it, Christina agreed to spend the night aboard Scylla; the harbormaster assigned us a mooring well away from shore, which suited me fine. Our boat, carried a tiny dinghy slung in davits at the stern, and getting into the bathtub-sized little boat was a major feat of balance and timing. With the two of us crammed in it, we rode so low in the water I expected us to be swamped before we could make the couple of hundred yards to the quayside.
“Lucky there aren’t any water-skiers here,” I commented.
“Oh?” Christina seemed cheerful now, the worries of the morning and the fear of the night before completely forgotten.
I shifted my weight just a little; the dinghy rocked and shipped some water over one side. The girl looked alarmed, then laughed.
“Yes, I see what you mean. Perhaps we should be sure to get back to our boat before dark, eh?”
“Won’t make any difference; we can sink in daylight or night time.”
“And we can always swim.”
“Sure.” Our knees were sort of interlocking, it couldn’t be helped, and it seemed to me that she was exerting a little extra pressure. Maybe.
We took a long walk through the little town and a short way outside, playing tourist with a vengeance. The countryside was green and stony, rising abruptly from the sea like the top of a sunken mountain that most of the Greek islands actually were. From the dusty road we could look up and see a hillside dotted with chalky boulders, some as big as the cottages that stood among them, the dwellings distinguishable in some cases chiefly by the dark squares that marked their windows. A wheezing old car that looked like a pre-War Citroën labored past us, crammed with grownups and children. The local rich folks, I presumed; the others we saw on the road were either walking or driving horse-drawn carts. Mostly they paid no attention to us; the men short and stocky, many with great mustaches, the women in the peasant’s standard dress of ankle-length black, usually with matching shawls that nearly hid their faces. It was something that had already puzzled me about Greece from the time I first began to read about it: why such a sunny land with its bracing air and sparkling waters should be populated by women, and many men, in perpetual mourning. If I’d been feeling philosophical I might have asked Christina about it, but I had other things on my mind. Sailing gives you an appetite that can turn the most finicky eater into a glutton, and I was starving.
We found a taverna overlooking the quay, and the dinner was so surprisingly good that we lingered over it until well after dark. The place was obviously designed for touring yachtsmen; the menu was partly in English, decorated with crudely drawn anchors and seashells. In the beginning we were the only ones in the place, but shortly afterward a group of men and women clattered in, their sunburned faces and well-pressed nautical clothes branding them plainly. From the snatches of talk I heard it seemed to be a mixed group of Americans and British, with an Italian woman and two apparent Frenchmen included. Nothing out of the way, I told myself, and glanced at Christina.
She was staring straight ahead, as though at something beyond my left shoulder, but I could tell by the set of her chin and the shallowness of her breathing that she was tense.
“What is it?” I asked, leaning forward so we couldn’t be heard.
“I... it is nothing.” She smiled briefly. “I seem to suspect everyone. I will be glad when this is all over.”
“Will you?”
“Yes.”
I reached for her hand across the table. “I’m not sure I’ll be.”
She looked at me for a long moment. “No,” she said finally. “Perhaps I won’t be either.”
No one spoke to us until we were having coffee, but then one of the Frenchmen across the room got up and made his way deliberately to our table. He was a slight man with a mop of sandy hair and a shy smile that was full of confidence.
“Excuse me,” he said, looking mostly at Christina. “You are Americans?”
“I am,” I said. “She’s not.”
“My friends and I were wondering if you would care to join us for a drink.” He was still looking at Christina; I couldn’t blame him. I queried her with my eyebrows.
She shook her head firmly. “I am terribly sorry,” she said with cool politeness. “But we must go to bed early; it has been a long day.” She stood up with the fluid grace of a princess dismissing an unworthy admirer. “Will you pay the check, Daniel? We must be going. I shall return in a moment.”
The Frenchman retreated, with a visible effort to retain his nonchalant composure. I smiled to myself as I laid out the drachmas; the girl was still surprising me. Watching her move toward the rest room, I enjoyed the view, even from the rear, of nicely filled white slacks with a loose blue shirt over them. The simple costume made it clear what she wasn’t wearing underneath, and suddenly, recalling the previous night, I wasn’t looking forward to this one.
The waiter came, took my money, and gave it to the plump, mustached woman behind the cash register. He was taking a long time about it, and I was starting to get impatient. When he finally returned I was already on my feet, but as he departed I sat down again. Christina still hadn’t come back.
“It must be my impatience,” I told myself, and deliberately didn’t look at my watch. I checked the table across the room; they were looking in my direction, and the young Frenchman was grinning.
I made myself sit still, sipping at the dregs of my coffee while my gut tightened as the minutes ticked by. I was recalling her alarm when she saw the man at the restaurant in Argostilion and was starting to get as jumpy as she had been.
The woman behind the register was looking at me questioningly. I looked back, finally got up and approached her.
“I hope you speak English.”
“But of course,” she replied.
“The young lady.” I gestured toward the rest room — or at least the corridor leading to it. “We’ve had a long day of sailing and maybe she’s not well...”