Jumping Ship

Δεν θα με ξαναδείς, thought the young sailor as the stubbled captain handed him 20 dollars. The billfold was like any other seafaring officer’s wallet in the pre-credit card, pre-Euro days: US dollars intermingled with crumpled Greek drachmas, folded British pound notes, torn Turkish lira (or maybe they were Italian lira, who knows). There were also some faded notes from a failed banana republic, its uniformed strongman dictator still scowling on the face of the bill even though it was now worthless.

Years later, when fluent in English and able to think in either Greek or English, the words “You’ll never see me again,” might have been formed in the sailor’s mind. But not now—now he was just 16, and half a world away from his native Greece. The little English he did know he had picked up from Hollywood movies with Greek subtitles. It doesn’t take much to fire the dreams of an adolescent, and for this boy those movies were the spark. With very little opportunity in his native village, joining the Greek merchant marines and signing-on to a cargo ship with Port Newark, United States on its port-of-call list seemed like a good start.

Moments before and in solitude, the captain had finished his last cigarette in the pack. For him, cigarettes were like the seas of the ocean. He loved them and he hated them, and life without either was unimaginable. He remembered once being called to the bridge at 3:00 a.m. to be apprised of rapidly deteriorating weather. As the officer-of-the-watch briefed him on preparations that had made for the impending gale, the captain instinctively lit up a smoke to sharpen his groggy mind. As he inhaled deeply and listened, he wondered which would kill him first—the cigarettes or the sea.

He shook off the memory and crumpled the empty pack while the cellophane wrapper staged a crackly protest. He threw the wad disgustedly into the corner of his quarters on the dilapidated freighter and summoned the sailor. At least the last cigarette had reminded him to buy more before they embarked from Port Newark. For the grizzled captain the best thing about calling on an American port was the cigarettes. Marlboro Reds are the only way to cross an ocean, he thought. Sure, he couldn’t deny that Turkish cigarettes were strong and good, but in order to like them he would have to admit that there was something good about Turkey, which—as a Greek—was beyond his capacity.

When the sailor appeared from the darkness of the companionway and peered into the light of the captain’s quarters, the captain handed him the 20 dollar bill and issued curt orders to buy all the cigarettes he could with the money and return to the ship. This was the early-1970s, when $20 could buy a couple cartons of smokes.

Andrew Jackson, frozen in time on the face of the bill, watched it all. His countenance could be interpreted as either mild disdain or profound caring—maybe both. In this situation perhaps it was both: the mild disdain of the captain’s nicotine yellowed fingers, the empathy for the sailor whose dreams of coming to America were so close.

Along with a few personal items in his sea bag and the clothes on his back, the sailor had 60 dollars to his name. Those life savings were rolled up in his pocket and held together by a dissolving rubber band. As the sailor acknowledged his orders and turned away from the captain, he considered grabbing his sea bag from the crew’s quarters before leaving the ship but quickly dismissed the idea as it would surely arouse suspicions about his intentions. With this decision made, he added the 20 dollars to his bankroll and headed down the gangplank into the night and never looked back.

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That’s a true story that happened in the early-70s and told by a very dear Greek “friend.” (Anyone who has truly befriended a Greek knows that the word “friend” is insufficient. The English word “family” comes much closer to plumbing the depths of our connection.) Sure, I filled in a few details based on imagination but you get the gist.

I’m happy to report that today our friend—who shall remain nameless since I don’t know if international maritime law recognizes statutes of limitations—is a dual-citizen of Greece and the United States, and is proud of both citizenships.

The funny coda to this story is that, in thinking it wise to get as far from the ship as quickly as possible, our friend hopped in a taxi just outside the Port Newark shipyard. When the gruff driver asked, “Where to?” the sailor quickly replied, in a very thick Greek accent, “New York!” Mishearing, the cabbie turned around and said, “You want to go to Newark? We’re already in Newark!” (And we’re not talking about the swanky, gentrified, Ironbound Newark of today…this is 1970s Newark.) Our friend nodded insistently and 15 minutes later and 30 dollars lighter he was deposited in downtown Newark. After a cold night on the street, he managed to find a bus to Manhattan the next day.

…our Greek friend’s prime directive: Get to America.

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What Sunny loves best about her Greek uncle is how easy he is to train. She’s concluded that he could have been one of Pavlov’s subjects. While Johnny B. Goode might have been able to play a guitar like ringing a bell, Sunny rings her uncle’s bell by giving him those plaintive doe eyes…and the treats start flowing.

While Sunny and her Greek uncle have a lot in common—the love of treats, belly rubs, walks on the beach to name a few—they also share the fact that they have both jumped ship.

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However, while our friend’s ship-jumping was in the 1970s, Sunny’s was just a few weeks ago and here’s how it happened.

The day before, we had had brutally hot 30-mile “sail” from the island of Thasos to the island of Samothrace. I put “sail” in quotes because the wind just never showed up and for 20 of the 30 miles we were motoring with “Ox” (our diesel auxiliary engine [Ox-iliary if you will]) making Hazel’s saloon both loud and even hotter than it would have been otherwise. Much as the captain hated to run Ox in the open water, if he didn’t, we would have bobbed around all day and night making the heat situation for the captain and crew even worse.

We finally reached the Samothrace harbor midafternoon and for the last hour of the sail, unbeknownst to me, Rhett had been below decks looking at hotel rooms in the town with one goal: air conditioning.

Unfortunately (it turns out very unfortunately) the only room she could find that looked like it had “real” air conditioning (and not some anemic window unit) was not pet friendly. Oh well, when Rhett told me about the reservation she made I was fine to stay on the boat with Sunny. Some time apart might be helpful anyway. The heat and lack of wind was fraying our nerves and Hazel began to think she was being featured on a season of Below Deck. Let’s see…there was Below Deck—Mediterranean, Below Deck—Sailing Yacht, Below Deck—Down Under, and Below Deck—Adventure. Perhaps Hazel and crew would become: Below Deck—Shoehorn? Or: Below Deck—Creepy Loner Meets Southern Belle? Or: Below Deck—So Help Me God I Can Not Take Another Day of This.

Samothrace is a relatively inaccessible island and its history is shrouded in mystery. Unlike the Archaic and Classical Greeks that worshiped the Olympian Gods, the ancient inhabitants of Samothrace worshipped the Great Earth Mother (perhaps with today’s heat, there’s a lesson for us there). Also of note, and if you’ve ever visited the Louvre in Paris or are a sculpture fan, you’ve probably surmised that like the iconic Venus de Milo from the island of Milos, the just-as-iconic Nike of Samothraki (a.k.a., Winged Victory of Samothrace) was uncovered by the French in the 1860s and carted off to Paris to join the Venus de Milo.

All this history and mystery and inaccessibility had made it a dream of mine to visit. And, speaking of the inaccessibility of this gigantic lump of marble in the middle of the Aegean Sea, there’s no airport and there are no anchorages around the island (the sea bottom drops-off precipitously). There’s only one harbor and that harbor is small, only recently constructed, and rather commercial (not a tourist harbor). Between the large ferries that call on the island and the limited space in the harbor, private yachts are only have room to side-to moor (quite unusual for the Mediterranean in general and Greece specifically as stern-to or bow-to mooring is the norm).

So after we found a spot for Hazel and brought her safely side-to. Rhett announced her plans for the night and was off.

…Rhett’s prime directive on that sultry afternoon: Get to air conditioning.

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Sunny and I had a good night onboard in the harbor and in the cool of the next morning I was up and about preparing some things to take to Rhett’s hotel room for the day’s adventures.

Sunny seemed a bit restless so I put her up in the cockpit as I busied myself below decks. I imagine 10-15 minutes went by like this. Every so often I’d see Sunny out of the corner of my eye. She seemed happy sunning herself in the mild morning light but was staring down the concrete quay and clearly concerned by Rhett’s sudden departure the day before. While Sunny and I have a deep connection, Rhett is her person. No problem, I thought. Rhett went back to the US for a couple months last summer and Sunny and I worked out. This is just for a day or two. I called up on deck, “Don’t worry girl. We’re leaving soon to see your mommy.”

In retrospect it never occurred to me that in the couple months that Rhett was back in the US last summer, Sunny, Hazel, and I were never once side-to moored. We were always at anchor or bow or stern-to.

Anyway, at some point I didn’t see Sunny in the cockpit but it didn’t phase me as she often wanders up to the bow when she’s by herself and we have netting around most all of the boat (of course except where the side gate is down).

Soon I was ready to go and all I had to do was get Sunny’s harness on and we’d hit the road. I called her name up through the companionway and added, “Let’s go see your dog-mom!”

Nothing, na-da, not a sound. Very odd, I thought. If she was up in the bow she should have heard me and in a heartbeat I’d here the clickity-click-click of her toenails on the deck as she trotted aft. I called again…not a sound.

I climbed up into the cockpit and looked around, not panicked but with an elevated heart rate. Sunny was nowhere to be seen after. She’s got to be up in the bow, I thought. Just didn’t hear me. As I made my way forward on the port side deck I could see more and more of the foredeck and I was sure that her furry black and tan shape would come into view. In seconds I was on the foredeck and now starting to panic. I moved the sail bags on the deck to make sure she wasn’t underneath. I rushed back below decks in hopes that I brought her below earlier and just forgot about it. The whole time I’m calling her name frantically.

Finally, through my dread, I willed myself to think. Now Sunny is the most people-oriented dog I have ever known. She’s not a runner. If she’s left alone at home, she freaks out. Rhett can see her on the home cameras for hours nervously pacing and barking plaintively. When she and I are walking on a beach or a quiet sidewalk, I don’t bother with a leash because I know I can stop her with a command—even if a cat is taunting her just feet from her face. I just could not imagine that she’d leave the boat of her own accord.

She’s fallen off the boat, was the only logical conclusion I could draw. I rushed back up on deck and circled the deck cupping my hands around my eyes to reduce the glare of the now bright sun and peered over the side, fully expecting to see a black blob on the bottom. Or perhaps I’d find her floating but unconscious as her short dachshund legs are of no use with the doggie paddle. I saw nothing and stepped off Hazel and onto the quay via the side gate and looked up and down the quay wall. Nothing.

At this point I knew I needed to make the dreaded call to Rhett. In my own selfish way, I didn’t know what was worse: the fact that Rhett’s dog was missing in the first place, or that the dog went missing on my watch—when she was entrusted to me. I swallowed my dread and dialed Rhett. She answered while she was at the hotel breakfast and, to make matters worse, gave me the sweetest’ “Good morning darlin’!” I could ever hope for. I broke the news and somehow, we managed to make a search plan before Rhett became totally unglued with the gravity of the situation: Sunny was somewhere, either at the bottom of the harbor or wandering around the little town with its streets busy with cars and motorbikes, and without a collar or dog tags. We agreed that I’d keep searching the water around the boat and Rhett would make her way back to the harbor and Hazel searching all the while. As I hung up I’ve got to honestly say that the selfish side of me felt a twinge of anger. Sure, Sunny was under my care, but I’ve got a lot of other things going on aboard as well…it just goes to show that no good deed goes unpunished. Not my most noble thought. And with that, I rapidly started down a martyrdom rabbit hole as I continued the search.

Then, soon after, we had our first break in the case. The first clue. A nice 20-something Greek woman who had been fishing on the quay asked me if I was missing a small black dog. When I nearly fell to my knees at her feet saying, “Yes!” She added that she had seen the dog walk by on the quay headed to the town about 10 minutes ago. It’s not unusual that this young woman didn’t stop Sunny as there are street-dogs all over Greece, some are friendly, some not so much.

In the now-brilliant sunlight it stared at the open side gate on Hazel side-to moored to the concrete quay. It would have been a long jump for a miniature dachshund but doable. It was clearly short enough to be a tempting distance for her (whereas when bow or stern-to moored it’s much further and I doubt she would ever attempt). I shuddered at the thought of if she had missed the landing.

That’s when it hit me…

…Sunny’s prime directive that morning (that I had totally missed): Find and comfort Rhett. And, like her Greek uncle, jumping ship was the most direct course toward achieving that prime directive.

I immediately called Rhett to let her know that we could assume that Sunny was in town somewhere. When Rhett hit the “accept” button I could hear her finishing a conversation with some people from the town. Rhett was bawling, “Please, please, please. If you see this dog, call this number.” We have Hazel James boat cards, business cards with Hazel’s name, identifying characteristics, and Rhett’s and my names and contact information, and—of course—a link to this blog and our tracker. It’s very handy to give to other cruisers we meet, marina staff, etc. especially when language is challenging. We both carry a handful of cards in our wallets and Rhett had quickly given out all but one of hers to people on the street along with the plea to call her if they saw Sunny. I learned after from Rhett that along with her last card she had found a picture of Sunny on her phone and was holding the phone and card up to strangers and insisting that they take a picture of both and contact her with any Sunny sightings.

Over the phone Rhett and I devised a new plan for us both to search the town. Before I left the boat, with the help of Google translate I made two cardboard signs that read:

Χαμένο μικρό μαύρο σκυλί

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Lost small black dog

As I left Hazel and started off the town quay into the main street, I looked left-and-right and my heart sank a bit. It’s one thing to see a small seaside town in Greece through a human’s eyes, it’s another to put yourself in the paws of a 12 pound dog, eight inches off the ground. A dog who might have wondered, as she stepped off the quay and into the town, if she’d made the right decision. It was a Saturday morning and the town was busy. Cars punctuated by motor bikes rushed left and right on the main street. People sitting at the tavernas enjoying a coffee. The main street of the small town was very close to the water and for Sunny to go anywhere in town looking for her mommy she would have had to cross that street, or at least tried to cross that street. I shuddered at the thought. Or, what if a young parent or grandparent who lived out of town saw Sunny and decided that this friendly and cute stray needed a home and the kids would love her. Our trusting Sunny would go to anyone who called her and without a collar or ID she’d be scooped up whisked out of town and we’d never see her again—so close but so far.

I resumed the search trying to keep the dark thoughts out of my head. I held one of the signs in front of me and showed it to everyone who passed as I peered under tables, cars, bushes, any potential hiding place I could find. After about 10 minutes I came upon the animated and clearly distressed Rhett with several people gathered around her. I thought I’d give her the other sign then we’d separate again and keep searching. As I got closer, I could hear the kind townspeople who spoke some English comforting her. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. This is a small town. Everybody knows everybody, we will find your dog.” I thought, Yes we might but will we find her before or after she’s hit by a car?

As I gave Rhett one of the cardboard placards, a shorter gentleman with thick, dark, classic Greek hair rushed up. By her reaction, I knew Rhett had clearly talked to him before. “Madame! Madame! We have found your dog! Come with me!” That glimmer of hope was like the sun peaking around a massive thunderhead cloud brewing on the sea. Maybe, just maybe we won’t get clobbered by this storm? However, the day had already been such a roller coaster I was not going to get my hopes up until I saw Sunny in one piece with my own two eyes.

As we walked, our new best friend Dimitris told us that after Rhett had stopped him, he put the word out about the lost dog through text or social media and “Maria” from the Villa Maria guest house said her grandaughter had found a small black dog. Several times during the 5 minute walk to Villa Maria Dimitris apologized that he didn’t have his car with him to give us a ride. We assured him that that was the least of our concerns.

Finally we turned right and stepped up out of the baking sunlight and into Maria’s bougainvillea-shaded terrace. The cool shade and humidity from the plantings was a different world from the dry, dusty, sun bleached street, and there—on a bench and held by Maria (clearly the matriarch of the guest house and the family) was Sunny. Sunny without a scratch. She nearly leapt out of Maria’s arms when she saw Rhett but Maria kept her hold firm until she handed Sunny over. The reunification was complete, the tears flowed. Putting aside how Sunny did it, she achieved her prime directive, she found and comforted her dog-mom.

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Some funny codas to this story are that not only did we end up making friends with Maria and her family, we stayed that night in one of her rooms. Technically, Maria didn’t allow pets but Sunny was, of course, a special circumstance.

Also, as I settled into Maria’s comfortable accommodations and explored the terrace a bit more, I discovered her fine collection of amphorae, pithoi, and millstones. Actually, earlier we had walked right past them without noticing them when we were focused on Sunny. Amphora are smaller terra cotta containers with narrow necks and two handles used for short-term storage and transport of wine, olive oil, and other commodities; pithoi are similar but larger and for long-term storage). Interestingly the characteristic pointed bottoms of amphora are to help store them upright on ships (by wedging the bottoms between a ship’s ribs and floorboards).

While some of Maria’s were modern reproductions, others were clearly originals and thus thousands of years old. In the US, they would have been museum pieces. On Samothrace, they adorned Villa Maria’s terrace.

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Fair winds and following seas.