The Last Nymph

Home Sweet Home

Following that unforgettable night of merrymaking with the visitors—drinking, dining, storytelling—and all in the company of the elusive Maera, Doc settled into his Venetian stone abode to try to make up for lost sleep. Somehow, the evening seemed more like a dream to him than a typical summer night on Kalamos. The season had always presented the two seas on either side of the Greek mainland with long, warm days and short, balmy nights. But that previous magical night just seemed too short for all he remembered happening.

It was a particular gift of the gods that this area of the Mediterranean was comprised of literally a thousand islands, nestled around a wild and mountainous body of ancient land. And all of them, on both the Aegean and Ionian, were known for their glorious combination of a warm sun, coupled by a cool breeze. And this was the case for practically the entire year, as only for several weeks in the dead of winter could it be called unpleasantly, 'cold.' And when those days and nights did appear in January or February, Doc would stay close to his fireplace within the small stone structure, which provided him amble warmth.

But these were now the days of summer, and long days they were. The geography of the relatively small island, with its almost vertical rise of a central mountain, gave Doc the challenges he needed most the year for practically endless exploring. New costal and mountainous features on the island—places Doc had not previously ventured, gave him great delight. And while the other side of the isle, near Port Kalamos, was seasonally populated and teaming with tourists that time of the year, he was happy to just stay on the northeastern side, where the forest was dense, the cliffs more vertical, and where he might come across yet a new turquoise green cove to swim alone in.

It was on that next day, waking up late, but nevertheless venturing out, that Doc packed cheese, bread and some drinking water to take with him. In order to keep to his daily regime and stay as physically fit as he wished to remain, he would hike vigorously, then find a place to swim. He did this to cool himself from the sun, but also to purposely tire himself out for a relaxing evening back by sunset. There, after a brief dinner and an hour or two of reading, the retired professor would be ready for nourishing sleep.

On this day, and after the late start, he had much to think about while hiking along the cliffside. Particularly he wondered what his new friends must have believed about the impish girl who joined them, appearing suddenly out of the sea. While he remembered she was careful to not tell them she was herself a Nereid, her tales after dinner were telling and curious. They were of Sea Nymphs, ships and Sirens—encountering and charming sailors from antiquity. This must have given the Brits much food for thought. Especially concerning Maera's mysterious appearance, her vague identity, and her dramatic departure back into the water.

* * *

As Doc spent the rest of the morning hiking, he knew exactly where to find a beautiful place to swim, enjoy the breeze and sunlight, and perhaps nap somewhere in the shade. He had no idea upon leaving the castle he would be visited again so soon. And by someone he was beginning to call, 'familiar.'

While taking off his shoes, socks and t-shirt to swim, Doc always modestly remained in his hiking shorts to brave the sea. He dove from a rock into the cool water and felt the summer sweat immediately cleansed from his body. He swam out ten or so meters into the wide cove, where opening his eyes in the salty water, he could see a white sandy bottom, perhaps four-to five meters below him. There were other, darker stationary objects below too, which he knew to be large rocks and sections of dark-green seagrass, waving freely in the currents.

Suddenly, his eye caught sight of a large, whitish object passing by him quickly under the surface. It traveled all the way back toward the rocks. Being a Californian for so many years, Doc never lost his fear of sharks. It was a phobia instilled in all people from that far away coastline, and occurred both from seeing the movie, "Jaws" in its early days, and the fact that the Central Coast of California was the natural habitat of the legendary Great White Shark—supreme man-eater in all the world's seas. The Greeks, Doc had learned, did not fear sharks while swimming. And this was because there were so few of them in the Med, and only benign species splayed the waters there. An old fisherman told him once. "The sharks in this sea are afraid of us . . . because we eat them." Nevertheless, Doc had become a true believer in the hazards of sharks in California. It happened many years before when one of his university students, surfing off the San Francisco coast one summer, was brutally bitten in half—along with his surfboard. It was an image he never had to see—though one he could never get out of his mind.