I’D BEEN TEACHING ENGLISH abroad in the snowy landlocked Czech Republic, where like my Czech friends, I’d learned to yearn for the ocean. Before returning to the States, I booked a cheap Czech Airlines to Greece, which I’d never seen. After visiting the Acropolis, I caught an overnight ferry to the volcanic island of Santorini.
The word “port” seemed optimistic for the spit of grey sand that clung like a withered bandage to the dark cliffs of Santorini. The air reeked of exhaust fumes while the ground was littered with spools of black wire and mildewed coils of rope. Seagulls flapped their wings over the battered white boats that rocked in the green water.