The Land of the Lotus Eaters

I wanted to improve my sailing skills.

I had been sailing on and off for about twelve years. I had sailed on long and short trips, done distance racing, delivered a yacht from Boston to St. Thomas, chartered in the British Virgin Islands, and even worked as a cook on the Newport to Bermuda Race.

But there was one thing I had never done. I had never been the skipper.

For more than a decade I had been a good crew member — comfortable on a yacht, familiar with the routines of life at sea and able to do my part when things became busy. Eventually, I decided it was time to take the next step and work toward becoming a certified skipper. But I didn't want simply to collect a certificate. I wanted to discover whether I really had the knowledge, judgment and patience to become a good skipper when the time came.

Sailing Is About More Than Being on the Water

Every day of sailing teaches you something. Sometimes it's sail trim or boat handling. Sometimes it's navigation, weather or anchoring. And sometimes the lesson has little to do with sailing technique. You learn patience. You learn to think ahead. You learn that conditions don't always cooperate with your plans and that a good skipper must adapt. You never really stop learning.

Why I Chose Athens Sailing Academy

I chose Athens Sailing Academy partly because of Greece — sunshine, deep blue water, beautiful islands, thousands of years of history and mythology around almost every corner.

But the school itself mattered too. I discovered that its owner, Jonathan Chandler, had spent decades at sea, including seven years in the Royal Navy, surviving the 1979 Fastnet Race, working on major sailing projects and competing in the 1989–90 Whitbread Round the World Race. This wasn't someone who had simply learned to sail and opened a school. He had spent decades racing, delivering, teaching and managing sailing projects.

I booked a week to work toward my ASA 104 and ASA 105 certifications.

The school is based on Poros, a beautiful island in the Saronic Gulf. After arriving, I met the other members of my crew and we settled aboard a Jeanneau 40.1. Three cabins were occupied by students and the fourth by our instructor, Laurel.

It didn't take long to realize this was going to be a serious sailing course.

Laurel explained that we would first be evaluated. The school regularly received students who arrived with certificates but whose practical sailing abilities did not match them. There was no assumption that a certificate meant competence. The school wanted to see what we could do.       I liked that.

Our First Night in Poros

That evening, the school took us to Spilada, a family-run Greek taverna. The host, Jenny, was the great-granddaughter of the original owner. The food came from recipes handed down through generations and preserved in an old, battered folder. Some pages were written in beautiful old Greek, apparently with a quill or fountain pen.

Dish after dish appeared. We ate, talked, drank and stayed for hours. Jonathan joined us, and eventually the conversation turned to sailing. He told us some of his "war stories." What struck me was how unassuming he was. Despite his extraordinary background, he was polite, attentive and genuinely interested in other people's experiences.

Time to See What We Could Do

The next morning Laurel wanted to see how we prepared a yacht for departure. There was no long lecture. We simply got to work. I went to the nearby supermarket for supplies while Sally and Ruth prepared the yacht. Laurel watched, offering occasional suggestions but mostly letting us work things out. We started with tacking, gybing, reaching and boat handling. Then she raised the bar: reefing, man-overboard recovery and anchoring.

After lunch and a swim, the Aegean changed the lesson.

The southerly arrived at around twenty knots. We headed toward the southern corner of Poros, beating into the wind with one reef in the mainsail. Then we rounded the corner and bore away onto a broad reach. The boat accelerated.

The sea had built enough for us to surf down the waves. Eventually we turned toward home and finished with a fast power reach back to Poros. It was blustery, wet, fast and absolutely glorious.

The sun was shining, the sea was deep Aegean blue and the wind pushed the yacht along. I was in my element. But I was also beginning to understand something new.  I wasn't simply comfortable on a sailboat. I was starting to think about what it meant to be responsible for one.

The Odyssey

It would be a crime not to mention Homer's Odyssey.

Here I was, in the land of Homer, sailing across the Aegean — a sea that has carried sailors, traders, armies, fishermen and adventurers for thousands of years. Every island seemed to have a story.

Before coming to Greece, I had started rereading the Odyssey. Now the book seemed different. When Homer described Odysseus sailing into an unfamiliar bay, there were no chartplotters, GPS, weather apps or engines. There was just the sea, the wind, the rocks and the judgment of the man in charge. Standing on our yacht, looking across that same blue Aegean, it wasn't difficult to imagine how mysterious this world must have seemed to ancient sailors.

I asked Laurel if we could visit somewhere connected to the Odyssey.

She knew of the Land of the Lotus Eaters.

 

The Land of the Lotus Eaters

In Homer's story, Odysseus and his crew encounter people who eat the lotus plant. Those who taste it lose their desire to return home. They become so content that the journey no longer matters.

There was something almost seductive about that idea: sail into a beautiful hidden lagoon, eat the mysterious lotus and decide that going home wasn't important anymore. Laurel explained that the Peloponnese is generally associated with the story and that one possible location is Yerika. The entrance to the inlet is almost impossible to see until you are very close to the rocks. Then, almost at the last moment, a beautiful lagoon appears.

I wanted to go. So did the rest of the crew. Then Laurel reminded us of the most important character in every sailing story.   The weather.

Getting there was possible only if conditions cooperated. You can have the most interesting destination marked on your chart, but if the weather says no, you don't go.   Yerika went onto our wish list.

Dhokos: Another Kind of Adventure

Instead, Laurel suggested Dhokos, an uninhabited island at the southern end of the Hydra Channel, south of Poros.

Dhokos has ancient remains and the ruins of a fortified settlement overlooking a natural bay. Today it is largely untouched, with yachts one of the few practical ways to reach it.

Our plan was simple: morning theory, afternoon sailing, anchor at Dhokos, explore the island and cook dinner aboard. But first we had to sail there.

The Classroom Moves to Sea

The morning's lesson covered sail trim, tacking, reefing, boat speed and efficient yacht handling. In the classroom it all seemed logical. Out on the Aegean, it became decisions. We left Poros around midday and worked toward Dhokos.

Tack. Trim. Check the course. Watch the wind. Check the speed. Tack again.

We were learning to feel what the boat was telling us. If the sails weren't trimmed correctly, the boat told us. If our heading was wrong, it told us. If we made a poor tack, it told us. There was nowhere to hide from the consequences of a decision. Laurel wanted us to understand why the boat went faster, not simply how.

What is the wind doing? Why are you tacking here? When should you reef? What are you trying to achieve with the trim?  Those questions forced us to think beyond performing maneuvers.

I was beginning to realize that sailing a yacht and commanding a yacht were two different things.

 

As crew, you can trim a sail perfectly and steer a good course. But the skipper has to decide when and why those things happen.  That was the difference I had come to Greece to learn.

We aimed for an average speed of six knots. Every change in wind meant another adjustment. Gradually, the three of us began working together naturally. Communication became easier. We anticipated one another's actions.

Dhokos

We reached Dhokos around seven in the evening. Then came another practical lesson: anchoring. The first attempt didn't hold. Neither did the second. The third was close. The fourth finally worked.  The anchor dug in, the yacht settled back and the engine went silent.

We were anchored directly in front of the remains of the old citadel. The sun was dropping, the island was empty and ancient ruins stood above the bay while our modern yacht swung quietly below.

No marina. No traffic. No crowds.  Just the Aegean.  

We jumped overboard and swam, washing away the sweat and salt of the afternoon. Floating in that impossibly blue water, looking back at the yacht and the ruins, I thought about the journey I had begun. I had come to Greece for two sailing certifications.

Already, I was getting something more valuable.

Becoming a skipper wasn't about learning how to make a yacht sail. It was about reading conditions, anticipating what was coming, making decisions, communicating with the crew and accepting responsibility for the outcome.

The Odyssey had been about getting home.  My journey was just beginning.

The Ancient Island

The next morning we explored Dhokos ashore.  I was amazed by how much of the ancient settlement remained. Walls and rooms were still visible, along with drainage systems, traces of water supplies, streets and other buildings. It was remarkable to realize that this had once been a functioning community with houses, streets, water systems and industry.

Thousands of years had passed, yet the outline of an advanced civilization remained. When we returned to the yacht, Laurel had a surprise.  "We should go to Yerika."

I was immediately interested. Yerika was about sixty-seven miles away. At six knots, that meant roughly twelve hours of sailing. Laurel had already studied the weather. The southerly would be against us until sunset, then die away. We should get several hours of northerly wind during the night, followed by little or no wind as we approached the coast.

If we left immediately, we'd arrive in the middle of the night. Sunrise would be better. We would leave at four in the afternoon. We were going to sail through the night.

 

Night Sailing

Night sailing is completely different from sailing during the day. The horizon disappears. Distances become difficult to judge. Familiar objects look completely different in darkness.

I've always thought there are three kinds of night sailing. The first is my favorite: open water, a steady breeze, a comfortable point of sail and almost nothing to see. You hear the water against the hull, hear the sails and feel the yacht moving beneath you.

The second is approaching a coastline. Now you're watching navigation lights, other vessels, your position, speed and distance from shore.

The third is entering an unfamiliar harbor at night. That's not night sailing. That's a nightmare.

Laurel's plan meant we'd get plenty of the first kind, some of the second and hopefully none of the third. We left Dhokos at four.

The southerly was still blowing, so initially we worked against it. But Laurel's forecast proved correct. As the sun disappeared, the wind changed and eventually we were able to close-reach toward Yerika. It was cooler than during the day but still warm enough to be comfortable in T-shirts on deck.

Laurel had a strict night-watch protocol. Harnesses were clipped on in the cockpit. Nobody went on deck without announcing themselves. Nobody went below without announcing themselves.

There was no ambiguity about safety. I had sailed at night before, but being responsible for a yacht is different from being crew. Knowing that Laurel had a clear system and that everyone followed it gave me enormous confidence.  I felt completely safe in her hands.

The Peloponnese Appears

At about 5:30 in the morning, the coastline of the Peloponnese emerged in the first light. By 6:30 we could clearly see the mountains and coastline.

I watched the sunrise over the Aegean and realized what an extraordinary experience this was. We had spent the night sailing toward a place that, until then, had existed mostly as a story in an ancient book.

Now we were actually going there. But the approach was unnerving. Our course hadn't changed. We were sailing directly toward what appeared to be rocks and mainland. No harbor. No town. Just rocks.  As the wind died, we began motorsailing.

Still toward the rocks.  

The entrance was an unusual L-shaped dogleg hidden behind a headland. You had to round one corner, continue toward another turn and only then would the harbor reveal itself. Then I saw it. The entrance. It was tiny, perhaps seventy yards wide.

 

We approached carefully. Once through the entrance, everything changed. The swell disappeared and the narrow passage opened ahead. We had found Yerika.

The Land of the Lotus Eaters

My first impression was simply amazement.

The lagoon stretched away for miles, surrounded by high mountains. After the long night passage and tense approach, it felt almost unreal. We tied up alongside the quay. There was one other yacht. It was about 9:45 in the morning. We had sailed through the night to reach a place that, according to tradition, may have been connected with one of the most famous episodes in Homer's Odyssey.

Thousands of years earlier, Odysseus was supposed to have sailed these waters.

And now here I was. My first thought was almost ridiculous. Do lotus plants still grow here?

The following morning, Sally and I walked around the lagoon looking for them. We found them everywhere — in the shallow water and spilling onto the paths. The flowers gave off a sweet fragrance. I wanted to try eating one. Sally thought that wasn't such a good idea.

What if the myth was true? What if I ate the flower and suddenly decided never to leave? After spending the night there, I could understand the temptation.

We returned to the yacht carrying a huge bunch of flowers. They seemed like the perfect souvenir from the Land of the Lotus Eaters. We spent the day studying, swimming, listening to Laurel teach and eating fresh fish caught that day.

Back to Reality

The next morning the wind shifted north. The forecast said it would increase. It was time to go.

Nearly seventy miles stood between us and Poros, and we would be sailing against the wind. We left around 8:30 with one reef in the mainsail and about sixty percent of the genoa unfurled. Our plan was to work upwind while the Peloponnese protected us from the worst conditions. We could sail around thirty-five degrees off the wind and initially made a course of roughly 040 degrees. It was going to be a long day.  

Our watch system was two hours steering followed by four hours off. Two hours at the helm. Four hours resting. Then back on watch. The miles slowly disappeared.

By about 7:30 that evening we had reached the Hydra Channel. A few hours remained, but the hardest part was behind us. Eventually, we entered familiar waters around Poros and tied up at the base. We were exhausted. A quick meal, a few words between us and we went to bed.

 

 

 

The Last Day

The final day was different.

The sailing was finished. Now came the exams, debriefs and discussions about what we had learned. Then came the goodbyes. The week had passed quickly.

We had arrived as people with different sailing backgrounds and levels of experience.  We left as a crew. More importantly, I left feeling I had taken a significant step toward becoming the kind of skipper I wanted to be.

What I Took Home

I am a freelance journalist and photographer, American/Dutch born and living in Rotterdam.

This trip with Athens Sailing Academy was more than I expected. Perhaps most importantly, it reminded me to find something within myself that challenges me to do better.

I can't express the gratitude I feel toward the school, Laurel, Jonathan, Liam and everyone else who looked after us. They took care of our needs without constantly telling us what to do.

That was important to me.

I'm not a typical tourist who needs to have their hand held every step of the way. I want to experience things for myself — the knocks as well as the incredible highs.  This week gave me both.

And from beginning to end, it was one incredible high. So, to everyone at Athens Sailing Academy:

Thank you for your effort, your kindness, your professionalism, and most of all, for simply letting me enjoy myself.

I came to Greece wanting to become a better sailor. I left feeling that I had rediscovered something much bigger.

The sea. The adventure.  And perhaps a little bit of myself.

Amanda Van Cleff
Freelance Journalist, NOS Netherlands