Turkey

Lizzie moved slowly around the apartment, packing and organising for the next trip which would include her annual sailing holiday. Lizzie had been sailing each summer for the last three years, once around Majorca and Minorca and twice around the coast of Turkey. It was Turkey again, this year. She sailed with two German couples and a decidedly crazy German captain on a fifteen-metre Benateau, called Aquarius. This year, Sam would be joining them. Lizzie still didn’t know how to sail but she was a good crewmember: if she were told to wind something, she wound it; if she were told to tie a certain knot, she tied it. Throw the line, coil the rope, fold the sail, lift that bale, tote that barge. Oh Gwennie, there’s another song for you.

She would do it all as quickly and as efficiently as anyone could demand and she could anticipate most needs. She could steer like old tar, but she could never, ever understand the stuff about the sails and how full to have them and how to angle them and when to use the spinnaker and all that tacking back and forth. Her tiny mind just wouldn’t grasp the principles. So she was happy as a member of the crew, never challenging the captain, always totally, unquestioningly obedient and she did not make any decisions that mattered for three weeks. Sam said he would be obedient too so Captain Kris would not feel challenged.

The rest of the crew were two couples: one about Lizzie’s age and one considerably younger. They were all physicists working at CERN, the international research centre that straddled the French, Swiss border at Geneva. Captain Kris was a computer programmer, a summer-time alcoholic in training and fond of the occasional joint. Lizzie told Sam that between them the others had enough brain and savvy to keep them afloat. They all spoke English to some degree, but the bonus, for Lizzie, was that when together, they naturally preferred to speak German. This gave Lizzie plenty of quiet time and the chance to drowse, daydream or just empty her mind completely. Not such a big task, some might say. She had perfected the art of sleeping in an upright position with her eyes open, had perfected it during interminable staff meetings at the office. When not actually steering, once the boat was underway, she moved lazily between leaning against the mast, stretching out on the front deck (she still didn’t get the terms correct), lying prone at the side of the cabin with her fingers curled around a stanchion in case of a sudden dip or propped up against the rail beside the wheel.

Sam could help, of course, but really, they could give themselves up to the sun, the sea and be creatures of their senses. No matter how hot it was, there was always a breeze. Lizzie was never sick—nor was Sam, he said—but revelled in the movement of this beautiful boat which was all white and polished wood and deep blue sails and bleached rope and canvas. At times, Lizzie thought she had seen every shade of blue that the sea and the sky could produce and then she would see another. Her skin opened to the sun, and she could taste the tang of the salt on the wind or in the spray. There was always the accompaniment of slopping sails, clinking metal clasps, flags fluttering and the water, always the water that whispered, shirred or clopped at their passing.

The greatest thrill was the dolphins. Someone would sight them curving and arcing across the surface and would call and point. Usually by the time Lizzie had opened her eyes or sat upright, they would have reached the boat. They would play, smile and leap and dive while everyone hung over the sides, excited by the sense of being privileged to enjoy these lovable visitors whose speed and grace had everyone gasping and laughing for the sheer joy of it all. Then, without warning, they were away as quickly as they had come, leaving a sense of mingled disappointment and exhilaration. It was always a special day when the dolphins came to play.

Some nights they pulled into marinas at coastal villages and towns that had probably been receiving sailing ships for centuries. The moment of moving into a berth and dropping anchor was always tense, as Captain Kris seemed to feel his reputation was on the line if his crew did not perform well. One person knelt with the anchor poised waiting for the order to let it go and to control the run of chain to the depth needed. One stood by to make sure that Kris’ orders were relayed in case there was noise or his voice did not carry (There was never any danger that Kris’ voice would not carry). Two stood with ropes properly knotted and coiled ready to throw them to the waiting helper on the pier. Two stood with extra buffers ready to make sure there was no danger of the boat contacting a neighbour. Kris, of course, reversed, steered, yelled orders, swore or laughed aloud depending on how well the manoeuvre was carried out and who was in the audience. The procedure was reversed when leaving.

One morning, it went farcically awry. Another boat had arrived late the previous night, the anchor chains had crossed, and as the Aquarius with Captain Kris giving orders got under way, it became clear the two boats were hooked together. The other boat was being sailed by an Italian man and a Spanish woman who each became caricatures of the stereotypes of their people. There was much shouting, screaming, waving of hands and pulling of hair.

Kris yelled at them to release their ropes because he was afraid he would pull their anchor and tear a hole in their boat. They seemed either incapable or unwilling to do so. The Aquarius was having trouble holding still. Eventually, a sailor from another yacht released the ropes and the two boats began a game of tag and follow-the-leader around the tiny harbour, trying to unlock the tangled anchors. They lowered them and lifted them, always to the accompaniment of the Mediterranean hysteria and to the delighted amusement of every other crew and most of the villagers. Kris managed to appear calm through gritted teeth and a fixed grimace, but he hated being part of the circus. The crew knew better than to speak or offer suggestions: never were six professional adults so unquestioningly obedient.

Finally, the two boats were sitting in the middle of the harbour with both anchors visible and locked in the air between them. A motor dinghy came out and an Englishman approached, offering to try to untangle them. It was no easy task and potentially dangerous because the anchors could do serious injury if they fell anywhere on the dinghy or on him, but slowly, he began easing them clear of each other. The Mediterranean couple showered him with angry and useless directions. ‘Listen, you two, do you want me to help or not? If you do, then SHUT UP!!’ His voice floated across the water. People on other boats cheered, and the villagers followed suit after the few seconds it took for the English message to be interpreted. The couple then turned on each other, and there was a yelling match on the deck as each was clearly blamed and they yelled, ‘Silencio!’ more and more to each other. The audience was in fits.

Meanwhile, the Englishman-to-the-rescue gave a final heave, and the anchors dropped apart. Kris offered him a drink but he grinned and said, ‘I think you should just get under way.’ They left with bows and waves all around. The other boat was still drifting with a quarrelling couple intent on each other as the Aquarius moved out to sea.

This year, Lizzie was arriving after the others because she had to be at a meeting in London on Friday. Sam had met the others the previous day. Lizzie took British Air to Ankara and changed to another flight to the small airport at Dalaman, which was nearest to the coastal area around Marmaris and Fethiye.

She had to take a taxi along the cliff road for over three hours to meet the others who would have already joined Kris and the boat in the harbour of Likya Han which was a favourite stopping place each year. The plane landed at about midnight, and the trick was to find a sober taxi driver. Lizzie was still in the inevitable blazer, and black pants with her brief case and her pack when she came out of the terminal into the darkness of the car park. All other passengers seemed to have disappeared, whisked away by waiting friends or families or tourist buses and as Lizzie approached, drivers surrounded her, all calling to take her anywhere in Turkey she named. It was very dark. Put on a confident front, girl. Hold that briefcase and look as though you know exactly what you are doing.

She pointed to one man and spoke to him. He lurched forward. She tried another. He too breathed alcoholic fumes. She tried a third. He giggled. Oh, this is great. She tried a fourth. He said, ‘Yes, I can take you.’ They agreed on the price, and Lizzie got in with a sigh and settled back for the drive.

When they reached the small town near the airport, he stopped and said, ‘Which way?’

‘Don’t you know?’ stared Lizzie.

The man shrugged.

‘So how do you know how much it costs?’

Another shrug.

Bloody hell. Lizzie looked for a signpost and saw the name of a town she recognised. ‘That way,’ she pointed. Set your alarm, girl, or stay awake.

It was a beautiful drive. The moon was almost full, and the night was bright across the water as they dipped, climbed, twisted and turned over and around the hills. The harshness of the land became smudged charcoal in the moonlight. Lizzie kept her window down, partly to make sure she didn’t sleep, but also so she could enjoy the pungency of the woods and farmland that they passed. The air was soft, soft, soft. Her mind began to drift towards Sam. Slowly, she brought it back.

After a little more than two and half hours, she began to recognise more signs and knew they must be approaching the area around Likya Han. She was not at all sure she would recognise the turn off. It was such a tiny village there might not be a sign where they needed one so she told the driver to leave the main road and go into a harbour which she recognised and which was bigger and more popular with sailing tourists where the nightlife continued until morning.

People sat in the open with drinks or licking ice creams in cones. Restaurants opened to the sky so there was always a smell of good food. From a few bars, there was loud disco music but it was muted by the warmth of the night. By the harbour wall, young people danced or smoked or ate those melting slices of lamb or beef wrapped in flat bread with yoghurt or spicy sauce. The old streets climbed the hill away from the harbour. All night there were sellers of earrings, sandals, painted clay, stuffed camels and shining multi-coloured hats. The taxi driver again asked Lizzie the name of their destination. After what seemed a very complicated conversation with another man, he sat back in the car but did not move.

‘Are we going?’ asked Lizzie.

Shrug.

‘Is there a problem?’

Shrug.

‘What the hell are you waiting for?’

A tray appeared at the window. On it were two steaming glasses of coffee.

‘Thank you,’ she apologised.

A hand appeared. She paid for the two coffees and drank in silence. The tray reappeared, she returned the glasses, and they continued on their way. It was after four o’clock in the morning when they approached Likya Han by the one road that ran down to the harbour-side village. Now what? There was no marina here, they just anchored off shore and came in and out by dinghy. Everyone would be asleep. How on earth was she going to signal the boat? Was she in for a long dark wait on the deserted waterfront beside the wooden fishing boats moored in rows?

They crept slowly into the sleeping village and, joy! she saw Sam and Kris waiting for her, standing in the beam of the taxi lights, grinning and Sam was clutching a huge bunch of flowers. She was so pleased to see them that she fell out of the car and threw her arms around them both. They might each be slightly crazy but Sam was so dependable in so many ways. He kissed her and thrust the flowers at her laughing aloud. Yes, Sam was drunk in that Captain Kris sort of way that made you wonder if the two would ever be quite sober again. ‘Thank you. Where did you find flowers?’

‘I stole them,’ Sam grinned. ‘In the morning you have to hide them. Don’t walk through the village with them or the women will lynch you.’ Yes, this was a Captain Kris sort of gesture. He and Sam were clearly going to get along well on this trip.

‘Are we going to the boat?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Too late; too drunk,’ said Sam.

‘We wake everyone. We stay here. Come on,’ added Kris.

Sam shouldered her pack, minced a few steps with her briefcase, and the two men took off into the night until she called them to wait while she paid the taxi driver.

‘Where are we going to sleep?’ asked Lizzie when she caught up with him.

‘Ali’s bar,’ this was said with another grin she could hear in the darkness.

‘Ali’s bar! Bloody hell!’ said Lizzie.

Ali’s bar was a minute space on a terrace that was reached up some squiggly steps. Ali himself was another of those drop-down-dead handsome types with slow, heavy eyes and a moustache that was truly droopy. Lizzie had danced with him often, a big smiling bear of a man who moved rhythmically to the rather tinny music that came from his old tape player. Where could they sleep at Ali’s bar? On the counter? Too small even for Lizzie. When they reached the terrace, Kris hissed, ‘Wait here. I’ll check,’ and disappeared up what Lizzie saw was another flight of steps up to another level.

‘OK,’ he called back in a whisper.

Lizzie and Sam made their way up and entered a room with no furniture except a low table and carpets and cushions all around the walls. On one carpet she could make out a white shape that she guessed must be the sleeping Ali. This was confirmed by Kris who added, ‘He sleep naked, so I needed to check he was covered.’

Giggles from Sam in the darkness; the two men clearly thought this was hilarious. However, by the time she arrived in the room, Lizzie was getting past caring; she was so tired. She took off her blazer, kicked off her shoes and settled onto the carpet which was silky to the touch. She thumped the more roughly textured cushion and fell asleep, vaguely aware of an ‘Ouch!’ as she had thumped Sam who was snuggling up next to her. Lizzie slept with Sam’s arms around her. Strange how safe she always felt with Sam—even when he was giggly drunk it seemed.

When she woke, it was to find sunlight pouring into the room through wide windows. Sam, Kris and Ali, all looking fresh and sprightly were sitting cross-legged at the low table smiling at her. ‘Hello, Ali. Good morning, Kris. Hi Sam,’ she said and rolled over and went back to sleep.

They must have left her for another hour or so and then Ali woke her, handed her a thin towel and a piece of soap, pointed to a basin of water and left leisurely. Lizzie stripped, washed and changed, putting the “office gear” at the bottom of her pack with her briefcase, not to be seen again for three weeks. When she wandered downstairs, the village was well into its morning routine. The dust had been watered down, loaves of bread were stacked outside the bakery, and women were chatting as they made their way to and from the general store and the stall selling vegetables. Sam was waiting. ‘Breakfast at Mehmet’s,’ he greeted her and took her arm.

‘Just how long have you been here, mate? You seem like a local already.’

‘The power of shared alcohol among boys,’ he grinned.

There was definitely something endearing about Sam’s grin. I wonder if this will last three weeks? The longest we have spent in each other’s company outside a war was a week. Interesting.

Mehmet was the young businessman with a hundred and one projects on the go to make money. He supported a wife, “some” children, his parents and two younger brothers. The family had “always” been carpet makers and Mehmet had begun collecting old examples of the beautifully woven silk and wool craft. Really an art, Lizzie had often thought. They cleaned and repaired them where necessary and had a shop that was the nearest thing to Aladdin’s cave that Lizzie could imagine. It was dim inside so the sun never faded the glorious colours. Lizzie had already bought two beautiful carpets. Mehmet and the visitor or buyer would sit on the floor or on slightly raised cushions and sip hot spiced apple tea for at least a couple of hours, while carpets would be unfolded from stacks along the wall and flipped open in front of them. The woollen weaves were thick and rich like heavy cream and fresh baked bread. The silk carpets were magic; flipped open, they rippled in the old gloom of the air in the shop, then slithered down at Lizzie’s feet. The silk glowed. Soft pinks, deep rose, greens and aquamarines and all variations of the bay that waited outside, rich heavy golds that brought the sun inside. The shapes were memories and silhouettes of birds, flowers, animals, leaves and vines.

Aahh, Lizzie would sigh.

Mehmet sipped his tea and talked softly. ‘This one is particularly beautiful,’ he would say occasionally.

Sometimes, but very seldom, he would say sadly, ‘This one has not been cared for.’

Gradually, a pile would accumulate of those Lizzie wanted to consider. Then the process began again as she selected fewer and fewer until finally, there would be only two or three. Then Mehmet became the salesman “par excellence”.

‘Take all three, Lizzie. They will bring you joy. The price is small, very small.’

‘I cannot take all three, Mehmet. I am a single lady. I have no husband. I must feed myself.’

‘This is sad, Lizzie. So you must have something beautiful in your life. Three carpets will bring peace and serenity into your home. Maybe they will help you find a husband.’

‘I don’t need a husband, Mehmet. I don’t want a husband, Mehmet. I can’t afford a husband, Mehmet.’

A sigh. ‘Then, Lizzie, you should have three carpets.’ And so it continued. They both enjoyed the ritual and both were smiling when the deal was finally done.

This morning, they did not go to the carpet shop. They passed by, greeted a woman who sat on the ground in front of a low fire and hot plate where she rolled out the dough that became wonderful flat bread. They passed the shop itself where a “cousin” of Mehmet’s sat with folds of silk over his knees as he repaired a carpet. They walked up the soft dust of the street and entered a fine shaded area of dappled, early morning sunlight where someone had just watered the garden, and there was a green smell of mint and a ripening smell of tomatoes. A long, wooden table was set with plates and glasses and wooden benches waited lazily for them.

‘Lizzie!’

She was greeted with hugs, compliments and a welcome that was warm and genuine. Sam was introduced with openly curious glances going from him to Lizzie. Grins from the men. Smiles from the women.

‘You see here, Lizzie? This my new hotel,’ Mehmet could barely wait to show her.

It was a small stone building, newly whitewashed and glistening in the clean golden air. ‘Now, I have accommodation for the people who come to buy my carpets…and I shall sell carpets to those who come to stay at my hotel,’ he beamed. Mehmet already owned the best restaurant in the village so he could feed them too.

‘Sit, Lizzie, sit. You must eat. Captain Kris has told me of your journey. I have asked why you and this handsome man, this Sam, sleep on those rags with Kris at Ali’s place instead of my hotel. It is not fitting. If you are not on the Aquarius, you should be in my place. Sit. Eat. Eat.’

Creamy cheese appeared in slices. There were tomatoes that were really red, not the pale copy orange found in supermarkets under plastic wrap. There was warm bread for the breaking and a boiled egg in a plastic cup.

‘See, Lizzie, I shall cut off its head and you can eat the golden heart.’

In a brief moment of shadow, Lizzie was back watching a felt tip draw a face on brown shell, and she heard the tap, tap of the knife before it cracked and cut through the whiteness. Then the shadow became the past once more, and she ate the egg, drank the thick, dark coffee, exhaled, smiled and gave thanks to someone or something that she was here in this beautiful place.

Mehmet, Sam and Kris were talking to her. They would spend the morning loading more supplies, then lunch at Mehmet’s water front restaurant and leave early afternoon. There was gossip about life in the village and the people that Kris and Lizzie had met: one was married; one was cheating on his wife, with a tourist. To sleep with a tourist was not such a bad thing. Tourist women… well… Lizzie gave a mock hurt look at Mehmet. ‘You are not a tourist Lizzie. You are our friend,’ he countered. ‘Maybe you think of living here with us?’

Now that would be an adventure. Kris gave his news. He was thinking of buying a house in Likya Han. Mehmet, of course, would be his agent.

‘This is a good man,’ said Mehmet smiling at Kris. ‘He is a good man, Lizzie. Like Sam, he is a good man too Lizzie. Even Ali, he is a good man. Plenty of good men, Lizzie.’

Thank you Mehmet. It seems the world is filled with good men. Not really my experience, but I am smiling at you on this sunny day with the sea waiting, the sky blue and at least one of these men looking good so far—and it does not have to go far.

Sam and Lizzie smiled at each other. Mehmet continued, ‘A good man works hard. He is careful with his money. He is healthy.’ Kris and Sam were just about simpering into their coffee. ‘Now, Kris will have a house here, Lizzie. He will come to live here when it is warm and he can sail. Maybe you, maybe Sam too, will come here to live.’

It was not a question but a statement of an option. Kris interrupted to explain that, at first, it would only be for a few months a year but, eventually, he planned to move permanently. He loved the village, the life and the sailing, and with his computer business it would only be a matter of time before he could afford to make the change.

He was excited and Lizzie could share his enthusiasm. With at least some level of acceptance by the village community, it could be an idyllic life. Kris was not interested in politics and would bring capital with him so there should be no difficulties. Germans were welcomed because of historical alliances. Lizzie was pleased for Kris because he seemed a lonely sort of man, despite the partying that he did during sailing trips when he often did not finish until four or five in the morning, would sleep on deck and wake to make breakfast at six.

Waking to Kris’ breakfast was a major joy of these holidays. He began by playing soft, gentle music, maybe Bach or Mozart, that gradually seeped into Lizzie’s cabin—now Lizzie and Sam’s cabin—and slowly brought them to consciousness of the movement of the boat, the light and the breeze coming in the cabin window (or porthole). As the smell of coffee slipped under the door, the music would get louder and brassier; whatever was popular at the time.

One year, there had been a revival of old Dean Martin songs. For weeks all along the coast, they heard “When the moon hits the sky like an old pizza pie, it’s Amore”. They bought some old copy tapes and sang along all day. Kris was popular with the locals as well as with his crew and Lizzie could imagine him enjoying the slight notoriety of being a sailing captain and an outsider who was warmly accepted. She could hear his enthusiasm and smiled at his excitement.

‘The only thing,’ said Mehmet, ‘The only thing Captain Kris needs now is a wife.’ He stopped and smiled at Lizzie. ‘A Turkish wife is good, but Captain Kris would be better with a wife of his own people. Someone who is a good woman, who will look after him and talk to him about his own things. Someone who will be obedient.’

Lizzie felt Sam’s grin and she turned to Kris expecting a grin in return. He was watching her, but he was not grinning. ‘You like it here, Lizzie?’ he asked.

‘I love it here, Kris. I think you could be really happy.’

Was she imagining it or was Sam’s grin now a little forced? Mehmet was grinning mischievously now at both men. Lizzie continued, ‘Of course, it would not suit everyone. I mean, take someone like me who has to work and travel, who has a job and doesn’t want anyone else to have to look after. It wouldn’t work for someone like me. But, for you, Kris, it sounds great. We can visit you each year and be your best customers for the sailing.’

She babbled on, into the silence under the vine. Sam’s grin was more real.

‘Lizzie,’ said Mehmet, ‘You do not want a husband? Truly, you do not want a husband?’

‘Mehmet, truly I do not want a husband. I would not be good as a wife. I am too old.’

Now Mehmet look struck. ‘How old are you, Lizzie?’

‘Too old, Mehmet, too old. I know that and Kris knows that, so you should not tease us.’

Mehmet looked thoughtful. Kris smiled slowly. Lizzie continued talking about her work and where she had been in the last year, until gradually, conversation resumed, the sun grew hotter, they drank a last cup of coffee and wandered down to the small harbour.

There was the shaky little jetty that Lizzie remembered. It sloped its way along the waterfront, coming right to the edge of Mehmet’s restaurant then sliding along for wooden fishing boats and dinghies to catch onto it. Many of the boats were painted green or blue, simple craft that were usually rowed, sometimes driven by small motors. Women and kids managed them as well as men.

One morning, last year, Lizzie actually got up before dawn and Kris had taken her along the shoreline a little with her camera. He left her alone in the silvery time as she wandered through the grass and rocks and waited for the day to arrive. There were some old sarcophagi strewn about and neglected. This was a country where such things were commonplace and taken for granted by the people. Perhaps, living in a place where death was hundreds of centuries old made it easier to accept? Maybe. Maybe not. A rat scuttled in front of Lizzie and she felt her pulse increase. It had been not much more than a movement but she sensed the pointy snout and sickening smell. She stamped her feet and hurried out of the long grass back to the water’s edge.

Lizzie was not given to rising early, but on the few occasions when she did get up, she marvelled at the daily spectacular of sunrise. Here she could see the sky lighten and then the distant arc of gold on the horizon. A three-mastered wooden yacht stood out in the harbour, gilded. The Aquarius changed from a sliver of lightness to sparkling white with her double smiling in the mirror at her feet. As the gold spread through the silver air, there were twin boats everywhere in the smoothness of the sea. Green on green. Blue on blue. Occasionally, red on red. The small boats posed in the quietness and stillness.

Lizzie perched on an old box and watched and waited as the village awoke. An old man came down slowly, smoking a sleepy cigarette. Two younger men came quietly but quickly, shook out some nets and pulled out into the bay without even speaking a word.

A woman stood for a moment at a window and looked out to nothing. Lizzie wondered where the woman’s mind was flying and if her soul were sad. Her own soul was melancholy with that twinge of loneliness that adds piquancy to being alone but she was at peace with the world and herself as she saw the sun grow bolder and the villagers begin their day. It would be easy to assume that, here, people were content and life was simple and relationships quietly happy. Maybe that is the way of things. Maybe not. Lizzie hoped that the villagers had time to remember and register the beauty of their world. Hoped that beauty did not become so familiar that it faded into ordinary. So many things could become ordinary: terror, pain, despair, violence. Why not beauty, contentment and honesty?

Bloody hell, woman, you do blather on. Shut up and wave to the boat. There. Kris has seen you.

He had been on his way into shore, and she went to eat breakfast.

Today, they found the rubber dinghy at the end of the jetty and Lizzie clambered in with Sam clutching her pack and with only two false starts, they puttered out towards Aquarius. The morning was glorious and Lizzie and Sam were both laughing for the joy of it, the freedom and the fun. There were a few other boats in the bay.

One was an expensive catamaran anchored not far from Aquarius with an extremely elegant young woman on deck in a tiny black bikini and an enormously brimmed straw hat. Blonde hair touched her shoulders, and one long slender leg was stretched from her chaise-longue up towards the blue sky. Kris was back to being the flirtatious, audacious captain. He called to the young woman who removed her sunglasses—oh so languidly—and nodded the slightest of nods in his direction. Kris gave a yell and headed for the catamaran.

At the last moment, Sam, Lizzie and the young woman realised what he was doing. He was headed through the catamaran. Lizzie squawked, Sam yahoo-ed and the young woman screeched to someone below decks. Kris held the dinghy on course with laughing determination. ‘Duck!’ Lizzie threw herself as flat as she could in the cramped space of the dinghy. They were under the cat. They were between the two side bits—(what the hell are they called?) They were through. They were out and circling. The young woman was gasping, but clearly impressed. Her husband?—father?—brother?—was clearly not impressed. He was yelling at Kris who was still laughing and waving as though he were being greeted by friends. Lizzie and Sam were laughing too, now that they were safe. Kris turned and headed for Aquarius, decidedly pleased with himself and the world. Later, he might meet that young lady at one of the coastal bars. She would remember him. Sam clearly had a bit of the devil in him too.

By the time they had the dinghy over to Aquarius, the others were all on deck to hand Lizzie aboard with welcoming hugs. They had already met Sam, and he seemed already a favourite. They removed the sandals they wore ashore. Kris was a strict captain and shoes that had been ashore could bring tiny pebbles or dirt aboard, could mark the wooden decks of Aquarius. Always, they had to be removed and either bare feet or a pair of sneakers just for the yacht were the standing order.

Kris ordered “Captain’s Drinks” and with only a few pretend protests about it being too early, everyone agreed. Kris’ Captain’s Drinks were usually only for late afternoon or evening when they arrived at their night destination and dropped anchor. He kept a supply of oranges and squeezed them himself before mixing the juice in a saucepan with Campari. Campari and orange juice would always mean memories of sailing with Kris.

While the drinks were in the making, Lizzie unpacked. She loved this cabin with its funny shaped bed that was wider at the head than at the foot. She loved the glow of the polished wood and the brass fittings. It would be interesting to share it this year. Quickly, she checked her life jacket and unpacked. The briefcase was tossed at the bottom of the cupboard: she found her old black baseball cap, pulled it on with the peak to the back took off her watch and put it away for three weeks. Bliss.

Back on deck, Kris had erected the table and the drinks were ready (with lots of orange juice Lizzie was pleased to note—Kris was not as irresponsible as he sometimes liked to appear). There was more catching up with everyone speaking English, lounging about putting on sun lotion to protect their newly arrived skin. Most provisions were already aboard but there was a final check, a trip to the shore for a light lunch and then, at last, they waved to Mehmet and to some of the guys who came out in dinghies to say good-bye and they were off. After this flurry, Lizzie collapsed prone on the top of the cabin and half-slept the afternoon hours away. Sam joined her some time later after spending time with Kris at the helm and finding his way around the controls. It was the beginning of Lizzie’s holiday.

For most of the three weeks, they glided or drifted in blue and gold beauty. They all turned brown, and their eyes seemed bluer, greener or darker. They worked together well and knew each other well enough to recognise moods and avoid clashes or cabin fever. There were occasional spats between the Germans but nothing serious. Moods passed, and people come out smiling again. The routine was easy. Breakfast made by Kris. Sailing for the day. Most of the time they skipped lunch, just snacking on fruits or biscuits. Sometimes they swam. Some evenings they berthed at small marinas. Most evenings they went ashore.

Marmaris was the biggest place they visited. It had extensive marinas where Aquarius looked very slight and elegant against massive motor “yachts” that screamed of testosterone and money. Kris took them in for one night only to stock up on provisions, water and fuel. Marmaris also had a great tourist market with narrow crowded alleys between stalls of jumbled smells and colours. Spice sellers wafted around their open bags of curry and pepper and cumin and turmeric and saffron. Leather bags and cases cluttered between racks of leather jackets and skirts and trousers. From some came the unmistakable smell of camel mingling with the more refined hides. Clean jewel colours of blouses and floaty dresses gleamed in piles beside T-shirts with a medley of slogans and prints. Interspersed were fruit stalls with round yellow peaches, smooth nectarines and clustered grapes all green or purple. Onions, garlic, cucumbers and piles and piles of tomatoes. Everywhere the smell of lamb slowly scorching while warm bread and piquant sauce lined up to wait for the outside slices.

The crew didn’t ever buy very much but gathered at a waterside cafe and watched the ferries and their crews and salesmen as they lured customers to take trips across to Greece. It was always a lively performance as the men flirted with young western girls wearing shorts and skimpy tops. Brown eyes flashed and white smiles dazzled while compliments littered the exchanges. Young male tourists were urged to enjoy a day of drinking beer in the sun and, ‘Look at these girls who come on my boat…’ Older couples were promised a gentle sailing, ‘No rough moves, all very calm, very quiet.’ All this often offered on the same outing. Marmaris was fun, noisy and crowded. They were all always pleased to leave.

There were a couple of other bays that they always visited. One was a particular favourite. They were usually the only yacht in the bay, but at most, there would be three others. They anchored in deep water off a rocky shoreline where they had to tie up. This was always a drama. Two people went in the dinghy with ropes and had to loop and make fast the heavy ropes while Kris kept the Aquarius steady. They never did it quickly enough or in the right spot. This time Sam was a competent help, but Lizzie had to swim with him, each pulling a rope to a pile of rocks. Kris made a big loop and handed it to Lizzie. She was never sure she could do it, but Kris and Sam just looked at her and expected that she would. So she did.

When they were finally secure, everyone went overboard for a swim. It was a clear bay, and Lizzie pulled on flippers and a mask with her snorkel. There was no coral like the coral she had seen in the Red Sea or like the coral she had seen in the Pacific, but there were fish and there was the clean light-filled, under-sea world. Now that she could snorkel without filling her nose and mouth with water and spluttering constantly, she loved it.

It was different from that first time exactly one year after she had found a lump in her breast. That had been her forty-fourth birthday. Her hair was short and curly as it had grown back. She had a new “lump under her jumper” which was what the surgeon who did the reconstruction had promised her. She was satisfied. It meant she didn’t have to wear a prosthesis or look lopsided which had been her only options before he took the flesh of her “spare-tire” around her lower abdomen and made the lump that now replaced her right breast.

That had been a shitty year. Fear, surgery, a death-sentence, a death-sentence commuted to life, baldness, chemotherapy, wild mood swings, despair and anger. So much anger.

Then came the invitation to attend a world congress in Arizona, to do a speaking tour of women’s groups in the USA. She bought a round-the-world ticket and stopped over in Egypt on her way home. Why not?

She had joined up with a group of seven others (all much younger than she was but very tolerant of the oldie in their midst) and floated down the Nile, had a few mild adventures and, finally, boarded a fishing boat to go snorkelling in the Red Sea. It had sounded so romantic. It was when they were about an hour out to sea that Lizzie thought to mention that she had never been snorkelling and…Is this relevant?…couldn’t swim very well. They thought she was joking. Oops! She didn’t like to add that she didn’t even like putting her head under water.

One of the crew, a stunningly beautiful young man, called, of course, Mohammed, had been very attentive. He smiled at Lizzie with the most melting deep brown eyes she had ever seen and reassured her, ‘It is very easy, Miss Lizzie. Very easy. You will see.’

That’s all very well, young man, but I am seriously not good at this sort of stuff. And how much further is this boat going? We’ll be at the other side soon. I’ve seen the maps and this Red Sea is not all that wide, surely?

Shi-it! We’re stopping. Everyone is bustling about. Are these my flippers? They look enormous. But I can’t get them on. My foot is sticking to the rubber and the strap is too tight. Wet my foot? That sounds like a good idea but, my dear, the bloody water is bloody miles away over the bloody side. Are there any steps down? You think I’m being funny don’t you? I’m not trying to be funny. The only other way to wet my foot is becoming a distinct possibility as I’m getting more and more nervous. But think of the smell and the embarrassment. Thank you. Thank you for tipping a bucket of water over me. Yes, I know I’m smiling, and you all think I’m clowning deliberately. Well, at least the bloody things are on my bloody feet. Now, what? Jump over the side. You have to be kidding. Are there really no steps I can go down? Climb onto the rail. Swing my legs over. Yes. The flippers are getting in the way. Drop into the sea. Drop into the sea? I’ll go under. What if I don’t ever come up again? That is not a joke although I’m glad to see that I’m amusing you all. Hold the mask and the snorkel and let go of the rail. Unclench my fingers. Drop. Oh! Shi-i-it! I’m dropping. I’m drowning. There’s a terrible noise. I can’t see anything. I wouldn’t see anything, I’m sure, even if I opened my eyes. Which I won’t. OK. OK. So you were right, I did come back up to the surface. Now I have this rope in my hand I just might stay here for the rest of the day. Put on the mask. Spit on it. Spit on you too, Sir. Oh, I see…the spit stops it fogging up. So, I’ll spit. Now the mask is on. What about the snorkel? Of course, I know I have to put it in my mouth and breathe. This, I can do. See. It is in my mouth and I’m breathing. Put my head in the water? Really? I have to put my head in the water? Well, here goes nothing. It’s in the water. I’m taking a breath. Bloody hell! I’m drowning. I’ve swallowed half this ocean and the other half is up my nose. What is so funny? The end of the snorkel was pointed the wrong way—now you tell me. I don’t think I can do this. I need help. Mohammed, where are you? Mohammed, can you see me simpering at you through this mask covered in spit and can you see me trying to smile with this piece of rubber tube stuck in my mouth? Mohammed please can you help me?

It was a clear case of Mohammed to the rescue. In a trice, he was in the water holding her up so she didn’t keep spluttering and flapping wildly. He fixed the snorkel, fixed the mask, stroked her cheek, put his arm around her and smiled fondly. Lizzie did her best not to drown him in return. It would not seem fair. He held her while she practised breathing through the bloody rubber tube. Then he took her hand and, together, they glided away into the blueness. Well, Mohammed glided. Lizzie flapped along beside him.

Then the wonder of it took over. Never had she experienced such liquid light. Oh, good one, Lizzie. “Liquid Light” under water. How original. Shut-up and enjoy. She did, and it was beautiful.

There was just the occasional problem. Sometimes, despite all her care, water did get into the snorkel. ‘You must blow it out, Miss Lizzie. Like this…’ Mohammed demonstrated while holding Lizzie so she could tread water without feeling she had to flap her feet at fifty miles an hour.

Lizzie put her head down and tried to blow out. But she forgot—no, she didn’t forget—she just didn’t realise how it worked—she forgot to keep her lips clamped around the snorkel. She took in a huge mouthful, and there was more spluttering. Mohammed held her again, and this time he held her very close. Very close. Lizzie kept spluttering, torn between the need to breathe and the feeling that she should get out of Mohammed’s arms without being dropped to the bottom of the Red Sea.

‘How old are you, Miss Lizzie?’ that question always asked.

Old enough to be your mother, sonny.

‘I am very old, Mohammed.’

Why don’t you tell him you are in your forties? That would do the trick instantly.

‘How old, Miss Lizzie?’

‘I’m older than you, Mohammed dear. I think I’m OK now. Let’s go.’

Vanity, Lizzie, vanity.

No matter how much she tried, there were still times when she couldn’t blow out properly and she broke the idyll of deep rich coral, brilliant fish, wavering sunlight and this beautiful young man holding her hand. Each time, he smiled and held her close while she recovered. ‘Miss Lizzie, I think you like it like this,’ he grinned after about the tenth time. Lizzie concentrated on blowing out. But he was very beautiful.

That had been magical snorkelling. This bay was not like that, but it was fresh and clean, and Lizzie could do it on her own in the silent blueness. And this time, Sam was with her and she had no objections at all when he held her hand and they glided together or when he stopped and held her close under water.

When they came back on board, the others had showered and were into the evening drinks. There was a small hose at the back of the Aquarius on the steps down to the water. This was the main shower they used on board. There were two others inside but they were cramped and had to be pumped out when the shower was finished. It was easier to soap all over and then spray away on the deck.

Everyone had their own style of dodging bathing suits or of stripping when they not in view of other boats. It was still difficult for Lizzie to strip off in front of other people because she knew her scars were apparent and the “bump under the jumper” was not exactly sexy. Yet Sam had not minded when he saw her naked in Rwanda so now there were very few times she even remembered her shape but she could not bring herself back to those lovely times when nakedness was natural on Australian beaches or in a swimming pool. Sam tickled her, and it was all funny. So she just turned her back and the people who were friends and the man who was her lover took no notice.

Lizzie dressed, brushed her hair and stroked cool, creamy moisturiser into her skin. She loved that tingling, outside cool, inside-hot feeling that came after being in the sun all day. She sipped her drink on deck as the light faded from the Turkish sky and for a moment wondered how Gwennie would feel if she knew her girl were here, now, in this place, at this time. Gwennie would have loved this setting. Nanna would just love to know her Lizzie was making the most of whatever was offering.

As the sky darkened, small lights showed from the house at the curve of the bay. There was one family here that cooked and served meals for the occasional yachts that visited. It was expected that visitors would arrive in time to allow chickens to be killed and meals prepared. In the warmth that still rose from the hills around the bay, they took turns to clamber into the dinghy and ferry to the beach. The challenge, always, in the dinghy was to hold sandals, avoid sitting in the puddles and not capsize. It was another superb evening with a full moon and just enough breeze to offset the heat. They ate and drank well, toasting their host and his family, toasting Aquarius and the moon, toasting each other, toasting the good life. They toasted in Turkish, English, French and German. They toasted the beach, the stars, the dinghy.

When the first four finally headed off in the dinghy, they made it safely for about a metre. Then someone—no one ever did admit to it—someone stood or wriggled or something and they turned turtle in the shallow water where those who were drunk sobered up. Lizzie, Sam and one of the Germans watching from the beach were still laughing when they came to breakfast next morning and of course later that evening, they were repaid in kind, but it was worth it.

The days passed. Lizzie thought about Sam. She was quite happy with things as they had been, as they were now. She didn’t want any change and to be fair he did not seem anxious for anything different between them. Lizzie’s life now was good and the nightmare times seldom intruded. The violence. The terror. The humiliation and the shame. All gone. Almost gone. The desperation and urgent need to live. The despair and almost giving herself up to death. The almost letting go, almost letting the softness seduce her into the calm of nothingness. Once she had resisted being brought back. Then she had resisted being taken. Could she have really let go? In the war-zones or when just travelling she held on, she kept going. Was that just cowardice calling the tune? No, she rather thought she did want to live. They would have to take her kicking and screaming into whatever it was one went into. She would not go quietly.

Towards the end of the week, they met some heavy weather as the sky and the sea turned from wedding-day blue to funeral grey. The breeze became a biting wind. There was some rain. Mostly, there were waves. Big waves. A big swell. Lots of wind. Lots of waves. The Aquarius ploughed and rose and her mast angled close to the water. Lizzie wasn’t really frightened, but, ‘Can she tip over?’ she asked. Four German scientists, one German computer expert and one smiling Sam assured her the Aquarius would not capsize. Something about the keel, the weight, the height and her centre of gravity.

‘But lots of yachts do capsize,’ Lizzie felt stirred to mention.

‘Aquarius won’t.’

Lizzie decided to keep them to their word. So she relaxed and enjoyed the exhilaration, the pull of the waves, the energy of it all. Three of the others were nauseous and looked far from well as they clung to the sides and struggled to throw up where the wind whipped away their misery. The youngest woman became badly frightened and began to cry.

‘Take the wheel,’ Kris called to Lizzie because Sam was doing something to the sails and mast. Kris clipped the young German woman’s life jacket to the strong metal uprights, gave her a quick cuddle and tried to reassure her. Lizzie had never had the wheel in conditions like these. It pulled and tugged to get away from her. She preferred to steer by a landmark but visibility was so poor that that was impossible so Kris called the compass points and left her to it, just telling her to keep on course but, ‘Watch the waves—play them, Lizzie, and you will be OK.’

‘You can do it girl,’ called Sam

Her hair was whipping across her face and into her eyes. Her cap was long ago stuffed into her pocket. She could taste the salt that was crusting her skin. Aquarius leaned. Shit, how she leaned. Lizzie had one foot on the deck and one foot up on the box seat just to keep herself nearly vertical. The wheel fought her, and her arms began to ache as she asserted her will (Kris’ will. Sam’s will) on this elegant lady craft turned hostile by the threat all round her. They rose and dived. Sometimes, they thwacked down. Always it was a rough ride. This was why writers liken boats to runaway horses. Aquarius wanted to bolt. Lizzie would not let her. The young woman called something to Kris and Sam who smiled and nodded in response.

‘She says you look as though you like this, Lizzie,’ Kris yelled in Lizzie’s ear. Sam gave her a thumb’s up and a grin. ‘That’s my girl,’ he called. Your girl? Watch your mouth matey!

But Lizzie was enjoying every minute. It became longer than minutes. After an hour, Sam took over when Lizzie was exhausted but feeling great. She quickly realised, however, that it was all much less exciting when she was not at the wheel. She had confidence in the rest of the crew, of course, but, somehow, when her fate was in someone else’s hands it was not quite so much fun. Does that say something about your personality, girl?

Still the greyness was all around them. She remembered Gwennie and the terrible greyness of Mum’s pain as she called for the ease of medication. Lizzie remembered too the greyness of her own fear. She remembered the greyness of easy death in the softness of water. She had rejected that greyness. Now, she felt the sharp whipping of the wind, heard the silver rattle of cables against the mast, felt herself sliding as Aquarius tossed to ride the waves. But she held on. She held on and together, wet, tired, cold and exhilarated, they rounded a point and were safely in harbour.

It was a small bay, rocky like all the others. In the storm that continued, they battled to secure Aquarius having to go in the dinghy to set the ropes and, even in this sheltered spot, fight the water that was flicking up and challenging them. There was no laughter or teasing as they all worked together, jumping to obey Kris’s orders and straining to do what he expected of them all. The rubber of the dinghy was slippery with rain. The ropes were heavier. Aquarius was still recalcitrant. They were all tired and a little scared. If they didn’t do their job properly, Aquarius could be dashed on the rocks or taken out of their control in the sea which no longer hid its dislike. Its friendliness of the day before had changed to sullen, no, to active aggression.

Instinctively, they all relied on Kris. No one questioned his orders or made suggestions, even when they had two lines in place, and it was clear that the yacht was not yet safe. He ordered one rope changed to what seemed an impossible position and they did it. Then he sent a third line when they all felt so exhausted that they would have said, ‘That’ll do.’ This was tough. Sam took the lead acting on Kris’ directions.

At one stage, the motor of the dinghy cut out, and they were out of control but luckily, they were thrown under one of the other mooring ropes and Sam leapt and grabbed it. He yelled, and Lizzie stood too, on the flabby, slippery rubber. She hooked her feet under the cross-board and held on as if her life depended on it. It probably did, she realised later. Sam let go and fell back to grab the motor. It seemed an age before it sputtered, died, sputtered and came to life and slowly, they made their way back to the spot Kris had indicated and they clambered up together to loop the rope around the rocks.

Lizzie’s hands were trembling, and she couldn’t get a good grip. It was all too much. She was too old. She was too useless. She couldn’t do it. She could feel the energy draining out of her. She couldn’t do it. Sam, struggling to hold the dinghy against the rocky shoreline shouted at her. She couldn’t make out the words, but she could hear his urgency and his anxiety. Still, she crouched and couldn’t move. He shouted again with more intensity. She looked up and he was pleading with her, telling her to hurry, struggling to keep the dinghy alive and controlled. She crawled, slipped and scrabbled. She put the loop around the rock, and she slid back down in a rush, almost missing the dinghy, but, eventually, flopping back into it. They looked back, and Aquarius was tethered calmly, aloof from the waves that surged around her, and they made it back and climbed aboard wearily.

‘Good girl,’ said Sam as her hugged her. ‘We make a good team.’

Everything was checked while the wind and the rain continued. It was nowhere as bad as it would have been out of the bay, but it was far from calm.

That night, they ate on-board. It was a ‘German Stew’ of whatever cans they could find, hot and filling, and no one ever asked for the recipe. They had all changed out of their wet gear, and the cabin was warm and snug. When Lizzie crawled into her bed, she was aware that Kris probably wouldn’t sleep. There had been no Captain’s drinks and no wine for dinner. Sam stayed up with Kris. Lizzie felt an odd sense of security that someone else would take care of her. She used to feel that way about Mum, even in a condemned building. She fell asleep.

By morning, the sky was blue and the sea was their friend again. That was the only bad weather they encountered. For the next week, it was as if the film had changed from black and white back into glorious technicolour. They meandered along the coast, eating and drinking, and Lizzie was again voted “most lizard-like lady” for her talent of stillness in the sun. She didn’t think about anything much. She just was.

Once they visited a family whose farm was a few miles inland. They knew the man, Nick, who worked in a bar in a small harbour that only served the few yachts that called. He had cooked melting slices of lamb with “potatoes from heaven” and gave them the expected tomato salad and slices of watermelon. Then, he gave them a drink dubbed “green stuff” because no one could make out what was in it. Whatever it was, it was delicious and decidedly alcoholic but the moon was full, the evening air was velvet on their shoulders, and they all got quite, quite drunk. They were all wearing the silken head twists with gilt drops that were sold along the coast. Even the men had them around their foreheads. Nick knew Kris from many years sailing, and this crew had met him on the last three trips. He sat and drank with them. There was one other yacht in the harbour, the crew was Austrian, and in between laughing at their own jokes and flirting outrageously, Lizzie became aware of the sort of feuding between the Germans and the Austrians. Her friends were scathing about intelligence levels, breeding habits and taste in all things cultural regarding Austrians. From the looks coming from the other crew, she felt pretty sure they were saying similar things about the Bavarians. It was just like home with the Aussies and the New Zealand kiwis or the Victorians and the Tasmanians or the Melbournites and the Sydney dwellers. Australians call it “stirring”. Perhaps, fortunately, the Austrians retired early, and Aquarius’ crew stayed on in the moonlight with Nick and his “green stuff” before giggling their way back to the yacht. Tonight, Sam and Lizzie enjoyed the soft rocking of the yacht, and the moonlight coming in the small porthole open to the salty air. Sam’s hands were soft and salty too as he stroked Lizzie’s skin and slowly, so slowly urged her to pleasure.

Lizzie woke next morning smiling as Sam caressed her again to the sound of the music slipping into the cabin as he slipped into her. At breakfast, Kris told them that the whole crew had been invited to Nick’s home. This was unusual as most of the workers kept the sailors and their own families quite separate. Lizzie had often noted how difficult it was to know any women, even casually, because they were always kept in the background, well protected, well-guarded, working hard. It was the men who served in the bars, who waited at table, who dealt with the foreigners. The men often had affairs with visiting women but there was an underlying disdain for what were perceived as lower morals and brazenness in dress and attitudes. Lizzie felt sure that any local women who “consorted” would be rejected by their own communities.

So, Lizzie and the two other women dressed carefully in skirts and shoulder-covering tops. They arrived on shore to find Nick with an elderly and very tiny car and heard that the farm was about twenty minutes’ drive away and they would have to go in two loads. Nick took Kris and the two German women first while Lizzie, Sam and the two men sat in the morning sunlight and sipped the cool, freshly squeezed orange juice that Nick had arranged from the bar. Lizzie realised, later, that Nick had probably put considerable thought into how to organise the transport. Kris must go first because he was the captain. But Kris and the other men would not be left at the farm without some of the women. Kris’s reputation was well known along the coast, although, to be fair, he restricted his amorous adventures to the visitors and had always respected local custom and tradition.

When the tiny car arrived back, Lizzie was put into the most comfortable seat and the guys had to climb in together in the back. ‘I thought this was a man’s world,’ one of them grinned. They bumped and rattled up the main road and then lurched and jolted over the dirt track that went off to the farm. ‘Much more of that and I’d have been a soprano,’ said the large German as he unfolded himself and emerged.

The farm was lovely. The house was large and rambled away into the surrounding garden and out buildings. Its white stones reflected the luminous green of the vines, and inside it was cool and dim. They were taken into a room that was clearly the family’s pride and joy, empty except for a television set which sat smugly on a lace-covered table with a beautiful carpet doing homage before it. The worldwide adoration of television.

There were wonderful food smells wafting around in the air that was now quite hot as they gathered at a table outside under a vine and met the family. Nick’s mother seemed very, very old. Her hair was covered with a black scarf and her face and hands looked like brown paper that has been scrunched into a ball and then opened out again. She was silent and did not make eye contact with the visitors but Lizzie was sure they were being closely observed and evaluated. Nick’s wife was beautiful. Certainly no longer young, her features were fine and her movements combined strength and grace as she brought her two daughters to be presented. These two teenagers giggled and talked away excitedly to each other as the foreigners’ clothes and hair obviously came under scrutiny. Drinks were brought and tray after tray of food: warm, soft bread, chicken, beef, fish, potatoes, rice, tomatoes, onions, melons, grapes, coffee and hard, sweet biscuits. The three younger women served and the old lady sat about six feet away and watched silently. Lizzie asked if the women would join them but Nick said, ‘No, Lizzie, they will eat later.’ He added, ‘That is our way.’

The younger of the two daughters said something laughingly to her father who laughed too, and then stood with one hand on his hip and wagged the finger of the other hand in a mockery of sternness. She flashed back what was, obviously, a saucy reply and he collapsed laughing into his chair again. The girl came to him, put her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly. Her mother smiled. Nick could not hide his affection as he patted the girl’s hand and said, ‘I am surrounded by women. What can a man do? Just love them.’

The sun passed its peak and they all sat on in deepening shade. Still, the women did not join the circle around the table. After serving and clearing away the dishes they disappeared into the house, presumably to eat too. The old lady stayed in her chair. Sometime later, the three emerged and sat behind Nick talking quietly to each other while they watched him with his visitors. From time to time, Lizzie and the others would smile and gesture to the women, trying to include them but they remained apart.

When it was time to move, Nick told them he would take Kris and the men back to the yacht first and then return for the women. There were formal goodbyes, the four men loaded themselves into the car and set off down the dusty track, and within about ten seconds, the other women had pulled their chairs up to the table and were talking animatedly. Even the old lady was talking. In a mixture of mime and laughter, the questions began.

To Lizzie, the questions were predictable. ‘Was Kris her husband?’ No. ‘The big man?’ No. ‘The other man?’ No. ‘Where was her husband?’ Lizzie mimed taking off her ring and throwing it away. Consternation. Sympathy. Lizzie laughed and mimed sweeping out. More sympathy for Lizzie who shrugged and accepted that some things just didn’t communicate across cultures and language. Attention moved to the other two women.

When Nick returned, all six women were drinking coffee and many questions were managing to cross the barriers. The older daughter pointed to Lizzie’s camera and then to the group. ‘Of course,’ said Lizzie, delighted to have some photos.

She took some lovely portraits of the women and of Nick. Then the youngster pointed again to all the women indicating that she wanted a group shot. They all stood and arranged themselves, the two Germans, the old lady, the wife and the two daughters and Nick. The girl protested and drew Nick out of the group, taking him by the hand and handing him the camera. It was clear. This was a photo for women only. Nick spread his hands and gave in. Later, when they were developed, Lizzie would send them to the village and smile to think how pleased the women would be to receive them. The photos were memories of a sunny, dappled day and a warm welcome.

They returned to Aquarius feeling replete and lazy. The next morning, Nick was there to wave them off, and they sailed for the morning and into the midday heat. Aquarius was beautiful. She responded to the breeze and skimmed elegantly across the blueness of the water for a quiet, happy day with only occasional conversation as everyone enjoyed the easy comfortableness of working as a team, knowing each other and knowing what needed to be done. Sam and Lizzie each took the wheel for an hour or so and thought of nothing but compass and sails and the next headland. Lizzie was content to let go, to have thoughts and ideas pass through her mind without ever working on them, sorting them out, analysing or making any decisions. She was simply sailing in the sunshine.

As the temperature rose, Kris said they would anchor and swim or sleep a few hours because they had made good time so they drew near a beach and dropped anchor. By this time, the water was golden green all around them. One of the Germans said he would stay aboard, and he stretched out under the sun sail that gave a deep blue shade to the deck when they were not at sea.

‘You can call me captain. Just don’t call too loudly,’ he grinned.

The others decided to swim to the beach rather than unload the dinghy, and they tucked money into plastic bags, pinned them to bathers and set off. Lizzie was not going ashore.

‘You OK?’ asked Sam, and she nodded and waved them off.

She would just “dip and bake” taking a short swim around the yacht because it looked too far to the beach, and she was not sure she’d make it back through the waves breaking onto the sand. ‘Too much like hard work,’ she told the group as they went over the side.

The ladder was down. They had all heard the stories of people drowning beside their boats because they had forgotten to drop the ladder and could not scale the smooth sides of the vessel. As the others moved swiftly away, Lizzie sat with her feet on the ladder and enjoyed the solitude. The “captain” was already asleep, and she was glad she had decided against the long swim as the shore looked even further away now. She almost fell into a daze too, just watching the rise and fall of the water against the white flanks of Aquarius.

Then she took off her hat and slipped easily into the coolness. There was no sharpness; it just took her gently. She swam a few strokes then rolled and floated, looking at the cloudless blue that stretched into eternity. Her hair fanned out, and she played the twisting game of catching it across her cheeks. She rose and fell as the water lifted her seductively into the nothingness of just being, with no struggle, no thought, simply feeling, becoming part of the sea, the sky, the sun and the salt. She closed her eyes. Everything faded except the warmth and the wetness that wrapped around her like swaddling or a shroud. She was cocooned; buried in her sensations, without will, flotsam in a pink bathing suit. She could drift into the deepest sleep.

When she decided she should go back, she opened her eyes, squinting to control the glare that ricocheted off the hard brilliance of the water and with an effort lifted her head and looked around for Aquarius expecting to see it close at hand. As she pulled herself upright, her feet entered the coldness that lurked beneath the friendly surface. She kicked away from it, arms and legs jerking as she worked to orient herself. She could see Aquarius but it was a long way away. It was between Lizzie and the beach. ‘Oh, shit,’ she gasped aloud to the emptiness that closed all around her, ‘How the hell did I get here?’

She set off in her totally inefficient breaststroke. Funny that after surgery to remove a breast, she could no longer do the Aussie crawl at all—it had to be breaststroke. The sun still shone. The sky was still blue. But Lizzie realised that there was a swell. All that rising and falling was really a sinister swell moving away from the beach and away from Aquarius. She swam as calmly as possible trying to concentrate on what she knew of technique so that each stroke would maximise her strength. Her hands came together into a parody of the prayer position.

Thrust forward. Part and push the water back to clear the way ahead. Fingers together. Legs like a frog. Thrust and push the water. Thrust and push away. The water is too big. There is too much of it.

It could so easily overwhelm her. For all its beauty and its softness, it could destroy her. It could take her. Hands together like a child in prayer. Everything is surprisingly quiet. There is no danger music, no menacing shadows, no one is screaming. Just Lizzie swimming and swimming and swimming.

Don’t think. Thrust and push away. Legs like a frog. Legs like a frog. Her arms were tired. Push the water back. Make a path. Swim and swim and swim. Legs like a frog. Hands together for least resistance. Hands together. Like a praying child. Legs like a frog. Hands in prayer. Please I don’t want to die. Please. I want to live. Rise and fall. Make the effort. Move your arms and move your legs. You know the motions. Keep on going. It’s the same as before, just more of it. Don’t give up, Lizzie. You are Gwennie’s girl and Nanna’s girl. Don’t give up. Hands and arms and legs like a frog. Thrust forward. Swim, girl, swim. Use your strength. Keep your eyes on the path, the line between you and Aquarius. Your will is your lifeline. Swim, girl, swim. Please, Mum, I want to live. I don’t want to die. Please, Mum. Please, Nanna. Help me. Help me. I don’t want to die.

Everything so quiet. Still, there was no screaming. Quiet. The sun still shining. The water rising and falling, rising and falling. Her arms were heavy. Her legs were aching. She was not a frog. Legs were moving but not like a frog. She was pushing the water but there was more, much more of it. It was bigger than she was, so it could beat her, punch her, bruise her, make her cry and make her do whatever it wanted. The water was a disease under the skin and in the bones. It was silent and it infiltrated, finding your vulnerability, feeding on your trust and making slime of your strength.

Please, Mum. Please, Nanna. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I want to live. I do, I want to live. Legs like a frog. Hands in prayer. Swim, girl, swim. You are Gwennie’s girl and Nanna’s girl. You can survive. Legs like a frog. Swim. Swim. Your will is your lifeline. Swim. Swim.

‘Hey, Lizzie, are you OK?’

‘Lizzie, do you need a hand?’

‘Hang on, Lizzie, I’m coming.’

Hands in prayer. Legs aching and not like a frog. Thrust away. So feeble. The water might win. I do want to live, want to live.

‘Grab her.’

‘I’ve got her. Keep the dinghy steady.’

‘Pull her in.’

‘I can’t get her up.’

‘Lizzie, hold on. Hold on, Lizzie. I’m here. Stay with me.’ Sam’s voice. That was Sam’s voice. ‘I’ve got her.’

‘She’s OK.’

‘OK Take off. Get back as fast as you can.’

‘Watch the motor.’

‘She’s OK.’

‘Let’s go. Let’s go.’

‘You’re OK, Lizzie. You’re OK.’

She did not drown that time either but the memories came back, memories of a time when there was no one there, when Sam was not there.