Adrift and Broke – PART 1

It’s all Greek to Me

Apologies in advance for the long story - but I hope it will be worth it!

On a summer trip in the early 1980s I decided my entire focus was going to be around the Greek islands. During my planning I discovered the airfares to Athens were incredibly high but, I remembered I had friends who lived just outside of Venice so I flew there instead and stayed with them for a few days. I knew I could take the train to Athens from there. It was great reminiscing old experiences with them. I typically traveled light bringing only a small duffel and a backpack and arrived in Athens after the two day trek. I found myself a small inexpensive hostel to use as my home base for a couple of days before heading around the Greek islands by ferry. Athens was an absolutely amazing place, and I enjoyed the people, the food and the sites. The following morning, I was to travel to the Greek islands, but did not want to carry my suitcase. I really only needed a couple of pairs of shorts, some T-shirts, some clean underwear, and my toiletries and bathing suit. All of that would easily fit into my backpack or wearing them, so after speaking with the rather gruff attendant at the hotel, he locked my bags up in a room with other suitcases from young travelers who had wandered to the islands as well. This particular year I would make stops in Mykonos, Santorini and Lesbos. And my travel there would be absolutely amazing however for another story. Upon my return to Athens, I went back to the hostel to retrieve my bag and found out they had been robbed and the room where the luggage was kept had been ransacked. My bag was gone as was my spare cash. I know, stupid me! I only had about forty dollars left on me and my open return plane ticket home was from Venice, which was quite a distance away. The days of travel before the internet were often clumsy.

I rang a friend in Athens who retired from the US Air Force and had married a Greek woman. He loved the culture so much he stayed and opened a business. We had been friends for some time so I asked for his help. They had just had a baby so he was not in a position to lend me much money, at least not what it would take for transportation to Venice, but he knew of a company who rented sailboats that ran from there to Venice and back. It was a company that rented sailboats and motor yachts with a captain and without to tourists who wanted to sail the coast. I have been sailing my entire life and was very comfortable on sailboats, so I nodded and accepted the offer, both out of gratitude and desperation. I arrived at the rental office, and my friend did all the talking in Greek occasionally nodding in my direction and the manager who spoke broken English extended his hand and said, “welcome ‘board”. My surprise and my good fortune. There was a couple who had rented a 48 foot sailboat and were trying to sail it on their own and almost wrecked twice leaving the day before. The manager was trying to find a captain who could help them along the way for a fee, but was having no luck as all the other boats were either rented or in repair and as luck would have it this was the time of year where most of Europe has disappeared on vacation. He agreed to introduce me to the couple first thing in the morning and would call them and tell them that he had found somebody and explain the situation to make sure they were comfortable. If they agreed he would ring my friend who would let me know and I would come down in the morning and I should be prepared to leave with the tide. My lucky day! My friend Jonas allowed me to sleep in his store on a cot in the storeroom that night as the baby had taken up the only room and there really wasn’t space for me to sleep aside from being on the floor. At 5:30 in the morning, he came by and I was already awake, packed and ready to go.

“Good news, the couple said yes. Let’s head over there”. The manager, a very large, round Greek man, walked me down the finger dock to where the sailboat was docked at the end. As we arrived, we could hear wrestling about below deck and two people loudly bantering back-and-forth. “Ya, der. Yo capt’n here”, he announced to them. Both coming out of the cabin and to my surprise, the couple was not a man and a woman, but rather two women one with a French accent and the other with an Italian accent. I do speak some French and I am fluent in Italian so I did not feel uncomfortable. He had explained my situation to them and my capability and they were comfortable still this morning – we all agreed to do this. We made introductions and he wandered away as if the entire process was a complete annoyance to him. Nonetheless, I was grateful. I extended a hand to the ladies and introduced myself, where I was from and my experiences in sailing as a boy and a young adult. Together, the three of us came up with a plan, and after inventorying the food needs, the fuel, the water and provisions award. We were set to head off first going up the Adriatic Sea in international waters along the coast and then around the top past Trieste and down into Venice. I knew a few coves along the way we would not get in trouble if we stopped in to do a little snorkeling and catch some fresh fish, lobster and octopus, and they were excited at hearing these things. They were gracious and motioned to the V Berth in the front and said that I could sleep there. They were going to share the queen bed in the state room. I thanked them and told them that I would prefer to sleep up on deck and would take one of the sofa mattresses and use it as my bed. Anybody who has done any kind of sailing in the world, knows that the V Berth is the hottest place on a sailboat to sleep. If it rained, I would just move down below and sleep on the couch.

I was thrilled I found my ride, which would get me to my airplane and get me home and, in style! The salty sea air was a clean slate after the dust of Piraeus and the unwelcome residue of the past days. Below me, the smooth, varnished deck felt solid, a promise of onward momentum, and a direct path to the airport that would take me home. This, I thought, was a damn fine way to hitch a ride. The boat was a gleaming 48 footer, and I, the down-on-my-luck mariner, was its Captain. My crew of two was currently draped across the sun-warmed cushions on the deck, entirely unconcerned with the physics the journey – the scenery and the view, didn’t suck. We had cleared the coast, the engine was off, and the silence of the Aegean was broken only by the gentle lap of water against the hull and the faint, sweet sound of a French pop song playing softly from a hidden speaker. The canvas had filled with the light, true breath of the wind, and we were gliding north, a smooth, silent arrow aimed at the Adriatic. The French woman was an attorney - Elena. She was all sharp angles and soft curves; a paradox wrapped in linen shorts and bikini top. Her long, slender legs were a honeyed gold from the sun, crossed carelessly at the ankle, ending in worn espadrilles that looked out of place on such an elegant woman. Her hair, a dark, rich chestnut, was pulled back in a loose, chic knot that constantly threatened to unravel, releasing tendrils around her temples. When she turned her face toward the sun, her eyes, the color of sea-glass, were momentarily hidden by lashes that were thick and dark, contrasting sharply with her fair skin. Her simple white tank top was loose, but there was no mistaking the firm, high curve of her breasts, suggesting a strength that belied her relaxed posture. Elena had the self-assured, calm presence of a woman who knew exactly how the world worked, having fought its battles for a fee. This trip was her chosen refuge and her way to help her friend forget and ugly past.

Beside her sat Isabelle, her best friend and the true reason for this voyage. Where Elena was coolly composed, Isabelle was melancholy, held together by a fragile, breathtaking beauty. She was Italian, and every movement was a fluid, sensual expression of a passionate nature recently wounded by a husband who had left her alone with nothing but debt. She wore a bright crimson bikini that showcased her spectacular figure. Her legs were longer than Isabelle’s, pure alabaster in the shade of the sail, but turning a delicious peach where they caught the sun. Her hair was a wild, glorious spill of black silk that framed a face of ancient Roman beauty. But it was her eyes that held your attention—large, deep hazel, perpetually shadowed with a lingering sadness that was instantly attractive for its honesty. The bikini’s thin fabric was a barely-there barrier, doing little to contain the generous, beautiful curve of her breasts which rose and fell with the deep, slow breaths of a woman finally beginning to exhale. They were novice sailors, to say the least. Hoisting the main had been a comedy of errors, resulting in me stepping in before either of them accidentally sent a finger flying into the sea with the halyard. But now, they were simply tourists, enjoying my competence, relishing the fact that they were completely at the mercy of the elements, trusting me to deliver them and their boat safely to Venice. The exquisite solitude now settling over them.

"It is... pure magic, this silence," Isabelle murmured, her voice a warm contrast with a melodic Italian accent. She didn't look at me, her gaze fixed on the distant, pale horizon. "Silence is the most expensive luxury, Cherie," Elena replied, taking a sip of the chilled white wine she had produced from the cooler. She glanced over at me, a slight, knowing smile touching her lips. "Thank you, Captain. You have turned an act of terror into a moment of poetry." I leaned against the helm, one hand resting lightly on the varnished wheel, feeling the subtle resistance of the rudder against the calm sea, the view only getting better. "It's all the wind, ladies. I'm just here to watch the horizon." And so began our journey: two beautiful women, a boat, and a captain who needed to get home, all sailing together, completely at the mercy of the wind. That first day of sailing was a gift. The light wind held true, pushing us steadily out of the Saronic Gulf. After twelve perfect hours of silent, sun-drenched cruising—and a few brief, hilarious attempts by Isabelle and Elena to steer a straight course—twilight found us about 60 miles from Piraeus.

Our destination for the night was the island of Kythnos, specifically the sheltered, double-bay anchorage of Kolona. This spot is famed for its narrow strip of sand connecting the main island to a smaller islet, forming two perfect, protected coves. It was an idyllic first stop, a soft landing after a long day. I brought the sloop in slowly under a sky streaked with lavender and deep gold, setting the anchor with a smooth, satisfying rumble. The stillness descended immediately, broken only by the faint clinking of rigging against the mast while the women stretched out in the cockpit, utterly content but exhausted from the novelty of the long day. I began my first official duty as Captain, Chef, and Mariner-for-Hire, making Dinner. The catch of the day was actually the Seabream they had managed to purchase from a local fisherman before we left Piraeus. I scaled and gutted the fish on the aft deck, rinsing it with seawater, and prepared it stuffed with thick slices of lemon, sprigs of fresh rosemary, and a generous splash of olive oil, all wrapped tightly in parchment paper and foil. I roasted it gently in the small grille mounted to the aft railing, the rich, herby aroma soon drifting out into the cool evening air. I served it with a simple medley of peeled tomatoes, crisp cucumber, garlic, a slab of salty feta cheese, and black olives—drizzled with the best Greek olive oil I could find. We ate on deck, no utensils – fingers only, the anchor light casting a warm glow on our faces, the only sounds being the gentle rocking of the boat and the soft clink of the wine glasses. The meal was a success. Isabelle, who had barely touched her food earlier in the day, ate with the genuine hunger of a person finding joy again, her eyes closed in momentary bliss after a bite of the tender fish. Elena simply leaned back, sighing, and declared, “Captain, I believe your culinary skills surpass even your sailing skills. This is why we hired you – it was serendipity indeed!” The view of them eating was an orgasmic treat for my eyes.

By the time I had cleared the plates—my small crew having offered only enthusiastic but ultimately unhelpful clean-up attempts—were fast asleep in their berth, exhausted and utterly content. I sat alone in the cockpit for a while, the star-filled night sky of the Aegean stretching above me, the only light on shore a few faint glows from the distant main town. The sense of peace was profound, and I knew I had made the right choice to accept this strange charter. Still grateful! The next morning, I woke before the sun, pulled on my swim trunks, and slipped silently into the crystal-clear water for a quick, cold swim. By the time I was back on board, the coffee was brewing, and the wonderful smell of freshly toasted bread was wafting up from the galley. I laid out a simple breakfast buffet: strong Greek coffee (lighting for sure), thick slices of rustic bread with butter and apricot jam, and a plate of sliced graviera cheese and hard-boiled eggs. Keeping meals simple was key on the water. Isabelle and Elena emerged, looking refreshed and radiating a natural, effortless beauty in their sundresses and light linen shirts. We ate in comfortable silence, watching the sun climb higher and paint the twin bays of Kolona in brilliant turquoise and sapphire blue.

Breakfast finished, the anchor was weighed, and with a confident throttle of the engine, we pointed the bow of the sloop north once more, setting a direct course for the next leg of our journey toward the Corinth Canal and Corfu further down the way. The next few days were a hard sail and it was needed to cover the miles. The days would be a straight, hard push toward the west and northwest to cover the distance from Kythnos to the Corinth Canal and the subsequent distance from the Canal exit through the Gulf of Corinth and into the Ionian Sea to the southern tip of Corfu – it was a demanding sail but well worth it. For the next many hours, the deck of the sloop became my open-air classroom. I spent the entire time teaching the girls how to work the rigging, gybing, rudder control, wind and weather. I showed them body mechanics and how to handle the ropes to not burn their hands and not let the sails injure them. Throughout the intense training, their attire was nothing but the most minimal and vibrant of bikinis, a sensual counterpoint to the grit and strain of hard physical work. Elena, in a sleek, dark navy bikini, was a study in contrasts. The lawyer’s focus never wavered, but the effort made her skin glisten with sweat and spray. Her long, beautifully toned legs were braced against the deck, providing a powerful foundation as she wrestled with the helm. Every move of her body was a subtle display of controlled power. Isabelle, in a bright turquoise suit that amplified the natural bronze of her skin, seemed to shed her sadness with every hour spent fighting the ropes. Her long black hair, now too salty and wild for a knot, cascaded down her back. The repetitive work made her arms and shoulders gleam with a new, beautiful definition, and her spectacular breasts were held by nothing but the fragile straps of her top as she leaned over the rail or pulled taut on a line, her whole body invested in the task. In the period where the boat was stable and just sailing, and their help was not needed, they would wander to the front of the boat where they were almost completely out of my line of site and sunbathe in the nude. Unbeknownst to them, I could still see them. I said nothing as their moment of solitude and relaxation meant more to me than uttering a sound. Besides, the view still didn't suck.

As we approached the Corinth canal, I asked them to join me at the helm. "You have earned this view," I said, gesturing toward the entrance where the walls began to rise, a man-made canyon slicing Greece in two - Corinth Canal. We anchored just outside the waiting area, settling in for the night among a small cluster of other yachts waiting for the dawn transit in a group. Dinner was simpler this time—pasta with fresh vegetables—and the conversation was tired but filled with pride. "I can... I can feel the boat now," Elena whispered, sipping her wine, her muscles trembling slightly from exhaustion. "It's not just a floating deck." "You did very well, both of you," I confirmed, a genuine note of respect in my voice. "You're no longer just passengers. You are becoming sailors." They were asleep almost before their heads hit the pillows. I spent a long, satisfying hour charting the next days: the passage through the magnificent Gulf of Corinth, past Patras, and out to the Ionian Sea that would bring us exactly to Corfu. The sun rose over the narrow, vertical cliffs of the Corinth Canal. We motored the tight, dramatic transit through the four-mile trench in respectful silence. By noon, we were in the wide-open expanse of the Gulf of Corinth. The women, now confident and capable, executed the sails and every turn of the wheel without being told, their concentration intense, their movements practiced.

As the sun set on the day, painting the western sky in hues of deep orange and violet, we were slipping through the narrow channel south of Lefkada, and ahead, the towering, green outline of Corfu was visible on the horizon. We were at the edge of the Ionian Sea, and they had sailed almost the entire way. They were exhausted, satisfied, and, crucially, much better sailors. "Captain, we are exhausted, and we need to process the Last few days. We are taking a proper two-day break in Corfu and simply want to just exist for a while." I agreed without hesitation; a chance to relax and recoup was well-earned for all of us. I could see the tribulations of Isabelle’s life had disappeared in all the hard work and the ocean. The next morning, while the women slept late, I dedicated myself to the charter duties. I cleaned the boat until the deck sparkled and inventoried the galley, putting together a short grocery list for the women's shore excursion. When they finally emerged, dressed in light summer clothes for a day of sightseeing, I handed them the list. "Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to procure these essentials. Mine is to make sure this boat is ready for the long push ahead." They returned in the late afternoon, laden with bags and full of stories from their explorations of Corfu's old town. The air on the boat immediately shifted from routine to pure relaxation. We all stripped down to our minimal attire and slipped into the cool, crystal-clear Ionian Sea for a long, rejuvenating swim.

With snorkeling gear from the boat, I initiated their next lesson: underwater foraging. I showed them the techniques for spotting and catching fish for the grill, demonstrating how to carefully lure a hesitant octopus from its lair, and even the subtle art of finding a camouflaged lobster. We were successful, landing enough fish to promise fresh dinners for the next few days. Returning to the deck, I taught them to clean and fillet the fish with a quick, professional precision before storing the bounty in the icebox. The lessons—whether in sailing or fishing—had broken down the final barriers of formality between us. We were no longer just captain and clients; we were a unit, moving and working in close quarters. Covered in sweat, salt water, and the faint, musky scent of the ocean and raw fish, a palpable sexual tension began to simmer between the three of us. My instructions now involved close proximity—guiding a hand on a rope, adjusting a knife grip, leaning in to point out a fish—and their bikinis offered scant distraction to my focus. Looking back, we noticed Isabel had a tear running down her cheek. We both thought that her mind had drifted back to the disaster that was her marriage. “For the first time in a long time I am truly happy and that has brought tears to my eyes.” Isabelle said. Elena and I smiled at her both genuinely happy she had shed that tortuous weight. “Do you read novels?”, I asked her. She nodded yes and I asked, “Do you know Isak Dinesen?”, “Yes, Out of Africa, right?” “Correct, she famously wrote; The cure for anything is salt water; sweat, tears, or the sea.” I paused to give her time to process this and then added, “You are now being cured of your troubles by the sea.” She smiled at us both and looked at Elena whose eyes also welled and said, “Thank you for this”. Elena's natural warmth, combined with Isabelle's elegant, controlled heat and vulnerability, were becoming a compelling, magnetic force I found increasingly difficult to ignore. It was now time to hit the town.

Isabelle and Elena, having spent the day conquering chores and reeling in fish, now moved with the liquid, effortless grace of women who knew their power. They wore thin, loose summer dresses—Elena in a flowing emerald green, Isabelle in a light, almost translucent white—cinched only by the gentle fall of the fabric. The sheer confidence of their attire, worn without bras, was a deliberate, sensual invitation that made it impossible to look anywhere else. I kept my distance for a while, content with shorts and a button-down, watching them move—Elena’s precise, lawyerly energy transforming into a languid sway, and Isabelle’s sadness melting away with every spin. We danced, laughed, and drank lots, the alcohol acting as an accelerant to the heat that had been building on the water and Isabelle’s transformation. By three in the morning, we were weaving a joyful path back to the harbor, holding hands and singing a slurred, triumphant rendition of a club tune under the waning moon. Back on the silent sloop, the atmosphere was suddenly thick with a tension. The women went below to change, and I seized the moment to strip off my sweaty clothes. I was mid-change when the cabin hatch opened, and Isabelle emerged, stopping dead in the hatchway. I was fully naked, caught in the warm glow of the cabin’s light. She didn't flinch. Instead, she offered a slow, lingering smile that banished any awkwardness and extended her hand, her eyes electric. “Captain,” she murmured, her voice husky, “Another drink?” “Please, just John from now on” I asked as I followed her below. The air in the cabin was warm and close. As I entered, I saw Elena sitting on the bed, completely naked, a picture of cool, deliberate composure against the white sheets. Isabelle turned to me, and locked her eyes on mine, and with a swift, decisive pull, she slipped the spaghetti straps of her dress off. The fabric slid down her body in a whisper, pooling at her feet and confirming that she had been wearing nothing underneath all night. “I want to do something, but don’t be afraid,” Isabelle breathed, closing the space between us. Her words were an unnecessary formality; fear was the furthest thing from my mind. She reached up, pulling my face down to hers, initiating a kiss that was raw, urgent, and fueled by two days of suppressed longing. Naked body to naked body, the contact was an immediate, stunning shock—Isabelle was electric, her soft curves pressing against my hard lines, a beautiful release of tension that sent my heart racing.

The moment was interrupted by a quiet, measured clearing of a throat. Elena watched us, her glass eyes steady and patient as she stood and walked towards us. “I want to do something, and I don’t want you to be afraid either,” she said, her voice betraying a hint of nervousness that made her infinitely more vulnerable. “It is something I have wanted to do for a very long time.” She took a slow, deep breath, looked at me for a heartbeat, and then turned her attention entirely to Isabelle. Elena reached out and drew Isabelle’s body from mine, pushing their two naked bodies together until they were breast to breast. She then did what neither of us expected: she took her friend’s face in her hands and began kissing her deeply, thoroughly, and with a fervor that was startling to behold. The act was not one of conquest, but of profound, long-desired intimacy, a shared secret finally realized. It was a concealed love she’d always had for Isabelle and it was clear the reverse was also true. For the next four hours, the small cabin was the site of a beautiful, whispered blur of discovery. The initial exploration was between Isabel and Elena. It was a deep, sensual communion where Isabelle’s controlled passion met Elena’s yearning vulnerability. I was invited to watch and then drawn into the tender, tactile moment, exploring the Isabelle’s breasts with my caressing hand and flittering tongue Elena’s hand smoothed over the curve of Isabelle’s waist. The sex was fluid there were no demands, only offerings. We explored the exquisite differences in our bodies: the sleek, firm elegance of Elena, and the soft, passionate fullness of Isabelle. We moved together on the large, shared bunk, our bodies entangled in a delicious knot of limbs and lips. Elena was the quiet, attentive force, her hands seeking and finding every pressure point of pleasure on my body and on Isabelle’s, while Isabelle was the conduit of emotion, her soft cries of pleasure filling the small space telling Elena and I – this had been far too long in coming. We moved from deep, wet kisses to the grazing warmth of skin against skin, indulging in the slow burn of touch, each of us both the giver and receiver of pleasure. As the passion escalated in the close confines of the cabin, the intimate acts of the night became an unrestrained exploration of mutual pleasure. At one point, amidst the tangle of limbs, Elena and Isabelle naturally gravitated toward each other, their bodies mirroring the long-denied intimacy between two close, loving friends.

They positioned themselves side-by-side on the large bunk, their bodies still damp from the recent exertion. Isabelle, always the more emotional and sensual of the two, guided them gently. They turned toward each other, sinking into a position of perfect symmetry, with Elena sliding her sleek body down just far enough to meet Isabelle’s. Both raising a leg to allow the other to move her lips against the other’s wet lips and eventually to kiss each other’s clit. The energy was charged as they each used their tongues and fingers to drive the other crazy. The connection was both tender and electric. Elena, whose movements were usually precise and measured, became utterly focused on Isabelle, while Isabelle, embracing the freedom of the moment, let out a soft, delighted gasp as the sensations began. The exchange was deep and prolonged, a silent, mutual consumption of pleasure where they each gave and received with equal intensity. It was a physical manifestation of their profound friendship, now unburdened by secrets or reservation, culminating in a simultaneous rush of shared climax. The atmosphere in the cabin was one of profound intimacy and understanding. "You know what he took from me," Isabelle whispered, her hand stroking Elena's hip, eyes locked on mine. "Not just money. He took my faith in connection, in what a man's touch can mean. Please show me that a man can be good for me again. That he can be present, tender, and that pleasure isn't a debt to be paid time and time again, show me that it’s a gift." Isabelle simply gazed at me, her eyes glistening, a look of hopeful vulnerability, “Make love to me, please”.

Isabelle didn't wait for a reply. She pulled me, claiming my lips in a deep, grateful kiss before swiftly positioning me. Following her subtle command, I knelt between her legs. The air immediately grew thick with focus. I took a moment to look into Isabelle's eyes, offering a silent promise of tenderness before I gently, deliberately, pushed my cock inside her. Her reaction was immediate and electric—a sharp gasp of pure pleasure—and her arms instinctively wrapped around my back, her hands gripping my hips, urging me deeper. I set a slow, meaningful rhythm, focused entirely on giving her a connection that was honest and deeply felt. While I moved with Isabelle, Elena became the conductor of pleasure. She moved to Isabelle’s side, dedicating herself entirely to her friend's ecstasy. Elena’s hands were everywhere, caressing Isabelle’s full breasts with tender touches and light kisses. Then, with a possessive urgency, she swiveled her body, nuzzling her face directly over Isabelle’s clit so that she could use her tongue to please and torture her, giving her friend simultaneous access to her own source of profound pleasure. Isabelle, caught between the powerful, rhythmic force of me within her and the sweet, consuming taste of Elena, let out a soft cry as she reached up to bury her hand in Elena’s hair. The combined sensations were overwhelming, dissolving the final bitter memories of her past in a wave of intense, shared sensation. In that moment of perfect, three-way ecstasy, we were all achieving orgasm together—a final, unifying wave that left us all breathless and utterly spent.

As the physical storm subsided, the only sound was the gentle lapping of the water outside the hull. Without a word, I shifted, pulling both women into a tight, warm circle. Exhausted, emotionally cleansed, and utterly secure, we all hugged each other into a deep, dreamless sleep, the boat drifting in the warm, peaceful stillness of the Ionian Sea. By dawn, we were three exhausted, satisfied people, tangled together in the warm sheets, the past completely forgotten in the weight of the present moment. The silence of the boat returned, but it was now a silence heavy with shared secrets and a bond forged not just by wind and waves, but by a total, physical confession. We slept until late in the morning and we needed it.

The rest and best was yet to come……