We cross the sea-strewn country of Greece from corner-to-corner, touching twenty-four of her glittering islands along the way. Clare and I do the final tally one afternoon and find ourselves a bit startled at the result. Did we really see that many islands in three months?—mind you, some of them we no more than set foot upon, but others we got to know a bit better, even becoming repeat customers at our favorite shops. The sailing wasn’t always pleasant nor the anchoring always easy, but there was something legendary about churning the same waters as the likes of Homer, Hercules, and Hephaestus.

So many of these history-drenched shorelines are otherwise blazing, barren, and forbidding—not exactly an embryonic environment for the most significant civilization of Western history. Sometimes it was difficult enough just finding a place to the land the dinghy—how in the world did the people of these Martian islands raise enough food to survive, let alone give birth to the concepts of science, philosophy, and mathematics? Perhaps, the greater the struggle the greater the advance, but I find it surprising to see places of such historical significance—that once outside the harbor—look so rugged, parched, and unkempt.

Not only is sailing the Greek islands a poetic way to pay homage to the past, but because sea-faring is such a long-standing and indispensable tradition here, every notable stop is necessarily designed for marine access. Each island offers at least one well-protected harbor, and all commercial activity radiates from the port. Municipal seawalls are abundant, well-maintained, and more often than not free-of-charge. Spunky wooden fishing boats, puttering under the rickety thumping of outdated diesel engines, prowl the surrounding waters for livelihood much as they have done for thousands of years (although, catches now aren’t what they once used to be). Visiting by boat—as opposed to the tourists who fly into one of the regional hubs—certainly gives a deeper affinity for the local culture.

In some ways our ventures across the Aegean become a bit old hat. Retrieve stern lines; up anchor; motor out to sea; hoist the sails; make way; find a cove, drop the anchor; go for a swim; wash rinse repeat. Not that such is a bad routine, but we are happy to share it with friends who arrive at the height of summer to join our basking of Greek glory.

Cassie and Andy kick-off the UK visitor train, and CRACK we hit a postcard-perfect vacation… happy hour drinks atop some ancient dilapidated Greek seawall while the sea literally kisses our table; losing ourselves in twisted village pathways far too narrow for any car; family-style Greek feasts of freshly made vegetarian delicacies; descending down into the caldera of a simmering volcano while stealthily dodging the bad luck that’s forced Cassie and Andy to keep their distance from volcanoes always seemingly on the verge of blowing up; perhaps our black-sand beach visit wasn’t quite as idyllic, what with 25-knot winds spitting sand into our hair, eyes, and most importantly, our beers; but we do have a perfect beam-reach sail down to the next island, and anchor in an exquisite cove that we have all to ourselves; sunset rambles up rugged hillsides; underwater snorkel spelunking; and some of the most visceral phosphorescence any of us have ever seen; plenty of home-cooked meals, cracked bottle brews, new card games, and late night mad-fact yarn spinning.

After failing to berth along the city quay (and snagging someone else’s anchor in the process), we manage to hold Champagne steady in her deepest anchoring yet (24-meters), and rush ashore to find two more friends—Anna and Jemma—waiting with arms wide open for us at a bar in Symi Town—drink to that! Trusty Cork manages to get all six of us back to the boat, but only so that we can move her around the corner and anchor within swimming distance of the seaside villa we’ve rented for two nights—someone put the boombox on, time to enjoy the elbow room and a hot shower. Ding-dong, oh that must be all those groceries and booze we bought in town being delivered for free—thanks gents, care for a beer? So it begins, and so it ends. Good music, good laughs, good food, good swims, good memories.

Alas, the time comes for Cassie and Andy to depart thus bringing the family reunion to a close. All of these friends have been such great hosts to Clare and I during our visits up north (and will undoubtedly have to do so again :), so it feels wholesome to return the favor. You don’t name a boat Champagne unless you want to share it, and it’s precisely moments like these when we’re most grateful for our life aboard, for the chance to share our nifty little slice of pie. You better believe we popped more than just a few bottles, all of us giddy to be toasting, spilling, and sipping our boat’s namesake.

We swap crew-teams, but by no means do the good times slow down. In fact, Clare and I have devised a new method for making decisions when in-doubt…simply ask, What Would Anna Dick Do? And let me tell you, the answer is very rarely, I mean almost never “No.” We hear some great stories from Jemma’s past as well—who ain’t no push-over herself—and we hit it so hard that night at anchor that we get a visit from Nemo…not the fish, but a strapping Israeli crew-member of a nearby boat who just can’t resist the music and swims over to join-in on the fun. In hindsight, I’m surprised that more neighbors don’t follow his lead because a few of them mention our racket the following day, chuckling as we quietly nurse cold beers behind dark sunglasses. A tray of thick home-made moussaka and a lazy afternoon at the beach set us back in order.

But by the following day it’s high-time to give the girls a chance to tug on some ropes and showoff their hard-earned knot-tying skills. But what starts as routine motoring across tepid seas, quickly transpires into a blustery well-reefed charge into frothing chop. A hat (or perhaps two) is lost to the wind and some fish are fed along the way, but the girls show true grit and even jump off the mast after reaching safe harbor and getting some rest.

We’re in some far corner of the island, renown for it’s storied monastery, which—after wrapping Anna in towel to have her appropriately covered—we manage only a quick peak before loading on a bus for a return trip to the ferry. Goodbye dear friends, we will miss you more than you can know. As much as everyone expresses the desire to come and visit, there’s very few who actually do. Here’s to collapsable furniture for accommodating guests!