I could write about that day in Paros where we walked the beach road from Parikia out past the ferry port and the bar and the restaurants, past the campsite and the restaurants on the beach, past the sports beach club where we had swam the day before, where I had found the empty sea urchin shell, out along the narrow beach path, out around and up onto the headland where the wind blew through the aloe vera plants and we climbed high over the sea below, round the corner where the headland felt more of a desert than a beach now and on until we started descending to the roadway below past the deserted campsite club and squeezing our way onto the edge of the end of this new beach.
We walked a while and found ourselves now opposite the town and its beaches, where the ferries now passed between us and docked in the distance. We joined a handful of locals in the sun under some abandoned beach shade umbrellas and watched a scruffy little dog do as it pleased along the water’s edge. We swam and dried off. We swam again, slipping off our constricting swimwear and swimming free in the sea. We lay in the shade to dry off and watched an old man arrive in an ancient Fiat and enter the sea for his daily lunchtime swim, out to the buoy and in again and back along the beach edge.
I entered the water and followed his route, my bravery enhanced by watching his success. Swimming out in the sea and I was free. Free and a little scared, scared of all those things they tell us to be scared of, the depth, the currents, the cold cramp, exhaustion. I thought of all these things as I swam out following his path, his invisible trail somehow holding its permanence through its daily repetition through the waves and I returned victorious. I had conquered the sea.
And that is the story of the sea of Paros one summer of 2017, in the year after the fire and before the operation.