Sailing Sea Breeze: Greece
August 19, 2023 - August 25, 2023
Lefkada - Meganisi - Ithaki - Kefalonia - Lefkada
August 19, 2023 - August 25, 2023
Lefkada - Meganisi - Ithaki - Kefalonia - Lefkada
Lost luggage & Sea Breeze struggles
The crew assembled in Lefkada, some fresher than others, but all present and accounted for—except Maxi’s bag, which apparently chose its own island-hopping itinerary. Nothing like starting a voyage with one toothbrush fewer than planned.
To recover morale, we aimed for food. The universe offered us a picturesque restaurant with white linen tables and a nice music… and we walked right past it. Instead, we landed in a side-street joint where the gyros were less “authentic delicacy” and more “archaeological find.” Everyone chewed cautiously, silently calculating the odds of stomach survival.
Thus provisioned (or poisoned), we staggered back to the airbnb, a little hungrier, a little wiser, and very ready for tomorrow’s reset.
The day began with Maxi losing round two—this time to her throat. While half the crew attempted a heroic walk in the August heat, the smarter ones drove the bags straight to the marina.
At the docks, we discovered the boat… and the absence of carts. Bags became a weightlifting competition. The kids staged their own rebellion by vanishing into a restaurant for a preemptive meal, while the adults inherited logistics. Papers signed, lines cast off—by 3 p.m., Sea Breeze was officially ours.
Meganisi was waiting, but the anchoring wasn’t simple. One unlucky swimmer had to ferry the line ashore, weaving through a minefield of sea urchins, while the rest of us argued about knots like amateur philosophers. Eventually, both ends of the boat were secured—if not elegantly, then at least firmly.
Alice produced dinner like a magician, Maxi rallied from her sickbed, and with that, the first night afloat became official. The boat creaked, the sea held us steady, and no one admitted how nervous they really were about sleeping on water.
Sleep came in waves, interrupted by the shoreline’s party playlist—which seemed designed to test both endurance and tolerance for 90s dance hits. By morning, eyes were puffy, patience thin, and Alice was already on deck, calmly untying spring lines like she’d been born with a cleat in hand.
We set off toward Atokos, lured by the promise of its famous cave. Along the way, Maxi unveiled a fresh anchoring strategy, complete with diagrams in the air and more confidence than rope length. The cave was admired, the plan debated, and the sea remained unimpressed.
By late afternoon we slid into Vathy on Ithaki, Odysseus’s old stomping ground, and managed to park Sea Breeze with only mild dramatics. Dinner ashore was our reward: real food, delivered on plates, no knots or sea urchins required. The first proper restaurant meal of the trip felt like civilization restored—though the boat, rocking gently at the marina, reminded us where we’d be sleeping again tonight.
The morning began with the civilized errands of travel: water tanks filled, groceries restocked, and a round of dockside coffees to prove we were still functioning humans. With Ithaki fading behind us, we aimed for Cathalona, where the day dissolved into swimming, sun, and that brand of lazy optimism only possible when the fridge is full again.
By evening we found ourselves at Paliorus Beach, which looked idyllic until the local wasp population declared us their evening entertainment. Add to that a hard-fought anchoring attempt that took more choreography than a Broadway matinee, and the mood teetered between comedy and mutiny.
Then came “the shark.” Photos were taken, blurry fins admired, and at least one crewmember swore eternal bravery for having swum nearby. Whether it was an apex predator or just a photogenic shadow remains unsolved, but the legend was established.
As the sun slipped behind the hills in a golden finale, we salvaged the day with a shouting game that confused nearby boats, a bottle of Porto that mysteriously found its way aboard, and a shared relief that the anchor, at last, was holding.
We left Paliorus with Maxi’s help on the lines—her throat recovered, her patience not guaranteed. Sami Marina was our next stop, and with it, the day’s first drama: a visit to the lake, followed by an episode between Maxi and Lena so intense it could have been staged for Greek tragedy. We returned to the boat quieter, heavier, and badly in need of distraction.
Distraction arrived in the form of groceries. The girls took charge, reappearing with bags of supplies and the air of generals returning from campaign. With provisions restored, we slipped out again and set our sights on Fiscardo’s Foki Bay.
There, the mood lifted. The water turned emerald, cliffs begged to be jumped from, and some of us obliged with leaps that would’ve scored high in any Olympic qualifier—provided the judges were grading purely on enthusiasm. The cove was explored, the motor was not cooperating, and swimming became the fallback plan.
Dinner preparations were interrupted by sink troubles that defied logic and gravity. Meanwhile, a shore expedition launched by motorboat ended in predictable fashion: the engine coughed, sputtered, and gave up halfway. The crew rowed back in defeat, then voted unanimously for Plan B—walking to Fiscardo.
The stroll was long, the city lively, and the taxi back blessedly uneventful. By the time we collapsed into bunks, we had survived malfunctioning motors, domestic dramas, and sink sabotage. The shark floaty, tied astern, remained smug and functional, making it the most reliable piece of equipment we owned.
The morning began with heroes disguised as “some activists,” who returned from Fiscardo carrying breakfast like it was humanitarian aid. Croissants tasted like medals of honor, and coffee finally brought the crew back into something resembling civilization.
Lena and Mike made their own city run later, leaving the rest of us to supervise the dinghy—which, true to its nature, broke down again. Rescue came in the form of another dinghy, towing us back with all the dignity of a stranded parade float. By then, we were used to it.
The afternoon brought a round of “team boat exercise,” which is what you call it when every rope on board has a vendetta. One particularly rebellious line wrapped itself around the motor, threatening to escalate into full mutiny. Salvation arrived from an unnamed crewmember, who untangled the mess with the grace of someone who’s done it too many times before. We nodded silently, grateful, pretending it had been a group effort.
The evening washed the drama away. We swam, scribbled verses that became a song, and by nightfall the deck had turned into a dance floor. Under a dome of stars, we spun, laughed, and moved like a crew that had forgotten about broken dinghies and tangled ropes. For a night, at least, the sea let us believe it was all part of the plan.
Departure morning began with optimism and a man sent to resurrect the dinghy. Hope floated briefly, then sank in the dark sludge of an unrelated disaster: the Turkish coffee. Grounds mismeasured, patience thin, the brew came out less “ancient ritual” and more “punishment beverage.” Morale wavered, but the crew rallied.
Roles fell into place: Maxi at the helm in her captain’s pose, Alice handling the anchor with quiet precision, and Mom steady on the ropes like she’d been training all summer for this moment. Sea Breeze cut through the water with rare efficiency, as if even she sensed this was the last act.
The caves came one by one. The first, conquered by anchoring alone—a casual stop, like checking off a postcard. The second, the submarine cave, was something else entirely: cool, echoing, the sea folding itself into secret corners while we floated wide-eyed. For once, no one argued about knots or motor oil; we just stared, half-silenced.
Evening brought us to Taverna Bay, where the only decision required was red or white. Plates clattered, laughter carried, and the week’s dramas softened into stories we’d claim to remember differently later. By the time the stars rose, Sea Breeze was still, bellies were full, and the trip had folded itself neatly into memory.
Drives the boat, drops the wisdom.
Perfectionist flirting with chaos.
Always smiling. First to dive in.
The one who actually knows how to sail.
Chasing the Horizon
Vanished Behind the Wave
Gone with the Tide
Explore a breadcrumb trail of ports, countries, marinas we’ve boldly wandered.
