Scuba Chicken

Scuba Chicken by Alison Day 2014

Scuba Diving on Crete was a hit with my son both last year and this. Each time he had a great time and impressed his instructors with his natural ability for the sport. Now, he wants to train for his Padi. If he does, there is the option to do the final qualifying tests abroad—so Greece could be on the cards next summer too!

We were picked up in the cool early morning air from our hotel and driven down to Plakias on the south coast of Crete. We were with six others in the minivan and were driven by Costos—aquiline nose, curly haired Adonis, from Thessaloniki and one of the diving instructors. Along the journey, we skirted round and through Tuscan red and peach coloured, rugged hills, dotted with dark green vegetation. Through small villages with flourishing pink bougainvillea and past Kafeneons filled with old Greek men, staring and drinking coffee.

Our destination, the Calypso Diving Centre was based in a cove next to a resort called Kalypso Cretan Village. The diving instructors came from all over the globe and were led by a very fit lady—Bear. Classes were in languages of what the majority understood— in this case English and German. The enthusiasm at the diving centre was infectious and the 'how to' was clearly explained. Photos were shown of the kind of marine life we could expect to see, as well as those to keep away from. For a fee, photos could be taken during your dive and copied onto a CD for posterity.

Last year I was one of the first time scuba divers too, thinking because I loved snorkelling I would like this too—I didn’t. This year, I was contented to watch my son's enjoyment and go for a swim in the amusingly—impossible to sink in—salt water pool of the resort.

I had to laugh at the wetsuit fittings of that day's scuba pupils, remembering my own—where the suits are tried on for size—dry. A nigh on impossible nail breaker, where everyone dances the fandango, as they wrestle into the suits. Later, you are introduced to the far easier option of a huge, wooden slatted tub, filled with water. Then the wetsuit slides on— in dance moves more akin to an expressive tango.

I can honestly say I only enjoyed the scuba process up until we had to get into the sea. Although the gear is lighter in water, I hated being trussed up and carrying the equivalent of concrete shoes around my middle. From my sealed in state, I felt as though I was viewing the world from inside my own private goldfish bowl. Then there was walking backwards into the sea because of the flippers— an awkward experience and why—ducks don't?

As I swam part way along the cove, with my instructor towards the open sea, I tried to distract myself from the inevitable open water dive by admiring pretty fish and avoiding the stinging tentacles of translucent, shocking pink jellyfish. It was then I decided that this experience wasn't for me. Fear and claustrophobia took over and I flatly refused to continue. My instructor sympathetically tried to appease my fears, but once my mind is made up . . .

Not to waste the diving experience completely, I floundered around the cove in a half dive-snorkel mode and followed shoals of fish.

Next year—in my wetsuit—I will be snorkelling!


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Berry Delight

Flashback to a cooling summer drink and my interpretation of a Strawberry Slush: Strawberries, pineapple juice, lemon juice, crushed ice.

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Take a look at Vicki Sawyer's wonderful website filled with animals. Portrayed with technical realism and with and with a personal sense of humour.

As a child, family members taught her the different species of plants and animals, which ultimately led to art college.

Work as a graphic artist has meant she has created hundreds of murals containing the beloved birds, insects, grasses, and wildflowers seen in her childhood.

Her animals with hats series popped up one day as a thought, when she was on a walk: "If birds could build nests, then they could make hats."

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The Lost Tourist

Waking up to our last day, of a two week holiday on the sunny island of Crete and perturbingly the idea of going home actually appeals—shock horror!—never thought I'd hear myself say that.

I've eaten in every restaurant I wanted to re-visit and drunk every drink that appealed (with the odd early morning thick head afterwards. I've done the everything and the nothing I intended, as well as reached a total state of relaxation and calm, which is exactly what I was aiming for.

There are more signals that the time to go has arrived. Sitting by the pool has replaced any activity and conversation has become an effort... er... what was my name again? Also, I see worrying traits akin to the lost tourist beginning to emerge—god forbid and... the pigeons are closing in.

What on earth are you talking about!

Well... the lost tourist was first spotted in the old town, as he shot up a side street, alongside a souvlaki bar where my son and I were munching on gyros pita. He caught our attention because he didn't fit in with the usual relaxed flow, adopted by tourists in hot countries.

Before I could pop another chip into my mouth, he had reappeared from the side street looking shocked—wild white hair, protruding eyes—awash with the local firewater and long legs swinging forward in spasms. The increasing momentum propelling him off in an unstable manner in the opposite direction down the street.

The final time we saw him, it was cocktail time on the hotel terras. With the whole terras to choose from he plopped down in a cushioned, wicker arm chair right next to me.

Oh gawd—no!—but it's a free country—right? —So we ignored him.

Unfortunately, there are people you can ignore and those you won't let you... Gazing out to sea and in-between gulps from litre-sized, Mythos beers, he would laugh intermittently at nothing. Then, when the waiter shooed away the pigeons—advancing on the cheesy, starsign-shaped snacks accompanying our drinks—he positively roared with laughter. Why? Who knows—although it is said that laughter is good for the soul.

With no desire for contact, but feeling his eyes boring into my left shoulder—as I sketched—I decided on a furtive glance at our chuckling hyena. Through darkened sunglasses, I could see there was absolutely nothing to worry about. From his face, I could see that the lost tourist's flight to the planet, Zob had happily departed a long time ago.

[*Ooh, look a pigeon* . . . Ha ha ha!]

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Cretan Magic

 

Sitting in a lovely little restaurant, in the old town of Rethymnon, under the hanging strands of flowering bougainvillea, its blooms in variegated and intense pinks.

Our waiter arrives. With our meal I order a glass of white wine—the local krasí—the waiter bobs a pony-tailed head and disappears into the restaurant. When the Cressi arrives, instead of a glass of white, it's an enormous glass of red.

'I didn't order red,' I say politely, 'I want white.'

From behind a bohemian moustache, he regards me with mild suspicion, as though I must be mistaken and then says bruesquely:

'I will change it.'

He returns a couple of minutes later with the desired glass of white Cressi - an equally enormous glass - generously filled. Depositing it demonstratively and without slowing his stride - to take the order from the next table—he places it on the table in front of me and says quite seriously:

'There—I painted it!'

 

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Stone Fortune

The wind set in around the island of Crete—whipping white foam edges on the crests of waves, pulling strands of hair from hairbands and blowing serviettes and paper notes into the air.

I spear olives from the Greek salad and I amuse myself with an old childhood rhyme—a seemingly female orientated superstition—to guess the status of a potential future marital partner:

Tinker — Taylor — Soldier — Sailor —

Rich Man — Poor Man — Beggar Man — Thief

Spoken with a lilt, as I count the olive stones neatly arranged in a row on the side of my plate—this time I have eaten five. Although not in need of a 'Rich man,' the outcome is desirable—I smile. A charming superstition, but of course not wanting to tempt fate, I generally do make sure that I eat more than one and if necessary, I will continue to eat more than six olives—silly eh? ... And luckily—I love olives.

Holidaying in Greece at the moment, I'm sure this ritual would be greeted by puzzled looks from the Greeks, who are more fatalistic by nature. Life is what it is and you take the rough with the smooth—no point complaining—get on with it, or turn it around so that it fits the way you want.

When it comes to being 'rich' there are so many other facets to it than monetary richness alone. I have only to look around me at the beautiful island on which I find myself—Crete—I feel rich and privileged to be able to be here.

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Beautiful

Early morning breakfast in the hotel. . .

'How are you today?' she asks.

'Ok—half asleep,' I answer, gulping down my tea in order to reply.

'You should say—I am beautiful—then you will feel good too.

'Ok,' I mumble. Then returning the sentiment, I ask: 'So . . . how are you?'

'Beautiful!' she says, with a sly smile over her shoulder—as she goes to relieve a table of its dirty crockery—from the other side of the marble-floored, dining room.

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