Finding Atlantis - 1. Chapter 1

Dawn at sea, the sunlight came across the water in silent streaks, tinting the deep indigo to higher shades, flashes of blue and green, ripples tinted with gold sparks. The light struck the hull of the boat that wallowed in shallow blue of the bay. Red pulled across the sea, the hull golden wood, worn smooth by varnish and waves and loving care, just like the decks smooth from feet and fish. Black streaked the side of the boat, spelling out the name in slender cursive lettering. La Belle Mere.

A hammock was hung across the stern of the ship, the cabin hatch opened and unoccupied. Huge boxes of fish, still live in water, were arranged neatly on deck. A hand hung from the patterned fabric of the hammock, tan skin, fingers rough with the work of rope and sail, tiny blond hairs glinting in the early morning. There was a groan, movement behind the fabric and a bare, equally tanned leg appeared over the edge of the hammock, toes seeking out the ground. By careful stages a man appeared, naked and swimmer-smooth all over. He bent low on the deck, and on all fours stretched away the aches of too long spent in the hammock. Long blond hair hung over his face as he went to the fish boxes to check on yesterday’s catch. Several hundred trout waved their tails and gaped at him with their fishy mouths. With a giant yawn he dumped a rough handful of seaweed in each bin, which the fish obligingly gobbled up. Krilla always felt a little strange about fishing in such quantities. But he always did it as gently as he could, kindly, he apologised to the fish and they said they forgave him. Anything for a fellow creature of the sea. With one long fingered hand he brushed the hair back from his eyes, eyes the same hue as the sea. The sun was up now, rising fast as it did in the cool mornings of the Mediterranean, warming the sea air and the waters into which Krilla, still nude, dived from the side of the boat with barely a ripple.

He emerged some time later, dripping crystal droplets as he hauled himself back onto the boat. The wind had picked up while he’d been at sea and now he hauled the anchor up, set the tiller and pulled up the main sail. By the time he’d got around the staysail the boat was already moving off at a fair rate, the rudder set for the harbour of Kas, the fish market and home. Krilla found a line in the back of the boat, set the bait hooks and dropped it out back, pulling along behind. He wound it around a pillar and went below. The inside of the boat was very dark after the morning sunlight and Krilla scrambled around, eventually coming up with a large bottle of fresh water which he gulped half of. Upstairs he poured the rest of the water over him in an impromptu freshwater shower and pulled on a pair of linen slacks and a white cheesecloth shirt.

Coming around the edge of the tiny Greek island of Meis, Kas harbour was visible, just four miles away, a white stripe along the great brown Turkish landscape. Krilla tilted the set of the boat a little, ducked expertly as the boom swung across the boat and set his eyes on home.

“Hoy Krilla!”

At the curve of the harbour wall, Krilla dropped the staysail and brought down the main sail so as to be barely coasting in the water, his boat gilding in a neat line towards its docking bay.

“Tamil!” Krilla called out, his voice deep and slightly rough, “How’s the land?”

The dark skinned Harbour Master laughed, and began to move along the wall, paralleling the boat’s progress in the still water. They met at the quayside; Krilla threw Tamil the landline and jumped ashore before the boat was hitched and embraced the Harbour Master briefly.

Tamil Shad was a proud man of nearly fifty years, his dark hair finally greying at the temples. He ran the busy harbour with a firm but trustworthy hand and his four sons ran a tourist sailing boat in season, taking people from all over into the deep blue to snorkel and swim and try and spot fish.

“You were out two days,” Tamil said, “How was the catch?”

“Good,” Krilla grinned widely, giving an expansive wave to the boat, “I’ve got four full boxes.”

At this, half a dozen expectant boys from the fish market came forward. Krilla greeted them all by name and they scrambled onboard with nets for the catch. Krilla leapt in to follow them, hauling out ten good sized fish and handing them to Tamil.

“For you.”

“Thanks Krilla. The missis will have a good time with these.”

The eldest of the market boys pulled out a fat sheaf of notes and began counting them out into Krilla’s open hand. It was a big catch of good fish and the tourist season was just beginning. Everyone wanted fresh fish straight out of the harbour and Krilla was well known in the market for providing the best, most tender fish. Something about the way he caught them they said, though no one was sure.

Coming off the boat, laden with fish, the men were met by the strong handsome shape of Aziz, Shad’s eldest boy and Krilla’s best friend. A year older than the blond young man, Aziz was dark like his father, but with his Grecian mother’s twinkling sharp eyes. He was dressed in dark linen shorts and a water - buckled ancient leather waistcoat, his long black hair waving in the wind.

“Kril! Just in time!”

They embraced quickly.

“Time for what?”

Aziz grinned, nodded to his Father and took his friend’s shoulder.

“My friend, we’ve got a boat full of tourists and Yusuf is still travelling back from Istanbul.”

“What is he doing there?”

“Allah knows,” Aziz shrugged. Yusuf was the second youngest brother, unpredictable and wantonly poetic. “I think he threw another temper and went storming off. We weren’t too worried, but tourist season has started and it’s time to make money. So my fishy friend, are you coming or not?”

Krilla rolled his sparkling sea blue eyes and sighed theatrically, as though making up his mind.

“Of course.”

Aziz threw up his hands in celebration.

“Krilla Desmau, you are my very own personal saviour.”

“And Aziz Shad, you owe me a favour.”

*

The twenty two tourists aboard the Aikaterine were all of a pale disposition. It was too early in the summer to be much else. Roughly half were English, the others, all European, and English was the boat’s common language. So they put out into the gorgeous waters, the onboard motors purring like a kitten, guiding them out of the harbour, waving to Tamil on the shore. It was his boat, though Aziz pretty much ran it, and it was named, lyrically, Krilla thought, after his beautiful Greek wife.

Aslan, Aziz’s next youngest brother, was also on board. Quietly serious as it was possible to be, living a life of happiness and fortune in southern Turkey. Tamil was seen as much blessed among the community, what with four strapping healthy sons. Even if they were from, Allah forbid, a Greek wife. But the people of Kas were fairly liberal on this front, what with their neighbouring country just four miles off shore. Aslan especially hated the dark grey steel monster of the army ship that lurked in the harbour. As though anyone could seriously think that the miniscule island of Meis, one town of three hundred odd people, could actually launch an attack on the Turkish mainland.

Krilla moved about the boat while Aziz steered and Aslan went below to sort out the drinks bar. At first everyone thought that he was yet another passenger, with his blond hair and blue eyes, but his blasts of certain Turkish and his easy, natural gait around a boat at sea put paid to that rather quickly.

They stopped at about eleven in a lovely cove containing only one other boat, an old wooden houseboat, bigger than Krilla’s own, also carrying passengers. Its code said that it was from Kalkan, a town only half an hour away and Krilla recognised it.

“Ali!”

A deep brown figure appeared on the prow in nothing but a pair of faded orange swimming shorts.

“Krilla! Aziz! My good friends!”

Aziz waved hugely and shouted across the water while his passengers scooted down the ladder and into the clear waters.

“Captain Ali!”

Krilla swan dived off the deck rail and swam with strong strokes towards the other boat. Ali threw down a rope ladder for him and together they embraced warmly on the deck. When Krilla had first bought his boat he’d run into Captain Ali and the latter had challenged him to a race underwater. Surprised to be beaten, for Ali swam as though born for the water, he had presented Krilla with a good dinner and an eternal friendship.

“And have you found anything interesting in the seas lately my friend?”

“Oh indeed,” and from a pocket Krilla pulled out a string of beads on silver, clearly old and very beautiful. “Lapis blue, found them way out westward. I thought your lovely daughter might want them.”

Krilla presented Shalla the necklace and she smiled gratefully. Krilla had cultivated a special relationship with the girl. She was his friend and one of his few confidants. While many had aspirations that they would wed, Shalla knew otherwise, and for her, Krilla was friend and guardian in payment for her silence of his secret. They embraced quickly and Krilla made his goodbyes and swam back to the Aikaterine.

He took care of the cooking, grilling meat and vegetables on a rack suspended directly over the water. The fish gathered below to gobble up fallen bits of courgette and drippy cooking juices. They were maybe a dozen different dishes, sauces and spice prepared by Aslan below decks, while Aziz looked after the ship and made sure no one was drowning. One by one the passengers were drawn back to the boat, drippy and hungry, by the monumental amount of food. The guests ate noisily chattering at one long wooden table; while the three crew members sat right back in the stern of the anchored boat, eating with their fingers straight off the grill. Partway through the meal, Krilla, fully dressed, spotted a passing shape and dove directly into the water. He came back up a few moments later holding a small bottle green octopus. Everyone crowded round the guardrails of boat to see and Krilla smiled and stroked the pretty beast while cameras clicked and whirred electronically. Within a few minutes he had let the little creature go. Its jelly eyes regarded him a second and then it scudded off along the sea, all eight tentacles propelling it back along its original course.

They set the motor going again and headed for the next swimming spot, Aziz trapped in the galley, washing up. And so it went all day, swim, sun, tea and biscuits, endless questions from half interested foreigners. Krilla’s English was very good, as good as any of the other Turks involved with tourists and he caught several phrases referring to himself, his good looks and the fact that he spent most of his time sitting on the prow of the boat, drying his clothes because he swam in them.

*

They waved the passengers off the ship, thanks and laughter exchanged. The three boys cleared up, washed down the decks, weighed the anchor and mounted the land. Tamil met them all, looking pleased and tired. It was the end of the day, the sun a blood red ball hanging low on the horizon. The sea was dark, turning nearly black through navy blue. Krilla sighed with breath of the sea, the tiny white foam horses leaping up the harbour wall for him.

“Come my sons,” and Tamil’s broad arm included the blond no-longer-foreigner, “Let us go to supper.”

And so with cheerful sounds of commitment and hunger, the four men started up the hill out of the harbour and towards the residential slopes of the town. Which was all of it. The Shad’s house was tall, narrow, and built like everything else, on the side of the hill. Mrs Shad was bustling about the warm steamy kitchen and in a fierce rapid fire burst of Turkish told them to get their shoes off and sit down. And mind the table cloth. It was new. The youngest of the Shad brothers was also there, pouring over a school copy of the Koran which he hastily put away. Murat Shad was seventeen, and most like his eldest brother. Happy, lively and sea worthy, despite his mother’s constant attempts to keep him in education. Krilla took his place opposite Aziz. He was here enough to have his own place setting, complete with hand carved cutlery by Tamil, with his initials on the handles. Aikaterine was delighted to see him.

“Krilla! How wonderful. Thank you for the fish, they’re lovely! And we eat this morning’s catch tonight.”

In her usual beautiful way, Aika served them half a dozen vegetables and trout with almonds. The white flesh fell tender and neat in scales and Krilla sighed happily. His meals in the Shad household were a far cry from his fast, often raw caught meals at sea on fishing trips.

Afterwards they sat around on the cushioned and carpeted floor with tiny glasses of strong black Turkish tea, fingers white tipped from helpings of flaky almond halva, sticky honeyed baklava, and soft multicoloured cubes of Turkish delight. Aziz spoke about the day’s trade, and he and Aslan held a brief, financially flavoured argument before Tamil hushed them with a hand. Much to everyone’s delight, Krilla agreed to give a brief account of his time at sea. He had also found in the deep along with the beads, a little Greek marble sculpture of a man on a horse, which he gave to Aika to her utmost surprise and wonderment at the tiny, sand washed detail. The night drew in close and the cicadas played their violin legs in the dark foliage.

“Krilla, stay the night.” Aziz said peacefully, as though it was an obvious statement. They were the last two up, a final glass of dark wine each.

“No my friend,” Krilla smiled, “You know I hate to be away from the sea.”

The Shad house, while in good repair was not huge. The boys were two to a room, but there was space for Krilla if he wanted it. The kindness of these people never failed to surprise Krilla, even after all these years. It wasn’t that Krilla didn’t wish to sleep near other people; it was just that, even at this small distance, he felt too far from the sea.

“Kril,” Aziz shook his head in confused exasperation, “I swear to Allah that if you had the choice you’d never step off that boat. One day you’ll go out to sea and never come back.” He laughed softly.

At the door Krilla embraced him quickly and smiled.

“Don’t worry Aziz, I’ll tell you if I’m gonna disappear. Go well, my friend.”

“Go well, Krilla.”

Krilla let the door close behind him and made his way down the silent street. All the hills around here curved you towards the sea and the harbour. The moon hung brilliant and white above the sea, the dark waters glinting invitingly. In the harbour, Krilla slipped off his sandals and threw them up onto the deck of the ship. Careful, he knelt down between two boats and leant out over the water. It rose to meet him, flat and glassy around his hand as though solid. The surface bubbled and broke, laughing in delight to see him again. Krilla smiled and stroked the little silver fish under his hand, caressing the water, pleasing the sea.

Eventually he jumped up onto La Belle Mere, stripping off his shirt before falling into his hammock. Krilla draped a blanket over himself and sighed, rocked by the gentle motion of the sea and the ship. The breeze, cooler now after the sun had set, sent him flavours of the land. The earthy tang of the hills, the citrus and the olives, the thousands of flowers. And from the sea came the reassuring salts, the smell of fish and thousands of miles of nothingness. Sky above, sea below and land a long way off. Krilla sighed happily and let himself drift off into sleep.

*

His mother had wept when he’d told her of his decision. Salty tears had been absorbed by the slightly less saline sea. Her only son, going away, to spend time on land. Such a thing was not unheard of, but was certainly unusual. But Krilla had always been an unusual child, swimming off far further than any of his peers, and choosing strange haunts and past times. He had comforted her, but had remained resolute. There was much for him at sea, but there were experiences to be had on land. And anyway, it wasn’t like he would go far from the sea.

“My darling, why must you go?”

“Mother please!” Krilla had folded his arms defensively, he hated that liquidly desperate tone his mother used, it meant she was upset. “There is no one here for me in the ocean.”

“But how do you know that there is someone for you on land? I see no reason for you to leave your home just because,” she coughed and sought around for words, “Of that incident with Kinau.”

“Can we not talk about him again Mother?”

“It’s too bad; I thought he was rather nice.”

Krilla nearly growled in annoyance and blew a bubble ring at his mother.

“Kinau was a two-faced cheating bastard. Drop it.” Krilla lowered his eyebrows, “And it rankles to see him around now, looking quite so happily engaged.”

“Krilla darling-”

“I’m going, just for a while. A few years.”

“Years!”

“Mum…”

Krilla’s mother hugged her son.

“Oh darling, what will I do without you? You’re only eighteen and-”

“You’ll be fine mother, and so will I. I’m going to Turkey.”

“Yes darling.”

“I’m leaving in the morning.”

“Of course darling.”

And that had been that. Krilla had packed his few possessions in an old net. Strange things he had found on the ocean floor, an antique Japanese glass fishing float, a few soggy but well preserved human clothes and some coins. And so he’d left the empty shifting waters of the deep Atlantic and arrived eventually in the Mediterranean. The waters were warmer, bluer, and full of lovely fish delighted to see him. He’d spent many days flittering about in the waters, and deciding on the best place to put to land. One day he’d pulled himself up onto the beach, damply dressed and decided he liked the look of the town. That evening he’d bought his boat, on a sort of trade for a few of the antiques he’d bought with him. The next morning he’d met Tamil Shad, and that was that.