There are trips you plan, and there are ones that seem to happen to you. This one was the latter.
Late August. I’d been staring at the same calendar for weeks, half-booked with things I didn’t want to do. That’s when a friend called — he had a 55-footer sitting idle in Mykonos, a few empty days before his clients returned, and a suggestion: “Come down. Bring a book. No one will bother us.”
He didn’t have to ask twice.
By the end of the week, I was stepping barefoot onto the deck, a soft wind playing with the lines, the late summer sun soaking into every surface. It’s amazing how quickly the land starts to feel like a different world. By the second day, phones were off. By the third, I had no idea what day it was.
A Simple Routine at Sea
We moved slowly — Mykonos to Syros, then down toward Serifos. Nothing ambitious. No packed itineraries. Just anchoring wherever the light felt right.
Mornings started with quiet swims and coffee so strong it nearly bit back. Afternoons meant short sails, lazy naps in the shade, and the constant background sound of the sea tapping against fiberglass. Evenings brought grilled fish, chilled wine, and a sense that nothing urgent existed anywhere in the world.
There’s something ancient about the Aegean — not just in history, but in pace. You don’t rush here. You follow the wind, adjust your heading, and accept that control is a polite illusion.
What We Carry Without Thinking
I packed light. A duffel bag, two shirts, a battered notebook, and — without much thought — a small bottle of perfume I had picked up earlier that month. I didn’t bring it with any plan in mind. I had found it one evening online while looking for something different from the usual department store offerings. I ordered it from https://arabski-parfumi.com — a site I stumbled across by chance. The scent was woody, a little smoky, with some kind of warm spice in the background. Oud, maybe. I wasn’t even sure.
I didn’t expect it to matter. But scents have a way of weaving themselves into experience without asking permission.
By the third morning, that perfume had mixed itself into the canvas of the trip — clinging faintly to my linen shirt, catching the wind when I leaned over the railing, becoming part of the slow rhythm of the days.
A Day Alone on the Coast of Kythnos
One afternoon, we anchored in a small bay on the east coast of Kythnos. No villages, no tavernas. Just rock, sea, and silence. My friend stayed aboard to catch up on sleep, and I swam to shore with a towel, a book, and a flask of coffee.
There’s a kind of peace you find in those places — no signal, no noise, just your own thoughts settling like sand after a wave. I lay there for hours, letting the sun do its work, occasionally turning a page, sipping the last of the coffee.
At one point, a breeze picked up and moved across the rocks and my clothes. That faint scent came back to me again. Not strong, not perfumed — more like a memory. It reminded me of leather and warm wind, of old books and something slightly bitter, like burned wood or spice.
It’s strange how a single scent can ground you so completely. You might forget the name of a place, but not the way it felt — and scent is part of that.
A Personal Detail, Nothing More
I never mentioned the perfume to anyone. There wasn’t much to say. It wasn’t some expensive designer label or anything with a name people would recognize. Just something I had found on https://arabski-parfumi.com while browsing for something different.
What I liked most was that it didn’t try too hard. It didn’t shout. It didn’t insist. It just fit — the boat, the days, the salt, the light — in the same way a worn-in shirt fits better than something new.
Travel does that. It strips things down. It shows you what actually works, what matters, and what quietly fades into the background. The things that stay with you are rarely the ones you expected.
The Drift Back to Land
Eventually, like all trips, it ended. We returned to Mykonos, restocked the boat, and prepared it for its next charter. My flight wasn’t for another day, so I stayed one more night aboard, alone.
That night, sitting on the bow with the harbor lights behind me and the open sea in front, I found myself holding that same bottle of perfume. I turned it in my hand, smiled, and set it back in the bag without using it.
Not because I didn’t want to — but because some things belong to a place, and that scent belonged to those quiet days between islands.
I know I’ll wear it again, someday. Maybe when I’m back at sea. Maybe when I need to remember how still the world can be when we let it.
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