Poros town is the jewel of the Argolic Gulf, nestled in a channel between Poros island and the Greek mainland to the south.
Like the Venetian Grand Canal in microcosm, the channel snakes in an elongated S-bend. While the great church builders passed Poros by, the town is comprised of a cascade of white washed merchant's houses that tumble down the hillsides to the harbour. A white clock tower stands on the rock around which the town is built and acts as an essential navigational aid for vessels approaching the channel from the north west, at both day and night.
The approach to and departure from the channel is delightful as the town opens up gradually and reveals itself from behind a headland at either end. Small ferry boats glide across from side to side. A larger car ferry traverses the widest point like a pendulum, back and forth through out the day, sounding its horn with each crossing.
So charming is it, that as we left, we had already planned to return later in the week.
Rounding the headland with sails raised, we debated which of three routes to take to the small island of Dhokos, where we intended to anchor for the night. In the distance was the headland around which we had to turn and beyond it, the islands of Skilla and Sapia, between which lay two tantalising channels, offering a shortcut.
But which to take?
By this time the depth sounder had nailed its Otis Redding impersonation. Sadly, it was his lesser hit 'Dying in the Cockpit' rather than 'Sittin' On the Dock of the Bay'.
The 16 feet clearance in the northern channel was too close for comfort. Feeling brave we opted for the 33 feet depth of the middle channel but even this seemed a little foolhardy given that the navigation charts issued for the area by the Greek Naval Hydrology Service were prepared in the 19th century. Bizarrely, they also contain an explicit exclusion against liability, not from the map makers but from the GNHS themselves.
Needless to say, the only floating part of The Greek Navy now consists of four planks and three vegetable oil drums. Mind you, it hasn't held them back and they came a creditable second in the Thessaloniki raft race last year, but were pipped to the post by the other competitor.
To add insult to injury, our right of way as a craft under sail and our efforts to maneouvre in the narrow channel were brutally disregarded by the Flying Dolphin Hydrofoil that stormed through the gap at 35 knots, right at the critical moment. I was so angry, I spilled my gin. But then again, Greek drivers (I can't bring myself to call them sailers) have as much respect for The Collision Regulations as they would for a Turk offering them a financial bailout.
Safely in Dhokos Bay, after an otherwise uneventful passage, gin time was only slightly marred by the realisation that we had forgotten to turn Adrian during his marathon sunbathing session on the foredeck. After scraping off the black bits with the boat hook, we woke him up, blamed it on the jet exhaust from the Hydrofoil and thrust a gin into his hand. He didn't seem to notice the barbeque smell that followed him around for the next day or two, and we cunningly covered our tracks by barbequeing on the boat that night.
After rowing us to shore to collect pebbles, Simon re-enacted 'Lord of the Flies' on the beach by dancing around with a goat skull on a stick that he found, before re-naming Adrian as 'Piggy', tying him to a post and setting fire to his trousers. Having lost all sensation below the waist as a result of 9th degree sunburn, Adrian admired the flaming pantaloons for some time before realising that he was still wearing them.
Fortunately, a local Greek man appeared with his dog who he commanded to extinguish the flames by its own organic means, in return for Simon's half smoked cigarette. Later, Simon told us that he was less than pleased to part with his fag as the goat skull had told him he had to give up smoking after this holiday and he had to get as many in as he could in the limited time available.
After tea, Jenny, Adrian and I rowed into the blackness of the lagoon in search of phosphorescence in the water. Predators were feeding below us and the water around us boiled with jumping fish. The surface shimmered and flashed with the tiny discharges of light as Jenny first plunged her hands into the watery darkness and then escalated her assault on the tiny acquatic sparklers by repeatedly whacking the surface of the water with an oar.
In the morning we woke to find ourselves the shocked victims of the now infamous Dhokos Beer Thief. The cunning devil had crept aboard as we slept, rifled the beer locker and made off with our week's supply, leaving only the empty cans littering the dishevelled cockpit as consolation.
However, all was not lost as the fridge had long since packed up, fortuitously allowing nature to ferment the unconsumed dairy products into something closely resembling a potent cheese based pilsner which sustained us until fresh supplies of Gin and Mythos could be acquired.
Yiamas Dhokos, we salute you.
Like the Venetian Grand Canal in microcosm, the channel snakes in an elongated S-bend. While the great church builders passed Poros by, the town is comprised of a cascade of white washed merchant's houses that tumble down the hillsides to the harbour. A white clock tower stands on the rock around which the town is built and acts as an essential navigational aid for vessels approaching the channel from the north west, at both day and night.
The approach to and departure from the channel is delightful as the town opens up gradually and reveals itself from behind a headland at either end. Small ferry boats glide across from side to side. A larger car ferry traverses the widest point like a pendulum, back and forth through out the day, sounding its horn with each crossing.
So charming is it, that as we left, we had already planned to return later in the week.
Rounding the headland with sails raised, we debated which of three routes to take to the small island of Dhokos, where we intended to anchor for the night. In the distance was the headland around which we had to turn and beyond it, the islands of Skilla and Sapia, between which lay two tantalising channels, offering a shortcut.
But which to take?
By this time the depth sounder had nailed its Otis Redding impersonation. Sadly, it was his lesser hit 'Dying in the Cockpit' rather than 'Sittin' On the Dock of the Bay'.
The 16 feet clearance in the northern channel was too close for comfort. Feeling brave we opted for the 33 feet depth of the middle channel but even this seemed a little foolhardy given that the navigation charts issued for the area by the Greek Naval Hydrology Service were prepared in the 19th century. Bizarrely, they also contain an explicit exclusion against liability, not from the map makers but from the GNHS themselves.
Needless to say, the only floating part of The Greek Navy now consists of four planks and three vegetable oil drums. Mind you, it hasn't held them back and they came a creditable second in the Thessaloniki raft race last year, but were pipped to the post by the other competitor.
To add insult to injury, our right of way as a craft under sail and our efforts to maneouvre in the narrow channel were brutally disregarded by the Flying Dolphin Hydrofoil that stormed through the gap at 35 knots, right at the critical moment. I was so angry, I spilled my gin. But then again, Greek drivers (I can't bring myself to call them sailers) have as much respect for The Collision Regulations as they would for a Turk offering them a financial bailout.
Safely in Dhokos Bay, after an otherwise uneventful passage, gin time was only slightly marred by the realisation that we had forgotten to turn Adrian during his marathon sunbathing session on the foredeck. After scraping off the black bits with the boat hook, we woke him up, blamed it on the jet exhaust from the Hydrofoil and thrust a gin into his hand. He didn't seem to notice the barbeque smell that followed him around for the next day or two, and we cunningly covered our tracks by barbequeing on the boat that night.
After rowing us to shore to collect pebbles, Simon re-enacted 'Lord of the Flies' on the beach by dancing around with a goat skull on a stick that he found, before re-naming Adrian as 'Piggy', tying him to a post and setting fire to his trousers. Having lost all sensation below the waist as a result of 9th degree sunburn, Adrian admired the flaming pantaloons for some time before realising that he was still wearing them.
Fortunately, a local Greek man appeared with his dog who he commanded to extinguish the flames by its own organic means, in return for Simon's half smoked cigarette. Later, Simon told us that he was less than pleased to part with his fag as the goat skull had told him he had to give up smoking after this holiday and he had to get as many in as he could in the limited time available.
After tea, Jenny, Adrian and I rowed into the blackness of the lagoon in search of phosphorescence in the water. Predators were feeding below us and the water around us boiled with jumping fish. The surface shimmered and flashed with the tiny discharges of light as Jenny first plunged her hands into the watery darkness and then escalated her assault on the tiny acquatic sparklers by repeatedly whacking the surface of the water with an oar.
In the morning we woke to find ourselves the shocked victims of the now infamous Dhokos Beer Thief. The cunning devil had crept aboard as we slept, rifled the beer locker and made off with our week's supply, leaving only the empty cans littering the dishevelled cockpit as consolation.
However, all was not lost as the fridge had long since packed up, fortuitously allowing nature to ferment the unconsumed dairy products into something closely resembling a potent cheese based pilsner which sustained us until fresh supplies of Gin and Mythos could be acquired.
Yiamas Dhokos, we salute you.
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