Santorini Sunsets

                You never forget that first sunset. It is magnificent, all encompassing. The entire sky is lit up in a veritable symphony of colours. You learn that colour has a voice, that it can speak to you, sing with silent poetry for the eyes. Were you to live forever on into old age and dotard-hood, you could recall the absolute glory of that single moment in time. It is as if the world had slowed in its ceaseless revolutions to allow you to appreciate the wonder of this magnificence.

            Having taken the ferry from Piraeus, one can stop in to call at a variety of Grecian Isles, all steeped in history and beauty, from Paros, to Naxos, to Mykonos. We had settled on the miniscule dot of Ios, spending many sun-soaked days and alcohol drenched nights, times of pure, wild hedonism. The vibe that pulsates through the air on that tiny, desertous isle is without compare. What moments we did have, glorying in our wild freedom … but after a few days, your mind, if not your liver, tells you that it is time to go. Other worlds await. Boarding the afternoon catamaran to Santorini, you venture out, on to a new port of call.

            As the ship sails into the Caldera, you really do not know what to think. Here we were, clearly, visibly, sailing into the mouth of a still active volcano; this volcano is a sort of ground zero, the spot of the world’s second largest eruption, destroyer of the great Atlantian civilization (if the current work of scholars is indeed correct). It is impossible not to be aware of this, the knowledge burning into your mind as you wonder “will it blow again?” Ripping your eyes away from the sulphuric clouds that still belch out of the rocks heaped in the centre of the volcanic maw, you witness the wonder that is Santorini. Cliffs, thousands of feet high, and clinging to them, houses, shops, pooled terraces, all built on the very precipice. These are the postcard perfect images we have seen scattered about Greece in tourist shops. It is a wonder, a testament to the genius of Man. As the ferry docks, we sit back and bask in the view.

            As the port thrusters engage, the ship rotates, and this view is replaced by an image of Nature’s wonder. The sun, sinking to rest in the West, has lit a fire in the sky; it has become a cauldron of fiery tones, angry and turbulent, a million shades of red and orange which dominate the horizon, as far as the cliffs will allow you to see in either direction.

Sadly, it is time for us to depart the vessel – they do have a schedule to keep, and must push on for Crete, regardless of this unfolding scene in the sky. Brad and I run madly down the stairs and across the gangway, eager not to miss a minute of this spectacle. And there, on the pier, backpacks slung on our backs, leaning forward on a rough concrete embrasure, time ceases to have meaning. The sun has become a disk of molten lava, as red a blood, where it first kisses the Aegean. Between us and this heavenly fire there is nothing but a sea a dark as wine, and a ship, alone, sails raised, moving West into the display. My brain takes a photo for itself. This is a scene perfect in time. The sky directly overhead is slate grey, its lead contrasting mightily with the streamers of colour that are only now beginning to fade.

The ship is distant now, flying west, away from the encroaching night. The sun, with one last gasp of life, dips below the horizon, sinking into that timeless sea. I am surprised to find that my eyes have misted, that I have been so moved, perhaps even changed by the scene I have witnessed. The colours die, fading, to be replaced by the growing leaden sky. A last streak of yellow, pastel and pure, fights on valiantly, but at last gives in to the coming darkness. With its departure, time returns to us with a vengeance, and we can hear the pension owners hawking their rooms, smell the petrol fumes of the busses which cart people up the switch-backed road into town. Sighing, I turn my back on the sea and walk towards the din. It is time to get a room.