Goodbye Assos

"Mom," I say, "we've come to our lands again." The island with the pointed peaks appeared again from miles away. My mother opens the windows of our car so that we can fill our lungs with the scent of pine. The inside of the car is suddenly filled with the scent of thyme and pine with the blowing wind. We wind our way down the steep, rough roads. My mother and father try to wipe the tears from their eyes. We go down to our house again.

Everyone is waiting for us down on the shore. We are driving along with the sound of the sheep's bells that always fascinates us. Greek tunes on our radio, the smell of fish reaching our noses before we eat it, the smell of raki before it even comes out of the bottle... The skin of an octopus that I haven't touched yet is at my fingertips. There is a joy, a festivity going on in the car.

Photo: Tunca Family archive.

Huge hills, maquis and everything that catches our eye. We have a story on the edge of every stone, under every tree and on every rock on the surface of the sea. We have our own stories mixed with the stories of civilizations that are thousands of years old, each more exciting and enthusiastic than the other.

The archive, all the beauties of the world, this nature that God has given us, the smell of the Aegean olive bread, it is as if they belong only to us. I beg my mother and father not to tell anyone about this so that only we can enjoy it. I can only guess what the people who will crowd there will do to my stone, my tree, my olive, the amphoras I watch at the bottom of the sea and the fish that stick their heads out and watch me and many other things that I cannot think of right now. I mean, the ones who made me who I am.

Photo: Arda Tunca

Then, when I woke up in the morning, the sun's rays that were just starting to make itself felt hit the deep blue sea. The magnificent hills and the sea that presented themselves to us in yellow like Van Gogh's yellow and blue like Matisse's blue embracing me and the smiling gaze of my mother from the boat that turned off its engine and glided towards the shore after sailing quickly in the calm air of the morning and waving from afar when she returned from collecting her fishing nets. The scent of thyme that spread over the flaky sea with the sea breeze in the afternoons intoxicated me as I swam. They are all photographs that I can't forget.

Photo: Tunca Family archive.

Fried calamari are placed in front of us in plates. When we go fishing, we take orders, grab whatever is requested and return to shore. From the boat, we dazzle those eagerly waiting for us on the shore with the glitter of the fish scales in our hands. My arms, back, shoulders are like a map of salt. I don't have fresh water time, but my body.

In the evening, conversations, stories, songs at the Aegean table. Those we spent those times with but are not around today are at the table... You are all entrusted to my memories and to those after me now.

Photo: Tunca Family archive.