Saturday Morning, Early Morning March 25: Departure by Syrian Ferry “Pretty M” from Ermoupolis with destination Naoussa de Paros. Twenty-four nautical miles and four hours of traditional sailing wooden boat so slowly that everything that happens around is an event. Something similar happens with life in the countryside and close to nature, where the rhythms are slow enough that the weather and its phenomena, its changes and the seasons take center stage. And at that dawn it became clear that winter was leaving.

The sun had just risen dazzlingly over Delos, and the scenery was reminiscent of the words of Stratis Myrivilis, who wrote that in the Aegean “spring comes out of the sea.” Calm sea with a slight swell, descended from the previous northern days.

The rocky isle of Natas, known to the Syrians as “Examili,” appeared to our left like a ghostly submarine, and in the distance, the mountains of Naxos towered majestic above the band of clouds, a thousand meters above the Cyclades.

Soon the steep slopes of the north coast of Paros came into view, and as we passed the traffic lights at Cape Korakas, the white houses of Naoussa looked like a joyful crowd welcoming us. On the square, students in full dress danced traditional island dances, and in the lane a colorful feast of treats unfolded. The residents of the seaside town were outside as if they wanted to enjoy their place in the short time they had left before another frenetic tourist season.

In an old port that once held no fishing boats, maritime traditions struggle to survive. Naoussa had one of the largest fishing fleets in the Cyclades and although today it is significantly destroyed, it remains alive and some of the old sailors are still fighting.

One of them is Captain Nikita with his fifteen-meter-long fuck-a-boat, which he has recently perfected, a boat built in the Argolis valley, and other similar fishing boats in the same port bear the characteristic mark of the Syrian shipyard of Vlamis. And somewhere in the depths of the bay, looking to the west, the eye saw the headquarters of local shipbuilders. It is the shipbuilding and repair division of the Aliprantis family, at the helm of which is Stathis Aliprantis, a forty-year-old craftsman who follows in the footsteps of his charismatic and beloved father, Petros, who died unexpectedly last year. Before leaving, he left the youngest as a gift an eight-meter runabout, adapted for seamanship lessons. A boat “so that the students of the group can learn how to sail,” as Manolis Somaripas, a local young entrepreneur and “soul” of the local maritime community, tells us. The boat is owned by the Nauya Nautical Club, which has a clear goal and is actively pursuing it: to develop nautical sports in all their forms. The man at the helm of the group, Thassos Kasapidis, is one of those who talk little and do a lot.

The landscape recalled the words of Stratis Mirivilis, who wrote that in the Aegean Sea “spring comes out of the sea.”

Walking towards the shipyard, in the area of ​​Agios Ioannis, we meet the young students of the group, who begin the lesson on laser boats, and a short walk to Cape Korakas brings us to the threshold of the old lighthouse, one of 120 of our old distant network. It has been standing there since 1887, relentlessly illuminating with its northern lights and openly looking at Mykonos, Syros and Tinos. On our way, the arrival of spring is betrayed by purple lupins, which grow everywhere, wrapping around the well-paved path.

In the evening, in the small church of Agios Nikolaos, in the old port, a torchlight procession is held dedicated to the Parian hero of the Revolution, Panagiotis Dimitrakopoulos. On a quiet evening, the Cyclades seem to spread blissfully around Paros, far from the worries and cares of the world, and everything is reminiscent of what the poet Nikos-Alexis Aslanoglu wrote about a life that “gathers around the daily promise.”

The next day, while walking through the quiet narrow streets of the old settlement, the magical photographs taken by our great photographers such as Spyros Melecis, Maria Chrousaki and Voula Papaioannou come to life in the 1950s, just before the Cyclades discovered tourism. For a few seconds, the illusion prevails that little has changed since then.

In the afternoon, before we set off on our return journey, a light, unpredictable northerly breeze picked up. The old fishermen say to wait until the weather calms down a bit, but we decide to leave, judging by the weather forecast, that this is a local phenomenon that will subside. Just before we board the boat, we are greeted by Manolis Somaripas, although earlier he said what I remember: “Saint Nicholas is not a saint, he is a father, friend and brother.”

My fellow traveler, the captain of the boat, falls asleep in the hold, and I sit at the helm. The sea rocks us until we leave the bay of Naoussa, but then it begins to calm down. The sun is setting and the weather is like a summer evening. In the twilight next to us, the black shadow of a dolphin tumbles noiselessly. The glow of Aphrodite is reflected in the water, and the lighthouse on Mermigus Rock, five miles to the west, emits a lone signal.

The mountain villages of Tinos appear on the slopes of the island like glowing notes on a dark stave. When the beacon of Nata Isle aligns with the lights of Ysternia, I will know that we are approaching Syros. Soon Ermoupolis appears majestic, like a nest waiting for us. Behind Aspronisi, Nata and the glow of the Korakas lighthouse, Naoussa is faintly visible on the horizon, the same maritime state as ours.