Moti on the Water

by Leylah Attar

  “I’ll see you all later,” I said. A trail of guilt followed as I left the room. Swiping a card from that deck had been one of the impulses I often got. I took random, insignificant things—stuff I thought no one would miss. I’d miscalculated this time, and the crew was being blamed for it.

  I turned the corner, looking dejectedly at my toes, and ran smack into Alex.

  “Whoa, easy.” He steadied me, then rubbed his chest where I’d head-butted him. “I thought we made up.” He was referring to the stupor-inducing midnight snack he’d left for me. I flushed as I recalled licking dribbles of honey off my fingers.

  “Yeah, that was pretty…good. Thanks.” I hid my hands behind my back, as if he’d be able to replay the scene if he saw them.

  “The Captain said you’re joining me ashore.”

  “Yes. And Fia is coming too.”

  “She’s already on the boat. I was coming to get you.”

  Our boat wasn’t as fancy as the one Nikos had taken, but a rigid inflatable dinghy that wobbled when I got on. I clutched my seat, cursing my short-sightedness. I’d pictured floating on a beautiful castle for two weeks, completely ignoring that I’d have to get on and off it. Now the only thing between me and the bottomless pit of the sea was a piece of puffed-up plastic.

  “Here.” Alex handed me a life vest. He seemed to remember things I told him in passing, like the fact that I couldn’t swim. On the other hand, it could just be a standard safety protocol.

  No. Fia isn’t wearing one. Maybe I just look like the one most likely to tip over.

  “Let’s go, Eddie.” Alex gave the guy at the wheel a thumbs-up. His dark hair whipped wildly as we took off. No man-bun today. No chef’s coat either. He wore a T-shirt, shorts, and leather sandals—nothing that screamed for attention, but when you threw in his coarse stubble and unruly locks…

  I put on my sunglasses, because that’s the polite way to ogle hot people. You have to look casual and a bit bored. I angled my face away when he settled next to Fia, dropping a tote full of net shopping bags by his feet.

  It didn’t take us long to get to the sandy beach lining the bay. Windmills and churches dotted the hills around us. Alex helped Fia out first, grabbing her camera and lenses. Then he held his hand out for me. My heart leaped the same time I did. I’m pretty sure it had to do with the fear of falling into the water and not from the way he grabbed me—warm and strong—as he pulled me on to the pier.

  “I have to get back to the yacht in time to make lunch,” he said. “Eddie’s needed onboard, so he’ll be back in two hours. If you’d like to stay longer, he can swing by again later.” Both men looked at me and Fia for confirmation.

  “That’s more than enough time for me,“ Fia said. “I just want to take in the sights and shoot a couple of frames. Unless you want to stay longer, Moti?”

  “No. Two hours is perfect.”

  “Great.” Eddie started maneuvering the dinghy back out to sea. “I’ll pick you guys up by the pier. Enjoy the island.” He waved as he took off.

  “You ladies know where you’re heading?” Alex asked as we walked down the pier. He gave us a few pointers—highlights of places we might want to see—and then took off for the market. We heard him greet a line of locals having their morning coffee outside the stores and cafes. He told them to get their lazy asses to work. They reacted with wild gestures, some good-natured cursing and hearty guffaws.

  Fia and I took the bus to the main village, admiring the rugged slopes, the almond groves, and homes of rust-colored stone. The village itself was a labyrinth of winding streets, terracotta rooftops, and cobbled steps. Courtyards filled with herbs and geraniums. Mulberry trees sheltered taverna tables and the odd bougainvillea waved brightly.

  We walked under an archway of flowers, took the tiny steps off an alley, and ended up on the rooftops. The village lay before us, dotted with fountains and little churches. Fia clicked her camera with Oscar-night-like frenzy.

  “A couple of frames, huh?” I said.

  She laughed as she reviewed an image on her screen. “I can’t stop.”

  I leaned back against the wall and watched her. Although she’d grown up with Dolly and Rachel Auntie, she was different. Dolly would’ve freaked at the thought of jumping on a local bus. Rachel Auntie would’ve gotten on the bus, then glared at all the passengers, because surely one of them was going to pounce on her gold chain. Both of them would nag me for not getting a taxi instead. But Fia… She didn’t nag. She didn’t drag. She didn’t fill up silences with endless chatter. She had a relaxed sense of freedom—a lightness that came from not caring if the world saw you or not. Her riot of silver hair added a touch of defiance. She was trim and toned and looked fantastic for her age. I got the impression it was something she did for herself—because she respected her body and made it a priority.

  I thought back to the last three months—my quest to lose weight, so I’d feel good enough and confident enough when I saw Nikos again. I could take a few lessons from this lady.

  “So, what happened between you and my mother?”

  She said nothing for a moment, peering into the viewfinder of her camera as if recalling the landscape of another time. Then she turned around and gave me a half-shrug.

  “Life,” she said.

  “Was it a guy?” Besties fight. It’s a given. The jealous fight a.k.a “I introduced you to my friend and now you’re spending more time with her.” The “I saw that dress first” fight. The time your bestie hits you where it hurts, then plays the “I’m telling you the harsh truth because I love you” card. Sometimes your bestie hates the guy you’re dating and uses every dirty trick in the book to sabotage your relationship. But the “You hooked up with my dude” fight trumps all. The dude in question could be a crush who has no clue you exist, but as long as your bestie knows it, she’s bound by the Code of Bestie Ethics. The only exception is when you both fawn over the same unattainable celebrities. Mutual fangirling is a powerful bonding experience, but when it crosses over to a real-life crush, the gloves come off. Next thing you know, you’re posting pictures of each other that you both swore you deleted.

  Fia fiddled with the dials on her camera. She clicked a photo of me beneath the tumble of roses growing over the walls. “You could say that.” She took a few more shots, nodded at the screen and added, “It was most definitely a guy.”

  People’s pasts were fascinating. Scratch the surface deep enough and you’d unearth all kinds of dusty stories. “Was he worth it?”

  “I don’t know.” Fia shrugged. “You should ask Dolly.” She slid the camera strap over her shoulder, cross-body style. “It’s all water under the bridge, at least for me. The important thing is being able to look yourself in the eye.”

  Okayyy. So apparently it was Dolly who overstepped her turf. With whom? My father? Someone before my father?

  We returned to the port on foot instead of taking the bus again. Following one of the trails Alex told us about, we wandered down the hillside to the cheerful, grinning mascot of Kea—a giant stone lion. Legend had it that Kea was once inhabited by water nymphs whose beauty, along with their idyllic green island, provoked the jealousy of the Gods. As this was a recipe for tragedy in ancient Greece, a kerfuffle of epic proportions followed. The Gods sent a lion to chase the nymphs away and destroy the island. All the water disappeared and the plants and trees began to die. A temple was built in honor of the most powerful God—Zeus, who was quite chuffed with this turn of events and sent rain, restoring the island’s beauty. As a bonus, he restrained the lion and left him carved in stone. In another account, the nymphs were real bitches and wreaked havoc on the island, until the lion appeared and chased them away. Either way, the lion sat, smiling cheekily over ancient mysteries as we trekked by on our way to the harbor.

  The cafes had their tables set outside for lunch. People sat under wide umbrellas, sharing ouzo and mezedes. We stopped at a shop for souvenirs. It sold everything from cheese and beer to sarongs, snorkeli
ng gear, and furniture. At the back of the store, was a rack full of oddities: curtain fabric with the hooks still attached, a fishing net that looked like it was gnawed through by a rodent, rope flower baskets, a brand-new wedding dress, and two ladies’ swimsuits.

  “You throw nothing out on an island,” said Fia, brushing past me to check out the ceramics. “Things are difficult to come by and equally difficult to get rid of.”

  I pulled out one of the swimsuits and held it against me. It was a one-piece with thin stripes running vertically—an important detail when you’re trying to look lean and long (as opposed to horizontal stripes that made me look like a round-bottomed flask). The back was a U-shaped dip. The price tag was faded, its edges starting to yellow. It looked like the suit had been hanging on the rack a long, long time, but it had clean, classic lines and was exactly my size.

  Come join me. The water’s perfect. Nikos had beckoned from the pool. And then he’d said something about secluded coves and nooks.

  I saw myself wearing the swimsuit, laughing and cavorting on a white pebble beach with him. My three-thumbed unicorn.

  The important thing is being able to look yourself in the eye. Fia’s words came back to me.

  I hovered over the swimsuit. Was I being fair to Nikos? Did I like him for him or his extra thumb? Was I being fair to myself? I didn’t swim. I was terrified of the water, yet I was contemplating this purchase because it would help me get closer to Nikos. The suit would paint the picture of a fun-loving girl, who had the same fun-loving goals that he did, which included (shudder) diving off a cliff.

  If Ma Anga was right and Nikos really was my soul mate, it would just happen, right? Without me trying to mold myself into someone else. I placed the swimsuit back on the rack and walked away.

  Fia and I took a table outside one of the fish tavernas. She chugged down a cold beer while I enjoyed an ice-cream. It was barely noon, but the pavements sizzled with hazy heat.

  “Is that Alex?” Fia pointed the heel of her bottle toward the beach.

  We watched as he dropped his bags and shrugged out of his clothes. He wore a pair of swim shorts underneath, obviously prepared for impromptu dips in the sea. He started running bare-chested—Baywatch-style—toward the water.

  Such a show-off.

  Slicing through the waves until his head was a small, dark blob, he disappeared under the surface for an alarming and ridiculously show-offy stretch of time. Doused in seawater and glistening from head to toe, he came back out, emulating an iconic James Bond scene where Daniel Craig saunters out of the water in tight trunks—rugged and sun-soaked against the backdrop of sparkling water.

  It was weird witnessing a hunk-in-trunks moment with Fia. She slid her sunglasses down her nose and observed him over the rim. Obviously, she hadn’t been listening to my inner dialogue when I said it’s best to ogle hot people from behind the shade of dark lenses.

  “What’s he doing?” she asked.

  Hmmm, maybe she really was observing and not ogling.

  Alex sat cross-legged on the beach, half in the water, and half out. The waves lapped around him as he twisted and turned something in his hand.

  We left the taverna and walked to the sandy shore of the harbor. Fia slipped out of her sandals and waded over to Alex. I stood by the pier, keeping an eye out for our pickup.

  “Moti!” Fia waved, calling me over.

  I stepped into the water gingerly. It came up to my calves—not enough to sweep me away, but people could drown in an inch of this shit, so it was a valiant move on my part. Holding up the hem of my dress, I walked to where Fia watched Alex with great interest.

  “Look,” she said. “It’s a starfish.”

  Alex was extricating a tiny, lobster-red starfish from the cords of a discarded fishing net. Its bumpy spines radiated from the center in perfect symmetry—a fiery star fallen from the heavens into Poseidon’s realm.

  “Is it alive?” I asked. Starfish breathe through little tubes that run over their entire body. To survive, they need to be completely submerged in water.

  “It’s hard to tell.” Alex untangled another arm from the netting. The pattern of sun-filtered waves danced on the back of his hands through the water. He kept the starfish under the surface and worked it gently through the knots. “Let’s see, shall we?” he said when it was finally free.

  I held my breath as he rested the starfish on the seabed. Tips of broken shells peeked through the sand. The three of us peered over the motionless starfish as seaweed swirled around our legs.

  Come on. Come on.

  It was suddenly imperative the little starfish move. The whole day distilled down to that one moment and that one vibrant sea star in the water. Waves broke around us with lacey froth on the shore. A cloud drifted across the sky like the brilliant white sail of a ship.

  The starfish moved. At first it looked like it was just being rocked by the waves. Then its arm extended, feeling the sand with the wiggly feet on its underside. It had thousands of soft, rippling tubes that moved with coordinated grace, gripping and releasing the sand, propelling the starfish forward in wavelike motions.

  “Ha!” Fia high-fived Alex. He grinned like a proud daddy as his baby disappeared into the sea.

  “Eddie will be here soon,” he said. “We should make our way to the pier.”

  “Be there in a minute,” I said. The starfish was gone, but I stood rooted to the spot, not ready to leave.

  As Fia and Alex walked to the meeting point, I dropped the hem of my dress and let it float around my knees. The water felt warm—tiny bubbles of foam breaking against my skin. The tiny sea star had jump-started something in me. Maybe I identified with it because starfish don’t swim either. And yet it had reached for the water. The sea was its home.

  Oh, to be so sure of your place in the sun. Or the sea. Or the sky.

  I turned as a kid shrieked in delight behind me. He had a spade and bucket in his hands. The waves splashed him, and he splashed back, throwing spades full of sand at them. His cap shadowed his face, baring just the tip of a sun-warmed nose and the curve of his smile.

  I want to be like that, I thought.

  Like him.

  Like the starfish.

  No worries, no fears.

  I closed my eyes and breathed in the salty smell of the sea. The waves came and went, the sound pulsating to the rhythm of my breath. I rose over it—floating weightlessly, aimlessly—as gritty particles of sand washed away from my feet.

  “I want to learn how to swim!” I yelled, and then laughed at the startled expression on the little boy’s face. “I want to learn how to swim for me.”

  I ran past him, past Fia, past Alex, all the way back to the souvenir shop on the quay.

  “Hi.” I was breathless as I held up my purchase for the cashier. The wet hem of my dress made little puddles on the floor. “I’d like to buy this swimsuit, please.”

  Buying a swimsuit was one thing. Getting in the water was another.

  I figured I’d wait until no one was around before dipping my feet in the pool. Learning to swim on my own wasn’t happening. It would be just another Greek tragedy. I could picture Ma Anga crowing, ‘I told you so!’ the moment they dragged my limp body out of the pool. All I wanted to do was to make friends with the water—touch it, feel it, say hello. Like a first date. Not that I’m touchy-feely on the first date, except for that one time with Jay—I got turned on because he said he could make a prosthetic thumb I could stick on any guy I wanted to introduce to Dolly.

  Jay turned out to be a liar, but providence had now graced me with someone who didn’t need a prosthetic thumb to win Dolly’s approval. Nikos was naturally endowed. And he’d just climbed aboard the Abigail Rose II like a boss, holding…an octopus.

  “Look what I caught.” He waved the floppy sea creature at us. “And there are more in the boat.”

  Apparently, spearing octopuses was a thing. Nikos and Thomas had returned from their diving trip with dinner for everyone. They sho
wed off their catch, relaying stories of their hunting skills.

  Isabelle looked a bit green and marched off to her cabin with her attendant in tow. “Teri, I need your help. I have octopus ink all over me.”

  Hannah stepped aside as they brushed past her. “I’ll let the chef know you’ll be having octopus for dinner.”

  Fia and I exchanged a look. We were both thinking of Alex hauling bags of brown-paper wrapped meat and herbs and vegetables into the dinghy.

  “I can’t wait to make dinner for you tonight,” he said. “You’re going to love this.” He waved a feathery herb in our faces, his enthusiasm infectious. “Wild fennel. So sweet and fragrant.”

  I felt a pang of sympathy for Alex as I made my way to the cabin. He was probably used to juggling passengers’ wishes, but being a yacht chef was not an easy gig. He was responsible for every meal served onboard. He cooked for both the clients and crew—breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, snacks—while keeping track of dietary restrictions and requests. He went to bed after midnight and was up hours before me. And, he’d still managed to leave a little treat on the kitchen counter for me. Maybe I needed to cut him some slack.

  The bathroom door opened and out strolled Alex, interrupting my thoughts.

  “What’s this?” He dangled my bra on the tip of his finger.

  “God, you startled me. I didn’t know you were here.”

  He continued to advance, his infuriating eyebrow cock in place.

  “It’s a bra.” I swatted his finger out of my face.

  “What’s it doing in there?” He motioned toward the en suite.

  “Brushing its teeth. What do you think it’s doing?” I huffed. “I washed it and hung it up to dry.”

  “This boat has a whole crew to cater to your needs. You do not wash. You do not dry. And for crying out loud, you do not ambush me with random, falling objects.” He shook the double-cupped garment at me. “I get in the shower and this thing bitch-slapped me in the face. Just hand your laundry to the crew and everything will be looked after. Katalaves?”