I swim along the coast of Kimolos, north of Milos, keeping the cliff-top white church in view when I breathe, then checking below me as a ray slips smoothly along the white sand. To swim is to be in two places at once, a surfacing of the eyes into the world of air, then down into the world of water. Air, water, air, water. My vision is alternating, discontinuous, the mind holding the image (a man with a gray beard, dragging a thick rope along the shore) I left above the surface, shifting its attention to the spiny black sea urchins, the twisted volcanic rock formations below; I breathe again, to be reassured of the land, not so far away, and the bearded man is gone, replaced by the silhouette of shaggy donkeys with their inquisitive ears, watching me pass. Down again, a swarm of black fish all around me. One world, then the other, somehow traveling simultaneously with the one not attended. They blend and blur.
Donkeys at the bottom of the sea, munching sea grass. A flock of fish in the sky, battling birds.
Air, water. It’s like sleeping and being awake; the two states alternate, connected, aware of each other, the line between them a demarcating horizon, the surface of the water, a line taut and then broken by my hands, the crown of my head — breathing to one side, then the other. I am balanced on this line, bisected. Sometimes I’m surprised to find myself still swimming.
WHEN I LEARNED to read, back in Mrs. Sullivan’s first-grade class in Salt Lake City, the early lessons revolved around Greek mythology. These gods and their people and landscapes have always felt inextricable from the revelation of worlds in words, images and feelings blooming inside me as I read. (And this pantheon felt older, more exciting than the Mormon theology of my peers.) All these years later, if I have a primary religion, a spiritual practice, it’s reading.
I would claim swimming as a second such practice, and I’ve found bodies of water to be a rich way to come to know a place. Offered the chance to investigate an island, I thought of Greece, a place I’d never been, yet I felt I’d known so long. Friends recommended Milos, 150 miles from Athens, the farthest south of the Cyclades; it’s quieter, with a smaller population (about 5,000 residents spread over 60 square miles) and less tourism than its sisters Santorini and Mykonos. Built up by successive volcanic eruptions, its coastline marked by caves and colored cliffs, Milos is perfect for aquatic exploring.
I was also curious about the people, the history. The Melians are known for their cuisine (seafood, baked eggplant, tzatziki, baklava), their history of mining (obsidian, perlite and sulfur, among other materials) and their resistance to the Athenian empire in 416 B.C. Thucydides recounts how the Melians, in the face of certain destruction, showed the temerity to use this astounding phrase: “Meanwhile we invite you to allow us to be friends.”