Seven Days at Sea

When international man of leisure, Scott, asked me along on a sailing trip in the Turkish Mediterranean in June, I said yes. Even though it would take all my meagre savings (including my Nigeria-homecoming-nest-egg) and then some. Even though I would know absolutely no one on this trip except for Scott himself. Even though I was supposed to be staying put in London and working on my novel.

But it was Scott, who loves to travel perhaps even more than I do, and does it with panache. When mutual friends first introduced us in New York two years ago, they told me he was jobless, homeless, and riding around America on a motorcycle. Of course, I loved him instantly, and our mutual love of scotch only confirmed it.

Eleven of us flew into Dalaman, Turkey, from Australia, New York City, the Hague, London, and Boston. Most of this crew was Australian, including Megan and Jodi, Scott's two sunloving sisters and their partners and a couple of friends. Almost half are based in NYC, so I now have a whole new cadre of BFFs in that big bad city.

We set sail from the little touristy town of Marmaris, with its lovely beach promenade, rife with carpet shops and stressball touts. Our boat wasn't quite the gulet (traditional Turkish sailboat) that we had expected. But since none of us were expert sailors, no one knew this right away. What we did know was that it was massive (photo of boat by Scott), a 90 footer, with private cabins, en suite bathrooms, sunny and shady lounge pads, dining on the deck, and plenty more space to dry off, do yoga, hang towels and togs, and for Shawn to play king of the world.

We floated from Butterfly Gorge to Turtle Beach to Caunos to Gocek, stopping at tiny isolated coves to swim, snorkel, and feast. I don't think I was ever hungry in the seven days we were at sea. Our fabulous chef, Mahmet, cooked us breakfast, lunch, tea, and dinner every day.

I also don't think I was sober ever. We went through about 20 bottles of liquor between the 11 of us. That's almost 2 litres each, not counting the cases of beer we emptied steadily. To help matters, we had a professional bartender among us, the long limbed Alexis, who made us stellar watermelon tequila cocktails one blue evening. Alex was usually in charge of the gin and tonics, starting around 3pm. The Dude, of course, would whip up the White Russians. Scott and Jono would round us off after dinner with scotch. And Tom played DJ. At night, we'd lie on the roof of the boat, and watch the Milky Way wheel itself across the sky. Somehow I missed every shooting star, but apparently, they exist.

It was on the fifth day that we finally persuaded our crew to sail our boat, rather than motor it. That was when we were made to understand that our boat was actually not a gulet, but something in between a gulet and something much bigger. Putting up sails basically meant floating in place in the middle of the Med, while smaller boats whizzed past, their sails abillow. Did we mind? Nah.

Nor were we chuffed about the lack of good snorkeling and diving. As the Lonely Planet warned us, "the Red Sea it ain't."

It weren't. Sometimes there were little fishies. Other times an outcropping of soft coral. Most often, it was rocky mountains, the cool blue sea, and us jumping in joy.

We docked at Fethiye after a week, where we caught the first game of the World Cup at a local bar, ate some yummy meals, and went dancing at a local club to lovely live Turkish music. Then one by two, we flew back to where we'd come from.

In the ancient city of Caunos (4th century BC) on the Turkish Mediterranean coast, there is a beautifully preserved amphitheatre halfway up the mountain, and below, the remains of a promenade and a fountain, rebuilt among the ruins. According to the signs, there is also a monument of gratitude. I looked for it, but I couldn't find it, not in the outside world anyway. So I left, carrying it within me.