A Farewell to Fethiye

The first rays of dawn painted the sky in hues of gold and pink as we awoke to the gentle rocking of Larin Su. Breakfast was a sumptuous affair, a feast for the senses. Despite the early hour, the spread was nothing short of extraordinary, a testament to the culinary talents of our chef, Yakob (I think that’s how his name is spelled).

After breakfast, our bags were loaded into the waiting vans, and we gathered for a group photo shoot. Ben, ever the photographer, captured our final moments together. Rachel, with her keen eye for detail, snapped another shot, ensuring that our memories were preserved in a variety of frames.

The journey to Dalaman Airport was a pleasant one, a final glimpse of the Aegean countryside. Our flight to Istanbul was smooth and uneventful, a welcome respite from the adventures of the past week. At the airport, we said goodbye to Ben, Rachel, and the others who were staying at a different hotel. The ten of us who were staying at the same hotel continued on as a group.

Yit Peng, ever the meticulous planner, had arranged a van for our group of ten. A minor oversight caused a brief delay, but we soon found ourselves on our way to DeCamondo Pera hotel.

After a brief rest, Yit Peng and I ventured out to explore the vibrant city of Istanbul. The familiar sights and sounds evoked memories of our previous visit in 2022. The city seemed to have an uncanny ability to transport us back in time.

I indulged in one of my favorite Turkish treats, a banana split from Mado. The flavors were a delightful departure from the familiar offerings back home, a reminder of the unique culinary traditions of this ancient land.

The evening was spent at Pera Antakya, a charming restaurant known for its wood-fired cuisine. The meal was a fitting conclusion to this part of our journey, a celebration of the flavors and friendships we had cultivated during our time in Turkey.

Larin Su's Last Voyage

The Mediterranean, a vast, shimmering expanse, stretched before us as we prepared for our final leg to Fethiye. The morning sun, a warm, golden orb, danced upon the water, casting dancing shadows on the deck. As we slipped into the cool embrace of the sea, the world seemed to slow to a leisurely pace.

Breakfast was a convivial affair, a symphony of flavors and laughter. Philip, ever the wine connoisseur, announced that we had a surplus of our liquid treasure. A lively drawing system was quickly devised, ensuring that each of us went home with a bottle of the finest Turkish wine.

Ben, our spiritual guide, led us in a devotion, drawing parallels between the River of Life in Ezekiel and the apocalyptic visions of Revelations. Captain Emre, a seasoned mariner with tales of the sea etched into his weathered face, regaled us with a captivating summary of our journey thus far.

We made a final pass through Cleopatra's Bath, a legendary cove teeming with boats. The strong currents and heavy traffic made berthing impossible, a testament to the enduring allure of this ancient site.

(Artist with “manager” Desmond and boat crew)

As lunch approached, I was approached by Murat, a local boatman, who requested a portrait of a dear friend. His request was a small gesture of friendship, a reminder of the connections we had forged during our voyage.

Finally, we reached Fethiye, a charming coastal town nestled amidst lush hills. The familiar sights and sounds of the place brought a sense of homecoming. I exchanged currency with the same man who had assisted me at the beginning of our journey, a comforting ritual that marked the passage of time.

As the sun began its descent, we gathered on the deck of Larin Su for our final round of drinks and dinner. The air was filled with the sounds of celebration from the town, as Turkey commemorated Victory Day. It was a fitting end to our adventure, a moment of reflection and gratitude for the memories we had created.

Echoes of Antiquity: Discovery in Turkey

At the break of dawn, the boat slipped away from Kas, setting course for the enigmatic Butterfly Valley. The sea, wild and unyielding, greeted us with a relentless vigor. The vessel heaved and rolled, as if rebelling against our passage. Seasickness claimed many in our group, their faces drained of color, caught in the sea’s merciless grasp. The hours crept by, the waves oblivious to our suffering, until at last, as the sun climbed higher and the day stretched on, the sea’s fury began to abate. By midday, the tempest had quieted, a tenuous calm settling over us. It was only then, as the boat steadied and the horizon softened, that the pallor lifted from our faces, allowing us to slowly rediscover the joy of our journey.

Once berthed at Butterfly Valley, the sun was high above the Mediterranean’s turquoise waters, casting harsh, sharp shadows across the deck. In just two days, we would turn our bow back toward Fethiye, and three days hence, onward to Istanbul. Istanbul, with its bustling bazaars, the air thick with the scent of spices, and the timeless pleasure of wandering its streets—these simple joys awaited us, yet I found myself both eager and reluctant to leave the sea’s embrace behind.

This journey has been more than a mere passage through landscapes; it has woven us into the very fabric of time, linking us to the ancient worlds that once thrived along these shores. Sailing the Mediterranean, with the same winds that guided the ancients filling our sails, has been a highlight, but it is the land that has spoken to us in a profound and lasting way.

As I walked through the ruins of Laodicea, I stood in awe of what remained of their wealth—two grand theaters, side by side, silent witnesses to a city once vibrant and opulent, now merely a whisper in biblical verses. It is one thing to read about such places, but quite another to stand amidst the dust of their ruins, feeling the echoes of history reverberate beneath your feet.

Colossae, though still largely entombed beneath the earth, revealed its secrets in a different manner. Kneeling by a stream, I let the cold water trickle through my fingers, finally grasping what Jesus meant by cold and hot in the context of Laodicea. The stark contrast between life-giving cold water and the tepid indifference He warned against was no longer an abstraction, but a tangible reality I could feel and understand.

Saint Augustine’s words rang true: “The world is a book, and those who do not travel read only one page.” To witness how others live, to momentarily step into their world, is to stretch the boundaries of our existence. Travel, as Emerson suggested, transforms the mind, leaving it forever altered, unable to revert to its former dimensions.

And here, in Turkey, I have witnessed the resilience and determination of its people, especially on the waters. As evening fell and the sun dipped below the horizon, we found ourselves in a crowded bay, with no place to anchor. Three times, the anchor slipped, leaving us adrift. Yet our captain, steadfast and unflinching, would not relent. The process was precise—first, a scout in the dinghy searched for a place to secure the ropes. Then, the gulet carefully reversed into position. One rope was tied, then another, until finally, we were secure.

Once anchored, the crew seamlessly shifted into a new rhythm. Dinner was served without a murmur or hint of complaint, despite the lateness of the hour. It was nearly 9 PM. The crew, I thought, must have been exhausted, yet my wine glass was refilled with a smile. This, I realized, was service beyond expectation, here on the deck of the Larin Su.

By 11 PM, fatigue overcame me, and I collapsed into sleep, the gentle rocking of the boat lulling me into a deep, dreamless rest. In that quiet moment, the world seemed to shrink and expand at once, the weight of history and the simplicity of the present converging. It reminded me that travel is not merely a luxury, but a vital means of living a fuller, richer life.

Echoes of Myra: Ancient Steps and Modern Reflections

The sun rose over Larin Su, casting a gentle light across the water as the day stirred awake. The air held a crisp freshness, tinged with the faint scent of salt, a reminder of the sea’s proximity. At 7:05 a.m., the deck was quiet, except for the rustle of the morning breeze and the soft murmur of waves against the hull.

David and I, still savoring the memory of the previous night’s feast, complimented Captain Emre on his lionfish catch. The sashimi, barely two hours from sea to plate, was as fresh as the sea itself—its taste a fleeting whisper of the ocean’s depth.

After a hearty breakfast, we boarded the dinghy bound for Demre, where our guide, Şerefe, awaited us with the bus. Our first destination was Myra, an ancient city steeped in history and the whispers of biblical tales. The city, etched into the stone cliffs, bore the remnants of a time when the living and the dead coexisted in the hollows of the earth. We wandered among the rock-cut tombs, their weathered facades telling stories of lives long past.

Ben, thoughtful and reflective, remarked on the biblical tale from Mark 5:1-9, where a man possessed by demons lived among the tombs. In his South African culture, such a life seemed unimaginable, yet here, in the shadow of these ancient graves, it was easier to conceive—a man sustained by the fruits of the land, hidden within these stone chambers. Perhaps, in the time of Jesus, similar tombs offered shelter to the forsaken.

As we explored, we noticed fragments of the past—a pomegranate carved in stone, the face of Medusa gazing from the ruins, and masks frozen in expressions that spoke of ancient dramas. Şerefe explained the origin of the word "hypocrite," rooted in the Greek tradition of masked actors, and it seemed fitting, here among the ruins of a theater.

The theater itself beckoned, its marble steps worn smooth by countless feet. We climbed to the top, cautious of the slippery stone, and there, among the carvings of Poseidon, we found a poppy flower. I wondered aloud if the ancients had known the secrets of the poppy, whether they had indulged in its opiate gifts. Historians might debate its use, but I imagined a cook, unwittingly intoxicated by the smoke of dried poppies tossed into a fire, sparking a ritual that would echo through the ages.

The heat pressed down upon us as we left the site, and just outside the gates, the group found respite in a glass of fresh orange juice, a small indulgence for a single euro. We rested briefly, then departed from Myra, our thoughts still lingering in the ancient city.

Next, we visited the Church of St. Nicholas, a short drive from Myra, where Şerefe shared the tale of its complex history. In 1856, the Russians, drawn by their deep reverence for St. Nicholas, purchased the site. But the Ottoman Sultan, wary of foreign powers holding sway over such a significant relic, quickly reacquired it. The details of the transaction have faded into obscurity, but the church remains a symbol of enduring Russian devotion. Though the saint’s relics were taken to Bari in 1087, the church still holds a powerful connection for Orthodox Christians, particularly those from Russia, who see it as the saint’s true resting place.

After visiting the church, and touching the feet of the bronze statue—a gesture signifying a return—I felt a sense of completion as we headed to Kas.

This small town, bustling yet quaint, offered us a couple of hours to explore. Some sought out a meal or a drink, while others meandered through shops that lined the streets, filled with trinkets and curiosities. Kas had changed, Ben noted, no longer the hidden gem it once was, now more polished and less intimate.

Back on Larin Su, the day closed with another lavish dinner. As the night deepened, a few of us gathered for a heated debate, the conversation turning to the conflicts in Ukraine and the ongoing tensions between Israel and Palestine. Voices rose and fell with the passion of our convictions, yet we all knew the limits of our discussion. Solutions were elusive, but the dialogue, like the day, was an exercise in understanding. We ended on a quiet note, and as I lay down, sleep came quickly, drawing the curtain on a day filled with the echoes of ancient Myra and the weight of modern concerns.