Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
WILL
Day Three
We browse Agistri island, where emerald green trees and white homes with chestnut rooftops take my breath away. I wanted to lounge on sunbeds on white sandy beaches, framed by burnt rock cliff edge, but we didn’t have the time.
Now, back on the boat, I’m back in pirate mode.
‘Argh, ye must be ready for food.’
‘We are,’ I say, as my stomach rumbles.
The food is a generous serving of pasta covered in a rich tomato sauce, with a side helping of chopped greens, red onions and tomato. I dip the provided bread into tzatziki.
The pirates sit at their own table, staying in character as they eat their ‘hearty grubs’.
‘How’s the grub?’ The siren, now playing the role of a ‘maiden waitress’, asks.
‘Great,’ I say, through a mouthful, ever dignified.
Lager dances on my tastebuds, a refreshing cold taste in the peak afternoon sunshine.
The surrounding group has thawed to the pirate escapades, except for the girl who at first refused to give up her phone.
‘It’s going to be a long day,’ she says to her four friends, all of whom look just as stylish, handsome, pretty and rich as she does. ‘Three islands with pirates.’
‘Argh,’ the pirates chime, not a care that she’s unhappy.
‘I came on here for some cool Instagram shots,’ she says, her eyes rolling at the pirates. ‘This doesn’t fit the aesthetic.’
‘I think it’s a great aesthetic,’ Sam chimes in, much to my surprise.
She turns to him, all fluttering eyelashes. My stomach twists at the idea of a cat spotting its prey.
‘Oh, really?’ Folding her talons, I mean claws, no, hands together, one leg over her bronze knee. ‘You’re in to all this pirate stuff?’
‘Yeah.’ Sam breaks off some bread, dipping it into a garlic dip. ‘I was obsessed with Pirates of the Caribbean when I was a kid.’
‘Oh, me too,’ a man in a white linen shirt, one of the posh girl’s friends says.
‘Argh,’ chime the pirates again.
The girl flicks her blond hair, throwing a look of disinterest at her friend.
‘I don’t see what’s appealing about that.’
‘It reminds me more of Treasure Island.’
All eyes on me.
‘In what way?’
Years have passed since I read Treasure Island, but I’ve said it now.
‘The island behind you.’ I point at Agistri, which looks like a slice of heaven. ‘Cruising on the seas. Pirates, one with an eyepatch. Although, where are your parrots?’
The two pirates look at one another.
‘You forgot the parrots,’ one exclaims.
‘I think they’re downstairs,’ the captain replies. He turns to the group. ‘Argh, pretend ye didn’t hear this.’
Our laughter joins together, but Sam’s cuts through the noise. It’s so happy-go-lucky.
‘All we need is a bit of treasure hunting,’ Sam suggests.
‘Argh, ye is yet to discover the second island,’ the captain replies.
‘Oh, goodie,’ the woman says, rolling her eyes. ‘A treasure hunt. Could it get worse?’
‘You know, Martha, I’m excited about treasure hunting,’ Linen Shirt replies.
‘Me too,’ a girl with hazel hair says, her accent thick. ‘It’s been some time since we had fun. This is our holiday.’
Martha’s eyes roll again. She’s very good at that. Her dismissive attitude is one I would be obsessed with if she were on a reality TV show. Here, in real life, though? Not so much.
If her behaviour affronts the pirates, they don’t show it. ‘Ye next destination is Aegina. X marks the spot.’
Martha sighs, pulling sunglasses over her eyes and leaning back in the sun.
‘Wellerman’, a sea shanty with a fist-hitting guitar, comes over the speakers, as the ship roars to life.
‘Ye must dance,’ the captain encourages. ‘Dance for ye supper.’
‘But we just ate.’ Plus, how can I dance to this?
‘Oh, aye,’ the captain guffaws. ‘Ye must dance.’
After some careful consideration, Linen Shirt stands, holding out his hand for the girl with the hazel hair. With smiles plastered on their tanned faces and beer in their hands, they dance as the original ‘Wellerman’ song turns into a club remix, the sun twinkling over their bodies.
‘Want to dance?’ Sam asks, as sea spray splashes upon us.
Dance? Here? In front of these people?
With Sam?
The pirates clap their hands in time with the music, and the woman who served us food appears, encouraging everyone to get up, but doesn’t even try with Martha. Wearing expensive glasses, it’s difficult to tell if she’s sleeping or shooting daggers at anyone who dares to enjoy themselves.
Dancing in front of people when I’ve only had half a beer feels impossible, but maybe I should be free-spirited. Maybe I should relish the heat on my skin and dance with strangers, to enjoy a moment in Greece that I wouldn’t get back home in Cardiff.
Fear is the killer of fun.
Sam, standing directly in front of me, holds out his hand and says, ‘Come on, lover boy.’
Dressed in a T-shirt and my tight – and now dry – swim shorts, I stand before him.
Nobody looks at us. Nobody cares that my swim trunks are so tight they leave little to the imagination.
No one cares that our dancing is out of sync to the music, or that Sam’s moves could win an award for the worst dancer in the world.
What matters is this moment, as the song changes to ‘Hot’ by Inna.
My body loosens as Sam dances around me, sometimes touching my hand, other times smiling and hyping up my moves by clapping his hands, cheering.
Every touch of his is a jolt of excitement.
Of desire. Fear slips away, drowning in the surrounding water.
Like Venus, I feel born from the waves, a beauty that until now has evaded me.
Sam’s moves make me giggle, then belly laugh, and for once I don’t care what others think.
Need for external validation fades into the background.
Sam places his hand in mine, twirling me like we are a married couple.
His gaze sweeps me up like a crashing wave, and with each move of my feet, I get closer, until our bodies graze one another.
He’s firm, moving his hips with mine, my hands trailing down his back and finding his hips.
He bites his lip, his eyelashes fluttering, a smouldering smile.
Our hips move as one, stepping in rhythm together.
My breath deserts me. His jawline could cut me and I wouldn’t care.
With reckless abandon, I let my fingers trace it, because in this moment there are no consequences.
His head tilts with my touch, his eyes closing, his lips parting.
The survivalist in me tells me to stop, but my fingers reach for him, wanting to touch his lips, to feel parts of him that I shouldn’t feel.
Heart thudding, I’m inches away from letting my fingers trace his bottom lip, when Linen Shirt man bumps straight into Sam, knocking him out of my orbit.
Sea spray hits me for good measure, cooling me off.
‘Shots.’
Tequila and lime are thrust into my hands, Sam’s hands, hands that were on me moments ago. He watches me. I watch him. Still entangled even though we are apart.
Salt on skin, lime on taste buds, a burning fire at the back of our throats. We grimace and laugh, surviving what feels like a huge milestone. My eyes flicker to Sam once more, only to see his deep stare. His lips quirk, and so do mine.
Land comes towards us, a mirage caused by too much alcohol. Sam takes my hand and guides me to the edge of the boat, where pine trees sway gently in the breeze, and water laps the edges of the rocky shore. His hand rubs the top of my back.
Our eyes meet.
We lean in.
And then…
‘What the hell are those?’ Martha shouts from the front of the boat.
A caw, high pitched, replaces the sound of the boat’s engine, and I realise the music has been cut as we’ve approached land. In the branches of low-hanging trees are peacocks, feathers rippling in the sun.
One peacock fans its feathers at the approaching boat.
‘Stunning,’ Linen Shirt man says.
‘Aegina island,’ the pirate says. ‘Ye can go on land, but beware of the golden feather. ’Ere, take this treasure map.’
I don’t want to ask why we have to beware of a golden feather, so instead disembark the boat with Sam by my side, adrenaline rushing through me. Did I misread that situation, or was Sam leaning in to meet me?
‘X marks the spot,’ Sam says, tapping the map.
There’s a trail marked out towards what looks like the other end of the island. I look back to the boat, catching the eye of the pirates waving at me in encouragement.
The rest of the group sees the island as an adventure, like we’re in an episode of Survivor. They clamber over rocks and disappear down streets. There’s life here, but it’s quiet, small shops and hopeful restaurateurs.
We’re alone now, side by side, so close the heat from his skin feels hotter than the sun.
‘We don’t have to leave for a little while.’ Sam’s eyes crinkle. ‘Follow me. I’ve got a plan.’