The sun hadn’t quite risen behind Makronisos, but he was already awake. The harbor at Lavrio was still silent, the fishing boats moored in place, their ropes creaking softly in rhythm with the morning breeze.

It had been nearly twenty years since he left Greece for Sweden. There, he built a different life — a job in tech, friends from around the world, long northern winters. But every summer, without fail, he returned for a few days. To the same house, the same narrow streets, the same schoolyard where the pavement still cracked in the same places. And always, he made a stop in Lavrio. That’s where it all began.

He was still a child when the family came here for summer holidays. They didn’t do anything fancy — just walked the harbor, looked at the fishing boats and the sailboats with flags from all over the world, then went for dinner at a seaside taverna. He remembers his father chatting with a cousin, calculating how long it might take to reach Kea — or Tzia, as the older ones still called it — in this boat or that one.

His father had earned a small powerboat license once, dreaming of owning a little inflatable someday. But it never happened. He died too young, and the money was never quite enough.

Still, the seed had been planted. Even in Stockholm, Panos would find himself thinking of the Aegean, of the sea around Kea, of sails opening like arms. And of that same, simple question he had asked his father every summer:

“Could that boat make it to Kea?”

Today, he wouldn’t need to ask anyone. Today, he’d go.

The boat — a worn old 27-footer, weathered by sun and time — had been bought cheap from a Norwegian man eager to get rid of it. Panos spent three winters bringing it back to life. The first year, he stripped it down. The second, he painted. By the third, he had replaced almost everything with his own hands. In the tiny cabin, he kept a photo: him as a child, sitting on a stone bench beside his father in Lavrio, a white sailboat floating in the background.

He raised the sails just after seven. The northern wind was steady — not strong, just enough to remind him that the sea has a soul and respects those who honor it. The boat held a course southeast, toward Kea — or Tzia, as the old-timers always called it.

As he sailed, small waves tapped the bow and the sun rose higher. His body didn’t feel the same anymore — it tired more easily — but this journey wasn’t one to rush. It was a journey to remember.

Halfway across, he leaned back at the tiller and whispered:

“Here we are, Dad. We’re going to Kea.”

The boat leaned gently, as it always did. He closed his eyes for a moment. He wasn’t exactly happy. He was… quiet. And that quiet had the taste of summer, of sweat, of old wood, and of a promise finally kept — even if late.

By midday, he entered the bay of Otzias. He dropped anchor and dove into the sea without hesitation. His body tingled. He floated on his back, arms open wide.

Below his feet, the deep.
Above his head, the sky.
Within him, his father.

Small crossings.
Big journeys.