Looking Northwest from our vantage point we could see many yachts lying in a sea of green/blue with Northern mainland Greece behind. In the very far distance you can just make out the mountains of Albania.

Looking down a couple travelling the world in their yacht have swam to shore to read and swim. In the next small beach there is a small makeshift Tavern, it’s seats and rickety tables are distributed amongst the olive trees. Well sheltered from the sun, this Taverna can be seen from the anchored yachts and is very popular judging by the amount of tenders along the shore.

Walking further along; the dirt track becomes overgrown and care should be taken by covering up, but if you make the effort to explore you’ll be rewarded with an idyllic view of Lakka’s village with the yachts anchored in the foreground. Lakka has become very popular over the years and a haven for many Italians during their August annual holidays. It’s at this time things become a little too crowded. If you want to avoid a crowd then visit Lakka outside of August. The commerce in Lakka is tasteful and restrained, however it does suffer from too many day hire boats but then’ its the same for all of Paxos as these day boat with bimini and outboard are used to explore the myriad of undiscovered beaches and very popular for snorkelling. Lakka is an idyllic location that must not be missed, its colours and rustic, restraint style of tourism is its main attraction.

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One man in a boat: facing wind, wave and sleeping upright (http://www.ekathimerini.com)

Piero Pieroni, seen in the cabin of the Quo Vadis one day after returning from his circumnavigation. Some of his instruments are seen in the back, and his reference library on shelves behind him.

“I hope I did something not so bad;” this is hardly the expansive summation you might expect from someone who has just circled the globe (and then some) alone and under sail, including the howling gales and treacherous tides of the Magellan Strait. Then again, Piero Pieroni is hardly your typical world-beater.

He made his penultimate landfall last Thursday in Lavrion, on Attica’s southeast coast, met by a small but noisy local flotilla. His boat, the single-hulled and masted Quo Vadis, now sports brown stains, peeling paint and a tattered Cypriot flag fluttering astern — worlds away from the spiffy white trimarans that grace nautical magazine covers. But it was clearly built for anything and is now proven for everything. And it is spacious: 16 meters (53 feet) in length, 4.87 meters wide, and a generous 2.80 meters deep, which created problems in some shallow harbors.

In deference to the intense attachment formed between a solo voyager and his vessel, he continually began sentences with “we.” Inside too, the boat reflected the man: no-nonsense, exhaustively equipped, and properly aged, including the biggest stash of rope you have ever seen. “Even with all that,” he insisted, “you can run out of them.” I felt a curious kinship with him, not least because of a shared distaste for what he eloquently termed “blah, blah, blah.”

Pieroni retains remarkable agility for a man pushing 70. Laconic to the point of shyness, he has the small, observant eyes of an Ernest Hemingway and an unpretentious Italianate elegance, along with a classic seafarer’s white beard and deeply tanned face. It took over two hours before I found out that he had rounded the globe with a balloon in his chest, installed after a serious heart operation.

His voyage defies easy romanticizing. He knew precisely what he wanted to do, saying without a trace of arrogance: “I never thought I would be lost. I was very confident.” He is a sea warrior, but a quiet rather than swashbuckling one, direct but not gruff, one for whom actions speak louder than words and results count most of all. He went looking for adventure, not trouble; he was canny enough to wait out the foul weather and return in one piece, guided by an unfailing inner compass.

What his story may lack in the gruesome or titillating (there was no living on seaweed, getting washed aboard or fending off sharks with a paddle), it more than compensates for in various mishaps, lonely times, interesting characters and island paradises experienced.

‘I always liked adventure’

Traveling with purpose but without deadline, Pieroni opted for the western, more difficult route: First heading across the Atlantic, he also chose to forgo the Panama Canal in favor of rounding the dangerous tip of South America, then tracking northward again, crossing the Pacific to the South Seas and Antipodes, across the Indian Ocean to Africa, around South Africa and angling across the southern Atlantic to Brazil — his official crossover point — before a second transatlantic crossing brought him homeward. All this meant he actually did far more than circumscribe the globe; his trip from Greece across the Atlantic, and back again, amounted to extra mileage.

Unlike Slocum, his 19th century guide, Piero did not have to rely on sextant and gut instinct alone. He managed with the help of GPS (global positioning system), accessible via his laptop, and frequent weather faxes. But lacking enough charts and maps at the start, he obtained some from fellow sailors, along with a needed computer connection bought in mid-Pacific. He also secured a 3-CD sea map covering most of the world, which he updated anew in South Africa. “So, by the time I arrived back here, I had everything!”

Wild and woolly

Pieroni anticipated the rough South Pacific seas, in some cases (as in New Zealand) waiting out the worst for an entire cyclone season. The Quo Vadis “withstood them very well. She did fantastic.” Was he ever in danger of capsizing? “No, no, never.” Extreme conditions arose elsewhere too. Off South Africa, for example, the wind often runs against the current, which “plays a real bad, terrible, dangerous sea, with freak waves, a danger to big ships too. So you just don’t move.” This frequently requires infinite patience leavened by awareness: “You wait, wait, wait, wait, and then you find 15 boats all leaving at the same time.” “Maybe you’ve heard,” he related, “that [the tip of South Africa] was once called the “Cape of the Storms.” Then they changed it to Cape of Good Hope, hoping!”

A similar cat-and-mouse game with the elements was required while threading through the Magellan Strait, half a world away: “The wind here (Punta Arenas, which lacks a decent harbor) is normally southwest or northwest. If it’s south, you cannot stay. There is a lot of movement, a lot of going up and down, as the wind changed.”

Following this venture into the bone-chilling “screaming fifties” (south latitude) he was hit by the biggest storm of his trip west of South America: “I was heaving to. Very big waves, say 8–10 meters, wind 50–55 knots, lots of wind, for roughly 36 hours.” Later, though, came the sailor’s dream, the trade winds, blowing reliably at 25–40 knots, 17–19 degrees south of the equator, “and I went really fast.”

Difficult sailing actually came right in the Mediterranean. On his outward journey, heavy traffic and fear of collision kept him in the cockpit for two days running, while on the return leg he made it through Gibraltar with great difficulty. “When we arrived, we had the wind against us, from the east. It was just impossible. I tried two times to go through, and finally I decided to follow the instructions! No chance, so finally I gave up,” anchoring at Cadiz. Once through, “we had three days of gale, the wind against us all the time, always from the northeast. During the night, we sailed to Africa, going up and down, up and down.” Nature finally relented for his last kilometers.

His longest single sail, without seeing another human, was 44 days, from Cape Verde to Mar del Plata in Argentina; many other legs took 30–35 days.

Life aboard

How did he pass the time on board? “There is quite a lot of work. Especially in the tropics, you have the trade winds, sometimes you fish but forget about pulling in the line, and a big fish got the other fish, then maybe a shark came, and you don’t have anything!” Plotting his progress was not taxing, and studying “the Admiralty,” a nautical reference work, saved him grief; his eastward Atlantic crossing took 33 days, while another yacht, leaving the same day but on a different route, took 43.

What about the psychological challenge of facing long stretches alone? Piero, a stoic by the book, was already inured to solitude while working in the desert.“Yeah, it’s nice to have somebody, but sometimes you don’t. But, of course, you feel alone, sometimes you wish you had a companion.”

The matter of sleep without a co-pilot is always a dicey proposition. Piero managed on little: “During the day sometimes I would sleep sitting here, 15 minutes, 30 minutes. During the night, I put an alarm clock; I slept one hour; I woke up, have a look around, check the sails, this and that, and then I set the alarm again, sleep another hour. But then after the third time you don’t sleep any more, you stay awake, read something, make a tea. It’s what you have to do.” However, he never felt pushed to the wall. “You keep going and you don’t feel tired, but when you arrive somewhere you have a good meal, and then you have a good sleep, 12, 15 hours.”

During the 36-hour storm west of South America, he “was exhausted and slept over there [on the cabin couch, not in Chile] sitting down. No anchor there!”

An admitted non-gourmet, Piero subsisted when at sea on spaghetti, lentils, canned goods, and other basics, and occasionally fresh fish. He carried a 700-liter tank of fresh water, which never once ran out. He missed fresh fruit most of all when at sea. New landfalls, of course, brought local treats; thick Argentinean steaks are still recalled with gusto.

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Knowing Greece was a country with a legal system as watertight as a colander, I covered myself for any eventuality that would happen (knowing it WOULD…Never a COULD or MAY option here), or so I thought!

Due to the struggling Greek Economy, money was a BIG issue! Overjoyed when money was bought in and spent by the beloved tourist, but they detested tourists, or anyone with no Greek connection, overstaying their welcome, knowing only too well, that eventually we would be, in any way, shape or form, earning money!

Vatos, a compact but perfectly formed village, sandwiched between Pelekas, Ermones and the Ropa Valley, on the West of the island, was an area not well known by British holidaymakers in the 80’s, but the Germans came in their droves, often staying for months. Nikos and I decided to convert our horse stables into holiday apartments, giving the backpacker a more pleasant place to stay, with cooking facilities and bathrooms other than roughing it on the concrete floor in the store room attached to Spiro 97’s taverna!

The previous morning, Christolei, the old man, whose misfortune, was having his stone wall demolished regularly by the bus, due to the sharp bend in the road and very tight turn, had completed his morning mission…visiting as many neighbours as he could manage…to get away from his nagging wife Koula, and as usual, our house was his final spot. 3 greek coffees and umpteen ouzo chasers later, we knew all the latest gossip.

Nikos must have told the old man of our visit to the Port Police, and he must have told everyone else! As the bus pulled up, I could see it was packed to the gills with villagers. As we boarded some wished me luck and said a few prayers…Others crossing themselves, muttering Thea Mou (My god) and a majority slating the criminal ways of their own Constabulary!

Surely obtaining a permit was….Filling out a few forms, maybe paying a small fee…Having a mug shot taken…Given a list of ‘Do and Do Nots’….No Problem! (Infamous saying at the time in Corfu…Yes, got the badge and the t-shirt) ….Help!

I’m escorted to the Captains office, a dilapidated room in dire need of decoration, with Birth Certificate, Passport, and what I believed to be the ‘Golden Ticket’…my Bank of Crete account book, detailing the handsome deposit of 150,000drx, clutched in hand.
On the desk was a file, stuffed to the brim with official looking papers and badly photocopied photographs. MY FILE! What!

I was told to be silent until I was spoken to, so for 20 minutes I sat, mouth tightly shut, thinking how annoying the Captains habit of clearing his throat was, which he did with every document page he turned. I then shifted thoughts to the décor, wondering if it had ever been touched since it’s heyday as an SS interrogation room in WWII…Why change the look I thought, when it’s still being used for the same purpose!

At last! The ‘Golden Ticket’! The Captain catches my attention and smiles, and with perfect English tells me that I’ve been a very good girl. “So…you have money…eh?” “You bring from England…eh?” “You must bring more…not enough here for permit” “Must be 300,000drx in your account for me to give you permit” “Also.. you must pay for permit..50,000drx”
Forgetting that the Captains English was way better than my Greek I retorted with “You’re talking shit, taking the piss.” “You’re getting nothing from me, go to hell” Captain, outraged at this point ups the fee to 100,000drx and demands instant payment. I place the final nail in the coffin with a sarcastic reply that went down like a lead balloon! “ This room could do with decorating Captain”…”I will do it for you, and will only charge you 100.000drx!”

The Captains fist smashed down, so hard on the table, that my file leapt several inches and emptied it’s contents…My boyfriend crumpled into a sweaty heap, mumbling…Afto then einai kalo (This is not good) on a continual loop…and…my urgent need for the toilet was now extremely urgent!

The Captain had succeeded in reducing me to tears and my boyfriend to groveling …pleading for a compromise.

He still insisted that a further 150,000drx had to be, either in my Bank account, or produce evidence that the required amount in foreign currency had been exchanged. As for the 100,000drx fee…he was prepared to waiver this if, at the end of the week, I could provide the evidence needed and also bring to him items jotted down on a list…….

My thanks goes to .….….…..

Arsenio Kostopoulos: Manager of the Bank of Crete, St Rocco Square, Kerkyra, for compiling a fictitious list of currency exchange transactions, to the sum of 183.000drx..
Irenie Lazari:  For her homemade Baklavas and baked Halvas.
The news stand in St Rocco Square:  Where we purchased a box of 200 Aroma cigarettes & a bottle of 5star Metaxa
And finally…   My boyfriend Nikos Lazaris for stumping up the 5000drx to complete the deal.

As I walked toward the Old Port bus station, with my officially stamped Aliens Permit, I wondered what the demands would be for my next one in 90 days.

This was the beginning of my affair with the Corfu Police…I visited them when I had to…but mostly..without an invite…they visited me!

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Nikos the painter having lived in Australia for some years had a much broader outlook on life. His humour was wicked and stylish like a true Corfiot but with a subtlety that was full of guile (We got on well) and as a boss he was fair and reliable.

When rained off on jobs we’d shelter in the local greasy spoon “The Dirty Duck” mainly because of its pool table at the back. Regardless of the occasional downpours I’d still receive a full days pay.

Nikos was well known in Corfu town he’d frequently leave me to complete work while he disappeared only to return with frapes (Cold Instant Coffee) hours later in a happy or sad mood.

Quite often walking between jobs I’d be grabbed by the shoulder and told. “Not down that street I owe money” and we’d go by a circular route between jobs. Avoiding  suppliers was a game we frequently played.

Returning one day in a dark mood I’m asked “ How muck black paint do we have?” I wait for the explanation.

“I painted this jewellery shop ‘White’ 4 months ago and he won’t pay up!”
It wasn’t difficult to read Nikos mind and questioned the legality.

“No Davey he wants it black” I’m told with a wink. “He’s changed his mind. I’m sure its all a misunderstanding.”

Hanging from his hand were the keys of the Jewellery shop! “He never asked for them back.”

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I’d a steady job, time on my hands and some spending money. I’d my first steady girlfriend. A wild cat that could throw plates like frizzbys. Having lived on the Island for 6 years she could curse me in English, Welsh & Greek. Yet it was my calming effect that she craved.

Sitting in Arches bar propped up by my elbow testing my ability to handle drink. I’m mesmerised by the MTv videos being played ‘Fine Young Cannibals’ with the guitarists wobbly legs and ‘INXS and their disposable placard video in a derelict factory (I’m showing my age now) have repeated for the third time tonight.

Subtitle hints from Theo (the bar owner) about how to make women happy were getting me down.

I see Sarah pacing the bar with a bee in her bonnet. I’d done nothing wrong. I’d been polite gentlemanly and courteous. I was defiantly not taking her for granted. (A lesson previously learnt) and I was not behaving like her previous Greek boyfriend that she complained so much about. Something’s up and I haven’t a clue.

Sarah appears from the semi-haze and is sitting nose-to-nose with me now, grinning like a psycho Cheshire cat a look that always disturbed me.

Spinning on my stool I save the contents of my drink before I realise I’ve been slapped across the face. She’s leaving now nose stuck up in the air. I can only see the back of here head as she disappears through the door. A chorus of jeers follow me as I recover and gave chase.

I’m bewildered, confused and don’t understand her explanation of ‘I felt like it’ and strangely don’t care. I can see she’s coming to a decision and there’s nothing I can do about it. We head back home as if nothing had happened.

“She’s to wild for you Davey! You’ll never control her!” was Theo’s advice back at the bar. “You need a nice Greek girl that understands us men.”

Relationships are all about giving space or so I thought. The dance between stepping in and being Manly and stepping back, takes experience and I feel frequently unsure.

It’s this Island really it’s like a golden cage very beautiful and colourful, scenes that take your breath away yet the prospects of career advancement are very limited. Sarah was coming to the end of her relationship with the Island. If only I new that at the time.

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My one and only head to head confrontation was in a boat yard in Mandouki. I’d worked in ‘Spiros Boat Yard’ for 3 months and got use to the buffoonery that frequently went on. Although I was employed by Spiros may manager was Vangelis. A good hearted man but frequently impulsive with an explosive temper. I’d learnt to appease his good nature and avoid his dark side… or so I thought.

Vangelis had just returned from London seeing his children and estranged wife. It had not gone well! He even missed his return flight back to Corfu because a London Cabby left him in a housing estate in Hounslow (a London suburb) at 5am in the morning. We in the yard guessed why but said nothing. Anyway the English were not his favourite people by the time he got back.

“Davey! You have not been working hard enough! Since I’ve been away”
I was perplexed,  my work rate was one of the best while others had fallen by the wayside, Greeks included. Looking around I see Costas under another keel lifting his eyes up to heaven giving me a grin of support. I say nothing and continue working.

Vangelis continues to pace around the yard muttering to himself, repeating his argument with the London Cabby days before and curses me for being so slow.

“I take 2000 DRX from your wages tomorrow because you have worked so slowly!” This was a step too far… so I argue the merits of employees trusting their employers in the future. Things escalated…

“I pay you nothing!” says Vangelis. Which he repeats and no attempt at reason would persuade him otherwise. Now I’ve lost a full weeks wages for arguing about money I’d already earned. I’m astonished and angry and felt hard done by. It was too great to ignore and the argument intensifies.

A ‘Red Mist’ of anger descends upon me and Vangelis seeks refuge by climbing up onto a speedboat and pulling up the ladder.

My chance of getting my hands around his neck and dragging him into the sea vanished as he stood grinning like ‘Lord and Master’ on top of the speedboat.

I walk over to his recently washed car and open the side door facing Vangelis over its roof.

“You will pay me my money or I’ll piss in your car!” That got attention; Spiros and Costas start to approach from behind looking very concerned. Looking back I waved them to stop with the wag of one finger. Which they do! The audience grows…

Vangelis dares me with threats of retribution, no pay and the usual obscenity. However he can only see the top half of me from his position on the boat.

“Keep your money! This is worth it!” I say and do a convincing job in his car.
Well the reaction was dramatic. Volcanic Vangelis is off that boat like a monkey heading straight for me. Slowly I back up folding my arms.

My act of fake sabotage had done the trick. The audience including Costas and Spiros with their perverse sense of humour rolled around amongst the keels of the yachts as Vangelis ‘fuming’ storms off into the distance.

I had to go. My manager wouldn’t work with me so with regret, Spiros paid me out of his own pocket promising a good reference for the future.

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The cricket pitch is still as it was in front of the Liston and hemmed in by a car park on the far side, irregular dents from wayward cricket balls are not uncommon.

In the distance and next to the Museum is the Police station. Pains of guilt spring to mind when thinking about the Police station and events that took place one Sunday morning, it still leaves me with apprehension in case I’m spotted. Yet hand on heart I can honestly say I was guilty of nothing.

I’d been handing out leaflets at the ‘Old ferry Port’ terminal encouraging backpackers to stay at the Hotel Europa, so pleased was my boss ‘Agis’. I was earning close to 10,000.00 drx ($35) for 2 hours work in the morning.

My fellow colleagues working for other establishments were not so happy. Especially Spiro who touted for the ‘Pink Palace’ a popular hostel on the west of the Island.

One Sunday morning Spiro called the Police informing then I was an American working without a work permit (Not true I’m British EEC) and that I was bothering the tourists at the Port. I never really found out the extent of his lies but it resulted in two Mercedes Benz and a black van arriving in the port with officers fanning out searching for me. By now Agis new what was up and found me first, grabbed his leaflets and chucked the remainder into a bin. “You are now a tourist waiting for a friend” I’m told just before the police found me. I’m bundled off to the police station ‘Starkey & Hutch’ style in front of 400 new visitors to the Island.

The Liston Police station is, or was (I’m not sure coz I ain’t been back) was quite dilapidated. I was brought before a plain clothed officer standing behind his desk. I’m 22yrs wide-eyed don’t now much but had seen “Midnight Express” the movie.

This officer looked troubled, I could see it in his eyes, but the trouble was not me I was sure of that. Cigarette stains from smoking his roll-ups had reached down to his forearm from the ‘V’ in his fingers. He didn’t look well.

On the table a triangular brass plaque says “Aliens Police Officer” I’m looking around and feeling quite uncomfortable and unfortunately laugh nervously when I spot it. This does NOT go down well. “Mess with me and I’ll lock you up” he points to the cells.

In the far corner I see metal bars, heavy locks, a bed and a bucket. I had visions of ‘John Wayne’ strolling in through the door. He still didn’t like the look on my face. By now I was in a state of anxiety and could not keep my face strait.

He changes tack. “You are an American!”
“No I’m British”

“Where’s your passport?”
“With my landlord” not true but I was not going to hand over my passport just yet!

“Who is your landlord?” I give my landlords name address and references to others that new I was British and things calmed down a bit. The games were still not over, however.

.….….“You done national service?”
“No! National Service in Britain ended in the 1950’s”

“We Still do National service! You stand to attention at an officers desk like this” and the sergeant next to me encouraged me to stand to attention. I’m then ordered to do other square bashing manoeuvres, which I do as slovenly as I could. (I was beginning to feel brave again and a bit stupid)

“You’ve been bothering the tourists Davey! (They know my name now)
“No! I’ve been working as an EEC citizen for Agis at the Europa Hotel”

“Only your passport will prove that!” .….…..There’s silence for a while….….

.….….“Can I go now?”
They  look perplexed.….….. then grin “Yes you go! You leave the Island Now!”

“Yes I will leave the Island!”
“Now!” He insists.

“Yes! I will leave the Island Now!”

I’m free in less than 30 minutes and stay on the Island for another …6 Months… ­

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