The town of Thera, a remnant of an ancient volcano, in evening light. Photograph © Gail Mooney/CORBIS

Greek Islands
By Nicholas Papandreou

"The Greek Islands are the imagination incarnate."—Rebecca Byrkit

It happened toward the end of the summer, when the sun-sharp days and the shrill calls of the excited cicadas yielded to deep auburn afternoons and quiet, cool evenings. Until then, each hour on the austere, volcanic island of Limnos had run seamlessly into the next. If I wasn't collecting the small, silvery shells known as Aphrodite's ears, I was gathering prickly sea urchins and seasoning their eggs with lemon and olive oil. If I wasn't hunting for octopus at night with the help of a fisherman, I was following the advice of the old woman selling honey who had told me to try to "listen to the smell of the salty sea."

On my final day on Limnos, while engaged in the serious business of leaning back on my elbows and sifting the bright sand through my fingers, the town dentist, who was struggling valiantly to sail his windsurfer in the middle of the bay, suddenly flew up into the air, then splashed back down into the sparkling sea.

A second splash followed, much too large to be caused by him. It was as if a cannonball had been shot from the 12th-century Genovese castle perched on the rocky cliff above us.

The water started to boil and churn. Had an ancient geyser erupted in the deep? Was wind hovering unnaturally above a single patch of water? In answer, the black silhouette of an enormous, v-shaped tail rose up in the bay, then sank back into the water.

I got to my feet.

I'd seen dolphins jumping at night in Corfu, their backs glowing as if painted with phosphorus; I'd seen a large manta ray slither in the shallows of pine-filled Skopelos; and in the port of Hydra I'd seen a 500-pound shark hanging in the market from a hook through both eyes. But a whale in the Aegean—this I'd never seen.

A fisherman yelled for help. I immediately jumped into his small, blue-white caïque and we rather foolishly putt-putted toward the agitated waters. The colors below turned deep and dark. I had this absurd image of the mammal coming up from under us and like a wild bronco casting us out of our saddle and swallowing us up like oversize plankton.

From behind us came a great splash. We turned. It couldn't have been more than 300 feet away. Part of it surfaced, revealing gray, barnacled flesh. There was no end to its massive girth. It just kept arriving and arriving.

A shout. The dentist was beside us, clutching his surfboard, knuckles white, teeth chattering. We tossed him a rope and immediately headed back, dragging him behind us, arching well away from where we thought the whale to be.

By the time we arrived, everybody on the beach was standing and pointing.The whale was swimming around the bay, diving and rolling, occasionally emerging from the water, then falling back with a crash. Then it disappeared, and I went home.

In the olive grove next to my room, the fireflies winked. I showered, sat on the porch, and peeled a ripe fig. From the Byzantine church nearby came the smell of frankincense. The dentist was planning to light a candle before stopping by.

I reached for another fig. The moon now cast a shimmering path of light over the still Aegean Sea.

The information in this story was accurate at the time it was published, but we suggest you confirm all details before making travel plans.