Crete - Day Thirteen

With great risk comes great reward, but should this proverb ever become operative on one's honeymoon (unless your honeymoon takes you to Midland and you find yourself craving raw bar)? Day thirteen was unlucky, and yet fortunate, in many ways, as we set out to Sweet Water Beach via car per the glowing recommendation of our hotel owner, Nikos.

To our credit, the journey through the rolling Cretan hills and picturesque countryside to Sweet Water Beach from our hotel was approximated to us at 1 hour 15 minute and, notwithstanding an occasional wrong turn here and there, we finally arrived at the point where we parked our car to set out for the beach after a 1 hour 30 minute drive. Not bad for a couple of New Yorkers. Of course that is where the adventure begins, as the attraction of Sweet Water Beach, its seclusion, is also the cause of its peril. We parked along side the highway and, per Nikos' instruction, ventured down a "trail" to get to the beach, armed with 3 bags of assorted snacks and water, 2 beach towels, 1 designer purse (not Seth's) and no sunscreen applied as of yet. And per Nikos' recommendation, our footwear consisted of good ol' American flip flops.

We crossed the street and followed the innocuous sign pointing us toward some cliffs. The beginning of the walk wasn't easy as there wasn't really a path but some rocks and dirt to follow, but seemingly doable with some effort. This "walk" was supposed to take about 25 minutes (according to a gentleman whom we had asked directions during our drive; Nikos failed to give us an approximation) and if the path would have remained as it was in the beginning it would have been just hard. But halfway through, just when we thought it couldn't get tougher, Murphy's Law reared its ugly head. We were very high up in the cliffs, with nothing to hold on to and only jagged rocks below us. The rocks we were scaling (yes scaling) were big, sharp and slippery. It seemed we climbed for hours in the hot sun with no shade. We came across no other hikers until the very end. It was at this point that someone cried (not Seth), someone sat on a rock in a cave and declared we could just stay here (not Jamie), both of us considered going back, and made deals with G-d and prayed. Three hikers (wearing hiking boots and carrying walking sticks) came towards us and told us we were very close to the beach. They looked at how we were dressed and what we were carrying and forced a smile at us out of pity. We silently cursed Nikos (at least Seth was silent) and finally got up the nerve to continue.

Obviously, because we are writing this, we survived and made it to the beach. This beach, we later learned, is supposed to be one of the best in the world. We also quickly discovered, it is a nudist beach. We walked across the rocks (the southern beaches in Crete do not have sand) and flopped onto two beach chairs. We each drank our weight in water. A man approached us for the fee to rent the chairs and Jamie flung herself at his feet and asked if there was any other way to get back to the car. He extracted himself from her death grip and indicated that he takes passengers back to the port by boat each day at 5:30. BOAT?? YOU CAN GET HERE BY BOAT?? We offered him our first born for a place on the boat and he settled on 4 euros a piece (note, however, that we are now contractually obligated to name our first son Kristos Lieberman). At this point, we took deep breaths, evaluated that all of our limbs were intact and finally relaxed.

Seth, at this point gracing the pages of Back Sweat Magazine, decided to abandon his shirt (and the rest of his clothes) and spent much of the time in the crystal clear Libyan Sea bucko. Jamie joined him (in the sea that is, not bucko), and we were able to see our feet, and the beautifully colorful fish that swam the sea floor. The beach was truly beautiful, virtually empty (except the occasional overweight European nudist, scant backpack hiker or stray mountain goat). Our time at Sweet Water Beach flew by, as does most time immediately following near death experiences. When 5:30 arrived, we boarded the taverna owner's speedboat and returned to the port, only to realize that we were now being dropped off several miles downhill from where we had originally parked our car. Realizing that, the taverna owner / speedboat driver took another step toward sainthood, docked his boat and personally drove us to our car. Good people do exist, not to mention karma was on our side as our car remained intact, undisturbed from the neighboring cliff's falling rocks and the meddling mountain goats passing by (the main damage only being a noticeable scratch / dent suffered when parking our trusty Hyundai Accent alongside the highway on the cliff). Looking at each other in disbelief, we entered our car having experienced one of the most harrowing, surreal and rewarding times of our life (think walking away from a ten-story elevator plunge with Henry Winkler, and then you will begin to understand).

You would think this would be the end of our day and story, wouldn't you? But it is not. Nikos has told us about a tiny village called Maza which contained a taverna and a church dating back 700 years with frescos made by "an extremely important artist" whose name translates to mean "frozen". We couldn't make this up. So we once again drive through the winding hills and cliffs towards our destination. I'd like to say we were successful in our travels and found this magical church but sadly we did not. Instead we drove on a "dirt" road for about 20 minutes that was so secluded the only signs of life we saw were a herd a sheep that obstructed the road. Our conversation went from "do you think this is right?" to "I hope our car doesn't break down" to "our Hyundai is not meant to offroad" until we came across a fence that stopped us in our tracks. So we turned around, gave up our quest to find Maza Village and actually found our way back to the hotel. Jamie was physically sequestered from Nikos for his own safety, and out of fear that he was going to suggest a dinner locale whose directions included a march through a waist-high, leech-infested swamp.

We took the best showers of our lives and went to dinner at a local grill (called Nikos - no relation to our evil hotel owner) only 2 km away. Nikos (the restaurant) was just what we needed. It was a restaurant run by a family who treats everyone who eats there like they are family members. Most of the people eating there were locals and the restaurant is clearly loved by people of all ages. Seth ate his weight in meat (pork, lamb, chicken and beef) and greens, Jamie fell in love with Saganaki (fried cheese) and we toasted with some lovely red wine that we lived to tell the tale of our trip to Sweet Water Beach. Surprisingly, the dinner ended with a Seth-raki love affair, and after the day's events and alcohol nightcap, we slept like Jenny returning to Greenbow, Alabama.