Tales Of Crete - Apollo Descends - 19

Tales of Crete© “Apollo Descends” 19 By Jack Schimmelman My head shot up 90 degrees from my still supine body as jet planes buzzed barely above my cave. My eyes quickly popped and my consciousness was instant. I looked up and I could clearly see the role model for Tom Cruise in Top Gun looking down at me laughing under his goofy helmet as he buzzed by rattling my eardrums. The image was seared into my still addled mind that late August morning as his jet roared away in a steep climb away from the beach. As soon as his wings departed, another jet swooped by and the earth howled once again. This time I wasn’t interested in seeing who was housed in the newly arrived metal winged monstrosity that had straightened my spine, teeth and all other organs dozing within my biology. Bebe and Jorge came running to me, hardly aware of their surroundings, screaming, “What the fuck was that!” Indeed. When I had gathered my eyeballs, which had sprung from their sockets trying to escape to a safe haven, I recalled that Crete was also the home of an American air force base. It was late August and the times they were a changing, as Mr. Zimmerman was so fond of singing acoustically. During our four days of rain, Nola had explained to us that the residents of Crete allowed people like us to live outside during the summer because the facilities were overwhelmed with tourists and there just wasn’t enough room for everyone. However, once the summer was over, everyone would have to find an indoor home. Our adventure under the stars and sun would no longer be tolerated. In fact, she told us that it was not uncommon to see Greek soldiers, or what stood for soldiers, jackbooting across the beaches, ridding them of unnatural denizens like ourselves. I replied to Joaquin and Bebe that perhaps the jets were the first signs of our inglorious exits, which were sure to come. We all put on our assorted schmattas (google it) and dazed by our recent exposure to late 20th century warfare, lurched our way to the café. When we took our ceremonial icy showers that morning, it was as much to quiet our still vibrating bodies, as it was to wash the night’s cobwebs from our dreams. Needless to say, we didn’t have much of an appetite and breakfast was short. We met with our usual summer stock ensemble plus our newly arrived Austrian artist and wife, Stefan and Sabrina. Within 24 hours, Sabrina had recovered her grace from the previous day’s shocking reminder of her precarious encounter with

mortality. Over coffee, tea and biscuits, Jorge told us about a beach that was singular in its nature in the area. It was called Prevelli Beach. Unlike the stark, arid sands we had grown to love, Prevelli was adorned with tropical flora; filled with palm trees. He said he believed that this was because of a tropical current that arrived directly from Alexandria across the Libyan Sea. He suggested we all go there, but warned that it would be a difficult trip. There were no roads leading onto the beach. He thought the best way would be to swim from one beach to the other, around the cliffs that bordered the sea. He didn’t remember just how many beaches further Prevelli was, but, of course, we were all eager to try. I was fresh from my adventure up the creek without a paddle and Bebe didn’t seem to mind Jorge’s suggestion. At least our way would be brightly lit, unlike our previous night’s excursion into the void. So, off we waddled. First, we climbed over the cliffs onto our nude beach, then with only our bravura setting our compass, we began to swim. Ok, maybe swim is overstating the event, at least for me. I floated my way East. It did take a while and it was taxing, but when we arrived at our destination, it was breathtaking. There in the middle of what I thought was only desert was a true tropical paradise. We emerged from cobalt blue liquid pastures onto the beach and found the nearest cluster of palm trees with which to shade us. Margot and Carlos had managed to bring biscuits and bread from the café in tightly wrapped plastic bags. God bless them. We even found a fresh spring nearby. God bless God. Each of us lay askew on the sands, our angles smoothed by bliss. I looked around me and in that moment my imagination could not have created a more harmonic composition. When I looked behind me towards the grove of palm trees that flowed up the mountain, I saw a perfectly sculptured man walking towards us in perfect time with the breeze. On either side of him were two beautiful women, nearly as perfect as he. When he came near, I asked him his name. He said François. I asked from which planet had he descended. He said Switzerland. I asked him how old he was. I had to. Forgive me. He said 50. I looked at the four women who accompanied him and they were perhaps half his age. He was perfectly synchronized with his companions. Have you ever had a moment in your life when you look at someone and you just know that he or she is your future; that that is where you will be at his or her age? Well, I looked at him and knew instantly that he was NOT my future. I would never be like him. I would never look like Apollo. When I would turn 50, it was more likely I’d look like the Buddha’s poor cousin. Same body type, minus the bliss. I followed Apollo and his muses as they walked into the water and slowly submerged themselves. They were moving towards Damnoni. Unlike me, they were swimming. Naturally, they swam as they walked: a synchronized water ballet. I wanted to boo. My friends seeing I was nearly out of 2

my mind with envy, stopped me and suggested I lay back, accept my slightly pudgy, curly headed boy nature and enjoy the view. I complied. Bebe rewarded me with a kiss on the cheek. Jorge laughed and once again spoke about how he had to leave Buenos Aires after refusing to close his shop in honor of the return of Eva Peron’s body; how he was holding out for the return of Che Guevera. I never tired hearing his story. As Jorge entertained us with his history, Bebe scoured the beach for tropical shells with which to make more jewelry that evening. Before we left, Stefan gathered us in a circle and said that he was going to set up his easel in an old, abandoned monastery, a few kilometers from Damnoni and would we like to join him and Sabrina. We talked about it and with toothy jet fighter pilots fresh in our still reverberating memories, we agreed to do so the next day. I needed a change in scenery. We had eaten our biscuits. The true, fiery Apollo in the sky was beginning his descent towards Europe. It was time to swim back to Damnoni. As we waded into the surf, I turned one last time to record Prevelli. I used my natural buoyancy and floated on my back towards the nude beach where I found what resembled my bathing suit and walked over the cliffs to our beloved café to have our last supper. That night we walked down to the beach, made a fire and sang whatever songs remained in our souls. I knew that I was saying goodbye to Damnoni. I wandered back to my home that had served me well through four full moons. The beach and sea were once again fully lit with a full moon in Aquarius. Jorge and Bebe joined me for a short time and we all sat cross-legged projecting our dreams across the horizon. Bach was playing somewhere in the world. I am sure of it. The day had started with the brusque intrusion of the 20th century, continued with an encounter with Apollo in an eternal tropical land and ended with a tender farewell to Diana. Goodnight Damnoni.

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