Wine and Kissing

By B.B. Mak

Early September 1987 was a glorious time. My lovely fiancée and I had traveled to the Turkish Riviera for a two-week sailing adventure with friends from San Francisco. From the water, the Gulf of Fethiye region of the southwest Turkish coast is surprisingly similar in appearance to San Francisco Bay. The main difference lying in its point of latitude which is much further south where the Aegean meets the balmy waters of the Mediterranean.

The wines of the region are typical of what we would consider Greek-style vintages. Not surprising, since this area was Greece until just after World War I. Our small crew of four quickly learned to stay away from the Retsinas and focus on the much more drinkable Kavak (whites) and Dikmen (reds) bottlings. The chilled Kavaks, even though refreshing in the heat, were simply much too tart and acidic, lacking in body for our California-conditioned palates. The Dikmen, on the other hand, proved to be very light, yet satisfying in the classic Rhône Valley style and very drinkable both in the late afternoon and evening, with dinner and late into the night. I might add that the brandies of Turkey were more akin to drinking kerosene, which brought us back for frequent purchases of the reds in the local chandleries dotting the coast.

We were bobbing at anchor one balmy evening. From our cove you could peer up into the surrounding hills to notice the local olive groves dotting the landscape. My imagination rambled to thoughts of ancient Lycian warriors sneaking up on our little pleasure craft, perceiving us to be some invading Greek force and using the olive trees for cover. For refreshment from the heat, we’d jump from the gunwales into the tepid sea only to discover the marbling of frigid, fresh water emanating from natural springs on the bottom and mixing with the salty brine. This gave us such a pleasant surprise that it made us giggle out loud as the ice cold swirls licked the insides of our thighs. This would only lead us back on deck for another quaff and a repetition of the delightful cycle.

My love and I would find ourselves in each other’s arms both on deck and while swimming. Our embrace suffused with successive rounds of ever-more delightful and erotic kissing – like carousing, amorous dolphins in the titillating swirl. It was the kind of moment that upon reflection, later in life, one holds onto for an eternity. The kind of erotic, suspended state that captures the imagination and leads one to thoughts of the Garden of Eden and that singular moment of creation. There was ‘time’, yet at the same time, ‘time’ was non-existent.

As the glowing silver disk arose from the eastern horizon, we found ourselves once again seated in the ship’s cockpit intermittently savoring the red ambrosia and continuing our slow waltz with each other’s probing lips. Suddenly, in the distance we heard giddy laughter. Peering out across the calm water we could see the slow motion of oars and an emerging silhouette of an inflated Avon raft filled with passengers. “Ahoy!” we hailed to the revelers. They responded with a raucous, “Bon soir!” My French was not perfect, but I managed to carry on a perfunctory dialog with our carousing neighbors who were anchored for the night about 100 yards off our stern. Their wine-infused curiosity had spurred them to come pay us a visit. As the raft pulled up alongside, it became quite clear in the dim light of the full moon that not one of them was wearing a stitch of clothing! They were all buck naked – and not unflattering in the least I might add, especially the women. They rebuffed our invitation to join us onboard for a glass, and while waving their own open bottles in the air let us know that since we weren’t in possession of any contraband, they would continue their quest to the other remaining boats at anchor in the cove. We all laughed uproariously at their proposition. Especially, since the movie Midnight Express had only recently debuted on screens across America. As the reveling ship of fools pulled away into the darkness, we could only hear their intoxicated and jubilant chorus amongst our own chuckles and the lapping of waves against the sailboat’s hull…

“Au claire de la lune, mon ami Pierrot…
Prete-moi ta plume, pour ecrire un mot!
Ma chandelle est morte, Je n’ai pleut du feu…
Ouvre-moi ta porte, pour l’amour de Dieu.”