The Signal off Sounion – A Captain’s Storry

Last Updated on May 6, 2025 by Vasilis Skevis

I’ve captained Thalassa Blue, a 42-foot tour yacht, for over a decade now, ferrying guests from the Athens Riviera to the Saronic islands—Aegina, Hydra, Agistri. Most days blur together: dolphins racing our bow, ouzo clinking at sunset, guests snapping selfies beneath Temple of Poseidon’s silhouette.

But there’s one trip I’ll never forget.

It was a windless August morning. The sea lay flat like glass, and the sky was smeared with a dull haze—not the usual Attic blue. Ten guests boarded that day: a young couple from Sweden, a family from Thessaloniki, two middle-aged British sisters, and a solo passenger—an older man in a linen shirt and Panama hat. Quiet, observant, always checking his watch.

We were halfway to Agistri when the boat’s radio cracked alive with static, then a faint distress tone—barely audible.

Three long beeps, one short.

I checked the coordinates. Odd—no registered vessel nearby. Just open water near Cape Sounion.

“We’re off course,” I told Andreas, my first mate, steering us slightly east toward the signal.

As we approached the source, we spotted a tiny rocky islet—one I hadn’t seen on any of my usual navigation charts. It looked like nothing more than a hunk of limestone stabbed out of the sea. No buildings, no trees. Just an old, rusted buoy bobbing lazily beside it. And tied to the rocks… was a dinghy.

The older man perked up instantly. “May I go ashore?” he asked.

It wasn’t typical. But curiosity—and a sense of something… off—got the better of me. I dropped anchor.

He leapt onto the dinghy and rowed himself to the islet. We watched him climb onto the rocks and vanish into a small crevice.

Twenty minutes passed.

Then thirty.

No sign of him.

I considered calling the coast guard, but then the radio crackled again—this time, clearer.

“Captain, thank you. This was the last piece. I’m done now.”

That voice—it was his.

We all froze. Andreas stared at me.

“How the hell…?”

Before I could respond, we saw movement. The man emerged, dusty and calm, clutching a small leather-bound journal.

He climbed aboard like nothing had happened.

“What’s that?” one of the sisters asked.

He smiled. “Something I lost in 1973.”

We returned to Athens in silence, the sun dropping low, painting the water with gold.

I never saw him again.

But a few weeks later, a package arrived at the marina. Inside was a bottle of 40-year-old rum and a note:

“Some things the sea takes… and some things it holds for the right moment. Thank you for helping me find mine.”

Since then, every time I pass that islet—which, strangely, no longer appears on my GPS—I salute it with a small nod.

And I wonder what else the sea is keeping.