Ask Stamatis Lekkas when the wind will turn and he will look at the sky for a moment, the way you might glance at a clock, and tell you — not roughly, but to the half hour. He is almost never wrong.
"Ink lies about the weather," he says, which is why the harbour log is kept, to this day, in pencil.
That detail tells you most of what you need to know about him. He keeps records the way a sailor keeps them — provisionally, respectfully, with one eye always on the sky that can rewrite them.
What he presides over is small and complete: forty-odd berths, a cafe that opens when he opens it, a cast of regulars who treat the quay as a living room. People sail out of their way to tie up at his mole. Now you know why.
