White Vespa by Kevin Oderman Read Free Book Online Page A

conform to the shape of the land. Maybe it’s economic, money here literally came from the sea. Sponges built these houses, of all things.”
    â€œMaybe,” Jim agreed.
    â€œBut it doesn’t matter how or why. It’s just so. The center feels like it’s in the harbor, that we walk around it.”
    Jim nodded.
    â€œBut the curious thing , ” Myles said, “is that we feel the center distinctly. It’s got a sensible pull. I don’t know. I just feel oriented here in a way I don’t most places.”
    Myles put his camera away and grinned, shaking his head. He hadn’t taken a single picture. His wide-angle lens wasn’t wide enough. To get much of the town he’d have to wait until they were no longer centered. The staginess of the town seen from the water wasn’t something he could photograph. He thought he’d need a Cirkut camera just to begin.
    Â 
    When they got to the straits between Sými and the bare island of Nímos
the captain looked back, hunching his shoulders in a question, pointing first through the narrow straits and then out to sea, along the shore of Nímos. Myles pointed through the slot. The water was peacock blue in the channel, bright green over the submerged shoals on either side, and clear in the shallows. They skirted the rocks, holding close to the shore of Nímos, following it on around and away from Sými. When a small cove came into view Myles pointed at it and the captain ran in close. In the shallows, Yórgos leapt into the water and held the boat while Myles and Jim clambered out with the supplies, their packs, the food, and a small grill. As soon as they had their footing, the boat backed away and headed for Yialós. Yórgos waded ashore last, carrying a small bucket with his hand line and some bait.
    While Yórgos fished what he thought the likely places, Jim and Myles picked their way over the rocky outcrops, stopping occasionally to crush the island vegetation in their hands. Spices. It was surprising, very surprising, just how many of the island plants were aromatic. There were spice markets, for tourists, in town, but Myles had assumed the spices were shipped in, like the sponges now, from somewhere else, but perhaps not.
    When they got back to the one small tree where they’d left their packs in the shade, they found Yórgos already had started the charcoal for the grill. There where nine little fish in Yórgos’s bucket, three each. Smiling, he said, “Mr. Myles, these are tasty ones.”
    Jim pulled a snorkel and mask out of his day pack and offered it to Myles. He had his Swiss Army knife out and was poking around in Yórgos’s bucket.
    â€œI want to be sure these things get cleaned,” Jim said.
    Myles laughed. “Okay then, I’ll swim. When’s lunch?”
    â€œDon’t push your luck.”
    Myles looked at the charcoal, thinking lunch would be awhile. “I’ll be over there,” he gestured. “Just give a shout.”
    Myles found a rock he could dive from; he wanted to get in quick: the water would be cold. He plunged through the surface and it was cold so he swam a few strokes underwater, to be moving while his body got used to it. When he surfaced he spit in the mask, rinsed it, and adjusted the snorkel. Then he put his head down and floated out over the submerged rocks. He was still cold, but his attention was elsewhere. His dive had carried him away from the shallows, and he paddled to where the bottom fell away quickly; he
felt suspended between nothing and nothing. The warmer he got the less he moved, until he was just adrift, weightless, hanging over the peacock blue of the deep water.
    He felt bemused, as he often did when he swam with a snorkel. Then he realized he was thinking about the new waitress at Two Stories, about Anne, her saying she wanted her picture taken so she could see what she looked like. He doubted he could help her with