Red Beach was—shocking, I know—very, very red. But it was even more dramatic than I’d imagined. Orangey-red cliffs stood tall and commanding before dropping abruptly to a narrow strip of beach that crumbled almost immediately into pristine turquoise surf, the color contrast so stark and startling that it made my eyes water. Yellow striped umbrellas dotted the beach, and gleaming white boats lazily made their way through the cove.
Posted at the edge of a steep, winding path that led to the beach was a large weathered sign that had been translated into several languages.
DANGER—NO ENTRY
FALLING ROCKS, SERIOUS RISK OF INJURY
But either people hadn’t read the sign or they didn’t care, because the beach was packed full of people. There was even a small shop set up at the far end with an ice cream freezer out front.
I pointed to the sign. “Are we going?”
Theo’s hair was damp with sweat, and he had a streak of dirt across his cheek. “Kalamata, Santorini is an active volcano. Are we really going to let a few measly falling rocks stop us?”
I flexed menacingly at the cliffs, nearly dropping my bags in the process. “Bring it, falling rocks.”
Theo nodded approvingly. “By the way, did you know olive trees can be classified as sensitive, moderate, or hardy?”
I wanted to ask which category he thought I fell into, but that would be admitting defeat to the whole Olive thing, so I rolled my eyes at him and carried on.
It took several more minutes of hiking to reach the actual beach, and when we got there, I had to stop to take it all in. Red Beach was all rock and no sand—a true volcanic beach—with the size of the rocks progressing from large to medium to small as we moved in toward the water, but what really interested me was the overall vibe. Two different sets of music blared from speakers set up by sunbathers, and towels were lined up almost end to end, accommodating all the people intent on enjoying a day at the beach. Out in the water, a group of kids attempted to knock each other off floaties shaped like slices of pizza.
These people were on vacation, enjoying a unique, albeit dangerous, day at the ocean. I wanted to feel that way, but I didn’t. I felt panicky, and not because of the falling rock signs. Because my dad wasn’t here, I couldn’t help but feel let down.
I was working up my courage to take off my sandals, brave the rocks, and wade into the water, when Theo grabbed my sleeve. “Look at that.” I turned to see him pointing toward the cliffs and what looked like a door that had been—inexplicably—built directly into them. The door was a soft pink color with a boarded-up window and a heavy padlock.
“Um, why is there a door built into the cliffs?”
“It’s the Door to Nowhere. I forgot about it, but it will be perfect for the film. Come on.”
“The door to where?” But he’d already taken off across the beach, weaving through all the scantily clad people on their towels, and I had no choice but to follow after him.
When I caught up, Theo was crouched down, getting an angled view of the door. “There are two stories to the door—the tourist version and the local version,” he began. “Locals tell tourists that it’s like a Narnia door, a magical portal to other worlds, but it’s really a storage space. Fishermen used to use it to store their nets, and now the beach owners use it to store umbrellas when the tourists clear out for the season. This is a perfect example of local lore. It will be great on the documentary.”
“Two stories,” I repeated, placing my palm flat on the peeling paint. Did anyone really believe the Narnia one? And if so, why, when there was almost always a boring explanation eager to explain the magic away?
I felt the thought coming before it spelled itself out. Dad is a Narnia person. He’d always seen the magic in the mundane. Had my mom and I been the mundane? Is that why he’d left and why he was avoiding me now?
I wanted to be angry, let the tidal wave carry off the more complex emotions, but the sadness was too overwhelming. Being here with my dad only to experience him not being here for me again… It was so heavy. He’d left for Narnia, while my mom and I were stuck in a tangle of off-season umbrellas and fishermen nets. Bringing me here had only highlighted that fact.
I turned to see Theo filming me again, and even if I’d wanted to, I couldn’t have disguised my expression. I was too low. “You get it?”
“Got it.” He lowered his camera solemnly. “Let’s go, Droopy Puddle.”
The only way to get to White Beach was from Red Beach, and we waited at the dock for a water taxi, then spent an hour filming its off-white cliffs and crystal clear water.
Theo insisted on a swim break, and I sat with my feet in the cold, trying my best to assuage the heaviness in my chest, but no dice. You can be in one of the most beautiful places in the world and still feel like a smoldering heap of garbage. I’m assuming the opposite is true too.
By the time we headed for the lighthouse, I was dragging more than walking, and Theo kept wrapping his arm around my shoulders to give me upbeat facts about our favorite fruit. Did you know that ninety percent of all harvested olives are used to create olive oil? Did you know that the world’s first eye shadow was created in Ancient Greece and was made of olive oil mixed with ground charcoal?
No, Theo. I did not.
Lunch didn’t work either. We stopped at a small restaurant for warm souvlaki pita wraps, but not even all that pillowy goodness could get me going again. How was it possible that I, of all people, was dreading going to a lighthouse? For my final art project last year, I’d done a series of drawings on Seattle lighthouses that my mom and I had spent several weekends driving to. But this lighthouse was one that I clearly should be seeing with my father. This trip had had some good times, but it had mostly confirmed what I already knew about my dad. He wasn’t here for me.
Getting to the lighthouse not only required a cab ride, but another hike on a path lined with tumbled rocks and bushes until we reached the caramel-colored peninsula jutting out into the ocean. This was the very last bit of Santorini—we were as far from Oia as we could possibly get.
For a moment we stood out in the open, the wind hitting us back and forth from different angles, Theo filming like always. The lighthouse was small and simple, made of white stone with brown brick outlining its edges. A weather vane sat atop a green cap, and a cobalt-blue Greek flag waved in the unrelenting wind. The peninsula itself was a mishmash mound of rocks, which made the sturdy lighthouse stand out even more. It looked so out of place in its determined practicality. Beyond it, the entire caldera sparkled from the sun, highlighting all five of Santorini’s islands.
“Let me film you walking all limp and dejected,” Theo instructed. “I’ll get some video and we’ll set it to dramatic music. We can talk about all the poor wretched souls who have been forced to spend a day exploring one of the most beautiful islands on earth.”
“Theo…,” I groaned, throwing my arms in the air, but I began a walk fit for the poorest and wretchedest, and Theo cheered behind me.
“Yes, like that. Perfect.”
How did he make me smile so much?
As I headed out toward the cliff, I realized that we were far from alone. Several groups of picnickers had staked out spots in the rocks, and when I saw a father and his young daughter, I was hit with a wave of envy that I quickly replaced with self-reproach. Hadn’t I trained myself not to miss my dad? Also, I was a teenager. I was supposed to be annoying him with my phone usage and scaring him to death from the passenger’s seat of my first car, not trying to reconnect with him. This entire situation felt wrong.