Bozcaada/race/Istanbul redux

I am bereft of my proofreaders as I enter this last post from Turkey in a room at the Istanbul Airport Holiday Inn.  Nate drove back to Ravda yesterday morning, and Chuck flew back to Boston shortly thereafter.  I could not get a ticket on the same flight with Chuck, so I have abided another day with the Turks, a "good thing".

The Sunday tour of Bozcaada was well worth it, despite overcast weather for a good part of the day.  There are two notable islands at the mouth of the Dardenelle Strait on the Aegean side, Imros and Bozcaada.   Massive and mountainous, Imros is off the north shore of the Gallipoli peninsula on the European side.  We had many good views of it from the bus.  Off the Asian coast not far from Troy, Bozcaada is smallish (40 sq km) with a single hill and Ottoman fort at one end, and windswept fields covering the rest. An early Turkish wind farm is co-located with an old lighthouse that we weren't able to see because "there was nobody there to let us in", a rare lapse by the Turkish tourism folks.  It was the closest I had been to so many active turbines, and I have to admit that the thrumming vibration was disconcerting.  These 17 turbines looked puny compared to the massive ones that dominate the landscape nearly everywhere you go in the vicinity of the Marmara Sea.

Bozcaada is a popular summer beach destination for Turks, and the population swells to many times the year round number of 2500.  Of the 15 beaches available our bubbly guide "Izzy" (not his real name) took us to Ayazma, a municipal beach in a protected cove where Homer says Achilles hid his ships while laying in wait for the Trojan Horse ruse to fulminate.  We had a beautiful swim with some Aussie fellow racers and a couple of their supporters.  The water was quite a bit colder than the Hellespont.  Aussie "Phil" called it "spanner water" for its nut-tightening effect.  Very funny folk those Aussies.

I was having tea with Izzy on the ferry back from Bozcaada when he suddenly got excited (for the thousandth time) and asked "Do you feel the change in the weather?".  I said "I guess so", and didn't think much of it.  Later that evening at the final pre-race briefing (never had a swimtrek group been better prepared than us) our fearless leader Simon said they were expecting  a 15 knot NE wind for the race, still daunting.

After a night of flying dreams for Chuck, the next morning we looked out the hotel window and could not believe our eyes.  Zero wind.  The trees were still bent over from all the battering, creating an optical illusion of wind, but they were still.  The sky was clear, and we were ecstatic.

The Hellespont was toast.  It is a technical swim, and you have to be careful to play the currents right, but in the perfect conditions we had it was pure pleasure, and never once did I feel any doubt about making it across.  Needless to say, Nate, Chuck and I completed the course with reasonable but not competitive times.  To put our achievement in perspective, an 11 year old boy from Boston who has been swimming open water with a private coach for a year completed the course.

Nate by dint of his good form and straight swimming finished first among the college buddies.  I managed to stay with him for about 40 minutes, taking advantage of his watch to change course to new sightings at the proper moments, but, as I knew from previous swims would happen, as I tired I started veering sharply left.  Nate understandably let me "go my own way" and we were separated for the second half of the swim.  No worries for me though because a wildly gesticulating Izzy showed up a couple of times in one of the safety boats (fishermen from Chanakkale) and kept me on course to the finish.  Chuck the Hammer powered across with his patented combination of breast stroke and freestyle, and as he came in to the finish he smartly breaststroked past several struggling freestylers.

We didn't have much time to celebrate in Chanakkale, and after a four hour drive to Istanbul, plus an extra hour in rush hour traffic after overshooting our exit, we checked into this artful Holiday Inn.  After a scrumptious buffet dinner and a few glasses of Glenmorangie we laughed ourselves to sleep.

Yesterday I did not feel abandoned after Nate and Chuck left as I still had the Turks, who are truly wonderful.  After watching Chuck disappear into the bowels of Attaturk, I boarded the metro and rode most of the T1 line to Galata Tower.  After a short climb up steep streets, a bit of a line, and a $9 elevator ride, I was snapping away at the Istanbul skyline from a precarious catwalk.  I did not bother with the tower-top cafe or restaurant. I shopped my way down the same steep streets, and then walked across the metro bridge over the Golden Horn.  Many fisherman were casting bits of bread and hauling in buckets of what appeared to be sardines.  I joined a throng of Turks at the other end for lunch, a sardine sandwich grilled on one of three ornate boats docked there.  Quite a scene.  I completed my shopping expedition at the nearby Spice Market, where a talented porcelain merchant named Haji reeled me in for what I am sure was a very good profit.  The tram ride back to the airport was long and hot, but the Turks suffered this ugly American with good patience, and I might say even concern, as they had throughout our sojourn.  What a people, what a trip.