The Ship’s Log | 01 Feb. 2025
From Kefalonian Gabriel Panagiosoulis, a former sailor and dear friend of the show “FAIR WINDS” and the column “BRIDGE LOG,” we received this text, and we thank him!
Un aniversario – An Anniversary
As February 2025 begins—or “Koutsouflevaros” as we used to call it in Greece—I wish all friends and readers of this page a good and joyful month. Take heart, spring is coming, as the saying goes… (Even if February rages, it will still smell like summer).
February 1949 marked the beginning of my struggle in the ring of society at the time—a fight for survival without any means, to make my way in an unknown world… It was February 2, 1949, the Feast of the Presentation, a day I remember fondly. That was the day I packed my bag, at just 15 years old, following encouragement to seek a better life, to have enough to eat, and to help those who remained in the village. And so, I left the place where I was born.
The civil war was still raging. I arrived at the port of Sami, having taken a taxi from Pylareos, Kefalonia, where the PINDOS, a ship of the Epirus Steamship Company of Potamianos, would pass through on its way to Piraeus. The ship was delayed for a day and would arrive the following morning.
All the passengers gathered in a hotel lounge, sitting on chairs to get through the night. Around 6 or 7 in the evening, we were told to go outside because a squad was coming—I can’t remember now if they were guerrillas or police officers… I stepped outside alone into the night, walking aimlessly, and tears began to fall. Someone from my village, not a passenger, saw me. When he returned to the village, he told my father, who later wrote to ask why I had cried…
How can one explain the feelings of an innocent child’s heart, stepping into the unknown, trying to conquer life itself? That was the beginning—a beginning that endured hardships and brought me here today, struggling through the streets and the seas of the world…
Many years have passed, too many. Streams of wrinkles have lined my face. My hair, what remains of it, has turned white. The body has taken the upper hand, ruling over the soul, which cries out, longing for its former glory. Thankfully, it finds solace in the offspring of the pen, murmuring to itself, believing that it was only yesterday when I set out from Markata.
— Gabriel Panagiosoulis
