Chapter 4 Ferry to Freedom

Amelia Noah POV

The ferry terminal in Piraeus smells like diesel fuel and salt water and escape. I navigate through the crowd with my rolling suitcase, following signs written in both Greek and English toward the Santorini departure gate. Around me, couples link arms and families wrangle children and backpackers compare itineraries. I'm the only person I can see traveling completely alone.

The observation should sting, but instead it feels liberating. No one to check with before buying a coffee. No one to accommodate or compromise with. Just me and a ferry ticket to an island I've only seen in photographs.

I board the high-speed catamaran and claim a window seat on the outdoor deck, despite the October wind that whips my hair across my face. The indoor cabin is already filling with tourists seeking comfort, but I need the elements. I need to feel the transition from one world to another, marked by wind and spray and the endless blue of the Aegean.

The engines rumble to life beneath my feet, and the ferry pulls away from Athens with surprising grace for something so large. The city shrinks behind us as we push into open water, white buildings giving way to coastline giving way to nothing but sea and sky.

I pull out the guidebook I bought at the airport, its cover promising "Hidden Gems of the Cyclades." The pages smell like new ink and possibility. I flip through sections on history and architecture, stopping at a chapter about Santorini's volcanic formation. The island isn't a simple landmass but the rim of an ancient caldera, created when a volcano exploded thousands of years ago. What remains is a crescent moon of cliffs where white buildings cling to black rock, overlooking the flooded crater below.

Born from destruction, rebuilt into something beautiful. The metaphor isn't lost on me.

"First time to Santorini?"

A Greek woman in her fifties leans against the railing beside me, her accent thick but her smile warm. Behind her, a teenage boy plays a handheld game while a younger girl peers over the edge at the churning wake.

"Yes," I say. "First time in Greece, actually."

"Ah!" She clasps her hands together. "You picked the best island. My sister owns a taverna in Fira—if you go, tell her Sophia sent you. She'll give you the good table."

The boy looks up from his game. "Mama, she doesn't want to hear about Aunt Maria's taverna."

"Everyone wants to hear about Aunt Maria's taverna," Sophia says firmly, then turns back to me. "You're traveling alone?"

There's no judgment in her tone, only curiosity, but I feel the weight of the question anyway. Traveling alone at thirty-two. No husband, no boyfriend, no friends joining me for this adventure. Just a woman running from a cheating ex and toward some vague concept of self-discovery.

"Just me," I confirm.

"Brave," Sophia says, nodding approvingly. "My daughter, she wants to travel alone after university. I tell her it's dangerous, but maybe I'm old-fashioned." She glances at the girl, who has now abandoned whale-watching to join her brother's game. "You think it's dangerous for women alone?"

The question catches me off guard. Two days ago, I would have said no, that women can do anything men can do, that fear shouldn't dictate our choices. But sitting on this ferry, surrounded by families and couples, aware of my vulnerability in a country where I don't speak the language or know the customs, the honest answer is more complicated.

"I think it's different," I finally say. "Not necessarily more dangerous, just different. You have to pay attention differently."

Sophia considers this, then nods. "Yes. My sister, she travels alone for work sometimes. She says the same thing—you must always know where you are, who is around you." She pats my arm. "But Greece is safe. The islands especially. Everyone looks after everyone."

Her teenage son glances up again, something skeptical in his expression, but he doesn't contradict his mother. The girl has moved to the other side of the deck, pointing at something in the distance.

"Dolphins!" she shouts in English, clearly for my benefit.

I follow her finger and catch the arc of silver bodies breaking the water's surface, their movements synchronized and effortless. The ferry full of passengers rushes to the railing, cameras appearing from pockets and bags. I watch without photographing, wanting to keep this moment for myself—unfiltered, unshared, uncaptioned.

The dolphins keep pace with us for several minutes before veering away toward deeper water. As the crowd disperses, Sophia's family returns to the indoor cabin, but I remain at the railing, watching islands appear and disappear on the horizon like promises.

The water changes color as we travel, from deep navy near Athens to brilliant turquoise in the shallows around smaller islands. Each variation of blue feels intentional, as if someone designed this route specifically to showcase every shade the Aegean can produce.

A young couple settles near me, speaking French in low tones. He drapes his jacket around her shoulders when she shivers. She leans into him like it's the most natural thing in the world. They don't look at their phones or make conversation—they just exist together in comfortable silence.

I turn back to the water, pushing down the familiar ache. That's what I wanted with Marcus. That ease. That certainty. Instead, I got text messages to other women and accusations of neediness.

But maybe that's the point. Maybe I needed this ferry ride alone, surrounded by couples and families, to understand that solitude isn't the same as loneliness. These people have their companions, their shared experiences, their comfortable silences. I have myself. And for the next seven days, that's going to be enough.

The hours pass in a blur of islands and sun. I read my guidebook, learning that Santorini produces a wine called Assyrtiko that grows in volcanic soil. That the sunset in Oia is considered one of the most beautiful in the world. That the island was once called Thera, before the Venetians renamed it after Saint Irene.

Around me, passengers doze and read and watch the horizon. The French couple shares headphones, listening to something that makes them both smile. Sophia's children have migrated to the indoor cabin's snack bar. I am alone but not lonely, separate but not isolated.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are approaching Santorini."

The announcement crackles over the intercom in Greek, then English. I stand and gather my things, joining the crowd moving toward the windows for their first glimpse of the island.

And then I see it.

Santorini rises from the sea like something from mythology—sheer volcanic cliffs climbing hundreds of feet straight up from the water, their dark rock contrasting sharply with the white buildings that cascade down their face like snow. The caldera spreads before us, impossibly blue, impossibly vast, impossibly beautiful.

The ferry navigates toward the small port at the base of the cliffs, and I realize the buildings I can see are far below the island's peak. Somewhere up there, invisible from this angle, is the resort where I'll spend the next week. The Poseidon, perched on the highest point of the rim, offering views that my credit card statement will remind me about for months.

Worth it. It's absolutely worth it.

The ferry bumps against the dock with practiced precision, and the organized chaos of disembarking begins. I follow the crowd down the gangplank, my suitcase wheels loud against the metal surface. The October air feels different here—warmer than Athens, carrying the scent of wild herbs and volcanic earth.

Taxi drivers call out destinations, holding signs for hotels and resorts. I scan the crowd until I find mine: POSEIDON RESORT.

The driver, a man in his sixties with sun-weathered skin and kind eyes, takes my suitcase and gestures toward a pristine white van. "Welcome to Santorini, miss. First time?"

"First time," I confirm, sliding into the back seat.

He navigates through the narrow port streets with confidence, then begins the steep ascent up the cliff face. The road switchbacks repeatedly, each turn revealing new angles of the caldera below. White-washed buildings cling to impossible slopes, connected by winding staircases and narrow paths.

"The Poseidon is at the top," the driver says, catching my eye in the rearview mirror. "Best view on the island. Maybe in all of Greece."

"That's what the website promised."

He laughs. "Website tells truth for once. You'll see."

We climb higher, leaving the port behind. The road narrows further as we approach the caldera rim, other vehicles occasionally forcing us to pause and negotiate passage. But the driver seems untroubled, chatting easily about October being the perfect time to visit—fewer tourists, better weather, locals more relaxed.

And then we crest the final rise, and the Poseidon Resort spreads before us.

The website photographs didn't lie, but they didn't capture the scale. White buildings with blue domes cascade down the cliff face in perfect symmetry. Infinity pools reflect the afternoon sky. Terraces overlook the entire caldera, offering views that stretch to the horizon where sea meets sky in a perfect line.

"Here we are," the driver says, pulling up to the entrance. "Your new home for one week."

I step out of the van, tipping him generously because he delivered me safely to this impossible place. A porter in crisp white uniform approaches for my luggage, and I follow him through automatic doors into a lobby that's all marble and light.

This is it. My four-thousand-dollar bet on self-discovery. My week of solitude in paradise. My chance to remember who I am when no one else is watching.

The porter gestures toward the reception desk, where a beautiful woman with perfect English and a warm smile waits to check me in.

Behind her, through floor-to-ceiling windows, the caldera spreads like an invitation.

I'm here. I'm actually here.

And I have absolutely no idea what happens next.