We set off early for Akbük Bay, heading deeper into the Gulf of Gökova. Once again, we were in the homeland of the ancient Carians.
At Akbük we moored stern-to opposite 1,000-metre Kıran Mountain. The day passed with swimming, resting, playing bezique with Derin and dozing. This is what a holiday is meant to be.
Late in the afternoon we went fishing near the headland, over a shallow shelf surrounded by water 20 to 25 metres deep. We made a note to return to this spot—and to buy ourselves a better fish finder. Derin was the day’s champion, catching the largest fish. Gökhan was our captain: he handled Junior Beetfish while keeping an eye on both of us and helping whenever needed.
We telephoned the well-known Altaş Restaurant to ask about fish. They said they had grouper, the local red mullet and sea bass, but when we arrived they asked twice the price quoted on the phone. Perhaps inflation had confused everyone, or perhaps they thought they could overcharge us because we had come from a boat. Either way, we made a note not to return. A tradesman should be trustworthy; even a kilo of cucumber should not suddenly cost 100 lira.
Once Berfin worked her magic, however, our table could rival a Michelin restaurant: sea-bass ceviche, cold noodles, steamed red mullet, grilled red mullet and mushrooms. The stuffed vine leaves, fried vegetables and barbunya beans I had brought sat to one side like villagers seeing a luxury car for the first time.
That evening, when no one agreed to play Americano despite my insistence, I satisfied my fishing enthusiasm with a single pufferfish while the girls watched a horror film.
We went to bed early and woke late. After nearly twelve hours of sleep, our plan to fish in the morning had quietly disappeared.
The bay was calm and silent, and the stars were beautiful.
This holiday was turning into a dictionary of proverbs:
*The defeated wrestler never tires of another bout.*
*Beware the sheep of Karaman; its trick is revealed only later.*