We arrived in Kalymnos on the small gray caique Angeliki, rounding the Cape of Chali with a strong gust blowing furious from the west, a black patched triangular sail flapping above our heads, and the vessel filled with turkeys, mandarins, jugs, baskets, and the inevitable black-clad old women who are an integral part of the scene on every Aegean caique. It was a bold and spectacular entrance. "My God!" muttered an old woman hoarsely between her vomits. "Look at the little ones! See them! They don't understand anything!" "Oh, grandma." The curly-haired cabin boy threw the contents of a bucket at a huge green water wall rising threateningly above the boat. "The kids are born sailors. Sailors! Clear as day!" The wave hit the vessel hard. The benches on the deck cracked with a bang from one side to the other. "Grrr!" the old woman squealed as if she were being strangled and clutched the air with her fists. The curly-haired boy leaned casually on the worn doorframe to steady himself and carefully pulled up the bucket, gathering the rope where it was tied. The "little ones" — that is, my children — emerged soaked from a chaotic pile of turkeys, benches, cardboard suitcases, broken jugs, baskets, and old women fallen on the deck, with their little fists full of mandarins and their faces brightly flushed with excitement. Clearly, all this was much more fun than the amusement park at Battersea Park in London. "Mom! Why are these so yellow and stained?" (Martin is seven years old and has a penchant for scientific explanations.) "Because she swallowed her breakfast without chewing." (Shane is fourteen months younger than Martin.) The cabin boy dragged the old woman like a wet sack to the door opening and pushed her head into the bucket. "What did I tell you, grandma?" he said contemptuously, holding her miserable, soaked old head down. "Sailors!"