The crossing to Calabria was a quiet, two-day drift across a Mediterranean that seemed to have forgotten the weight of the empires built upon its shores. By the time the rugged, sun-baked hills of southern Italy rose from the horizon, the sea had settled into a glass-like calm, reflecting the deep ochre and gold of the late-afternoon sky.
We anchored in a small, unpretentious fishing cove near Tropea, well away from the commercial marinas and high-speed ferry terminals. The town above was a cluster of pastel-colored stone buildings clinging to the cliffside, its narrow streets smelling of roasting garlic, sweet red onions, and drying fishing nets.
Ethan killed the auxiliary diesel engine, and the silence returned instantly—warm, heavy, and absolute.
"No administrative holds," I noted, w
