Travelrat’s Travels

Author and humorist Roberta Beach Jacobson has ghostwritten, coauthored, translated, fact-checked or contributed to fifty books published on four continents. Her latest release is Almost Perfect: Disabled Pets and the People Who Love Them (Enspirio House, Word Forge Books, 2008).

Too American to Fish

by Roberta Beach Jacobson

Day-to-day life on the Greek island of Karpathos is unrushed. You can get a glimpse of it from the bus as it maneuvers the sharp turns of the narrow roadways. Olive groves give way to citrus trees. You’ll see cats napping as they wait at the harbor for the fishing boats to offer up the day’s catch. Such a laid-back approach to life took some getting used to after Alf and I moved here. If an island shop owner suddenly decides to take time off to go fishing or visit friends, so be it. The shop opens later. Or maybe not at all.

Alf and I envisioned ourselves soaking up the rays from our eighteen-foot cabin cruiser. Enjoying life, taking it easy. We bought her secondhand from Austria, where she was used for jaunts on the River Danube. Hana is registered as both a pleasure and fishing boat.

Every country has some amount of red tape and I suppose Greece has its share of forms to fill out for this and that. Several of us headed to the island’s harbor police, eager to get our Greek fishing licenses. We had the required photos and our passports with us. Alf went first. He showed his German passport. Fine. Photos, perfect. Stamp, stamp. He was issued a license to fish.

Next an expatriate friend of ours presented his passport from Austria and his photos. All in order. The harbor authority clerk handed him his fishing license, too.

When it was my turn I handed over my recent pictures and my American passport.

The clerk frowned. “Oh, oh,” he said. “You American?”

I nodded. The answer was more than evident from what was printed all over my passport.

“No license for you,” he declared in English, scooting everything back across the desk in my direction.

“But I live here!” I protested. I held up our boat registration as if to prove it. I was about to dig out my residence permit from my purse for him, when the man waved an index finger at me.

“Only Europeans get licenses,” he explained.

“So where do I obtain my license to fish, at the consulate?” I asked.

“You no fish,” he told me.

“No fish?” I repeated.

The man shrugged, as if to tell me those were the rules and there was nothing he, or anybody else on the planet, could do about it.

I have a sixth sense that alerts me when to back off to avoid trouble and this was one of those moments. Greece, I understand, offers a single type of fishing license – the same document for professionals and amateurs (hobbyists). What that might have to do with my being American, I haven’t a clue. Maybe my nationality got in the way of strict European Union-imposed fishing limits or other laws about Greek territorial waters.

Even though Skipper Alf pokes fun at me about my fishing-persona non grata status, it represents a little extra work for him. To stay on the side of caution, he must be careful there’s no hint of fishing gear whenever I’m on board Hana. He has to remove any poles, nets and other equipment. Otherwise he could be fined and the Coast Guard checks boats regularly.

While I may not be allowed to throw a fishing line into the sea, I am permitted to dine at the island’s fish tavernas! For our five-year anniversary of living here, Alf and I planned a party for about twenty friends and it was my job to find the right venue.

I strolled along the harbor, scoping out which of the small restaurants still open in late September could accommodate such a group. I found the right setting. Actually we’d never dined there, but others had given us positive reviews and we always meant to try it.

I approached the owner and requested a reservation for the following Saturday evening. He didn’t wince when I told him we’d be twenty to twenty-five hungry souls, all ordering from the regular menu. We set up a time and I thanked him. I handed him my business card so he’d have our telephone numbers.

The evening of the party, we found the door locked. No sign was to be found. While the restaurateur had my contact information, I didn’t have his.

We waited a while, but the only folks who showed up were our confused guests.

Alf stayed at the taverna entrance to greet newcomers, while I scurried around to find us a place for our celebration, not easy at the tail end of tourist season. A few of our guests tagged along and I felt like the Pied Piper snaking down street after street.

Most shutters were down, but we found a pizza restaurant open. The waiter assured me they served kalamari. (Was he poking fun at me, alluding to my fishing woes?) Whatever the menu, it was the best I could manage on such short notice, so I called Alf on his mobile phone to bring the rest of the gang around. Then I sat down to a much-needed glass of wine.