Look at fisher man of Greece, he looks happy

The first light of dawn painted the Greek coast in soft gold, and I sat on a weathered stone wall, my sketchbook open, watching the fishing boats glide back to shore. That’s when I saw him—standing at the bow of a wooden boat, his hands calloused from ropes, his dark hair damp with sea spray. He wore a faded blue shirt and well-worn boots, and when he smiled at an old woman selling oranges, his eyes crinkled like the waves at his feet. “Look at fisher man of Greece, he looks… like he belongs to the sea,” I whispered to myself, my pencil pausing mid-sketch.

 

 

I’d come to this coastal town to escape the noise of the city, to find inspiration in the salt air and the sound of waves. But in that moment, inspiration wasn’t in the horizon—it was in him: the way he lifted a crate of fish with ease, the way he laughed with the other fishermen, the way he paused to toss a stray cat a piece of sardine. I flipped to a new page in my sketchbook and began to draw him, my hand moving quickly to capture the curve of his smile, the set of his shoulders.

 

 

“Your sketch is missing the light,” a voice said behind me. I jumped, turning to find him standing there, a small smile on his face. His eyes were a deep, warm brown—like the earth after rain—and he held a small red rose in his hand, its petals still dewy. “The morning sun hits the boat’s hull at this angle,” he said, pointing to my sketch. “It makes the wood glow. Like fire on water.” I felt my cheeks heat up, closing the sketchbook slightly. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to stare.” He laughed, holding out the rose. “No need to apologize. I’m Nikos. This is for you—found it on the path to the shore. Roses here grow wild, but they’re still the sweetest.”

 

 

I took the rose, its scent mixing with the salt air, and told him my name. We sat on the stone wall together, watching the last boats dock, and he told me about his life: how he’d fished these waters since he was a boy, how his father had taught him to read the tides, how he still wrote letters to his grandma who lived in Athens. “She says I’m too stubborn,” he said, grinning. “Says I should move to the city, get a ‘real job.’ But this—” he gestured to the sea “—is my real job. My home.” I nodded, thinking of the vine-wrapped bench back home, of Marisol’s grandma’s letters. Home wasn’t a place, I realized. It was the feeling of belonging.

 

 

We met every morning after that. Nikos would bring me a rose—always red, always fresh—and I’d bring him sketches of the sea, of the boats, of him. He’d teach me to tell the difference between sardines and mackerel, and I’d teach him to draw simple flowers in the margins of his letters to his grandma. “She’ll love this,” he said one day, showing me a letter with a tiny rose I’d drawn. “She’s been asking me to ‘find someone who makes my letters brighter.’” I felt my heart skip a beat, and he reached over, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. His hand was warm, calloused from the sea, and I didn’t want him to let go.

 

 

One evening, he took me out on his boat at sunset. The sky turned pink and orange, and the sea was calm, like glass. He handed me a blanket, and we sat at the bow, watching the sun dip below the horizon. “I’ve never shown anyone this,” he said, his voice soft. “Not even my friends. It’s… my secret place.” I leaned my head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around me. “I’m glad you shared it with me,” I said. He turned to me, his eyes shining in the fading light, and kissed me—slow, soft, the taste of salt on his lips. The rose I’d tucked behind my ear fell out, landing on the blanket, and he picked it up, tucking it back gently. “You look like a dream,” he whispered.

 

 

Two weeks later, I had to return home. I stood on the shore with Nikos, holding the last rose he’d given me, my heart heavy. “I don’t want to go,” I said, my voice breaking. He pulled me into a hug, his face buried in my hair. “You don’t have to stay forever,” he said. “But you have to come back. The sea misses you. I miss you.” He handed me a letter, sealed with wax, and a small wooden box. “Open the letter on the boat,” he said. “The box… wait until you’re home. It’s a piece of my world, to keep with yours.”

On the ferry, I opened the letter. It was written in Nikos’s messy handwriting, with a tiny rose drawn at the bottom:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tears fell onto the letter, and I opened the box. Inside, the piece of wood was smooth, carved with a tiny boat and a rose. I held it to my chest, thinking of Nikos’s smile, of the red roses, of the sea.

When I got home, I took the piece of wood to the vine-wrapped bench and placed it next to the ivy plant. Marisol came to visit, and when I told her about Nikos, she smiled, holding up her grandma’s letter. “Love finds us in the most unexpected places,” she said. “The sea, the bench, a red rose. It’s all connected.”

 

 

Now, I write to Nikos every day. I send him sketches of the bench, of the ivy, of the red roses I grow in my window. He sends me letters with roses drawn in the margins, tells me about the sea, about his grandma’s reaction to my drawings.

 

 

Last month, he sent me a photo: a red rose placed on the stone wall, with the sea in the background. On the back, he wrote: “Look at fisher man of Greece, he looks… like he’s waiting for his love.”

 

 

I’m going back to Greece next month. I’ll bring him a sketch of the vine-wrapped bench, of Marisol’s grandma’s rose bush, of all the things that make my home mine. And when I see him—standing on the shore, holding a red rose, his eyes crinkling like the waves—I’ll know. Home isn’t just a place. It’s him. The Greek fisherman with calloused hands, with a heart like the sea, with red roses and letters and love that spans oceans.

 

 

Because love, I’ve learned, doesn’t care about distance. It cares about the roses you leave, the letters you write, the way you look at someone and know—they’re your forever. Even if they’re across the sea. Even if they’re a fisherman from Greece.