And finally Jim opens his eyes, looks around as if seeing it all for the first time. “This generation, it was a group of friends, and they came here in boats. There was nothing here. They were fishermen, and stopped here on fishing trips. This hill was probably fifty feet inland, behind a wide beach. Their homes down near the palace at Zakros were getting crowded, they probably lived with their parents, and they were always up here fishing anyway, so they decided to take the wives and kids and move up here together. A group of friends, they all knew each other, they were having a good time all on their own, with their kids, and this whole valley for the taking. They built lean-tos at first, then started cutting the soft stone.” Jim runs his hand over the porous Minoan block he is leaning against. Looks at Sandy curiously. “Well?”

Sandy nods, says softly, “So we can imagine it.”

“I guess so.”

Sandy counts his marks. “A hundred thirty-seven generations.”

They sit. The moon rises. Low broken clouds scud in from the west, fly under the moon, dash its light here and there. Broken walls, tumbled blocks. A history as long as that; and now the land, empty again.

Except headlights appear on the road inland. Their beams lance far over the dark land, fan across it as they turn onto the side road to Itanos. The group falls silent. The headlights go right down to the beach below them. Car doors slam, cheery Greek voices chatter. A Coleman lantern is lit; its harsh glow washes the beach, and the Greeks go to work on the two old boats. “Fishermen!” Sandy whispers.

After leisurely preparations the boats are launched, their motors started. What a racket! They putter out of the bay and to sea, lanterns hung from their bows. After a time they’re only stars on the water’s flat surface, far out to sea. “Night fishing,” Jim says. “Octopus and squid.”