Our 15th expedition — the circumnavigation of Cyprus — came closer to cancellation than any mission before it. A relentless mix of unforeseen challenges, harsh weather, and tight deadlines turned what should have been a paddling adventure into a grueling test of strategy, resilience, and calm under pressure. Despite how hopeless it seemed at times, both body and mind were set on pushing forward. Written by Aggelos Christophides and Antonis Sotiropoulos.
Dr Aggelos Christophides
The Plan
Every journey begins as a simple idea sketched on a map. Just after returning from Italy in early August 2020, I found myself once again poring over nautical charts, searching for new routes — near or far — to explore in the future. The taste of foreign seas had whetted my appetite for voyages beyond the familiar Greek waters. For some reason, my gaze first drifted westward: Sicily, Sardinia, Corsica, maybe even the Balearics. I started calculating how to circumnavigate each island — distances, durations, optimal seasons. But then, suddenly, my thoughts were interrupted: How could I have the entire Mediterranean map open in front of me, planning future expeditions, and yet have completely overlooked Cyprus?
Without hesitation, the compass swung east. I began calculating distances and gathering information about the island. Online reports were already hinting at the reopening of the ferry connection between Greece and Cyprus within the next 1–2 years — a crucial link for making the journey feasible. The plan was simple and beautiful: load our kayaks and gear onto the ferry, complete the circumnavigation, and return to Greece the same way. I immediately reached out to my friend Vasilis Karikas, who had spent nearly a decade living on the island. We talked about connecting with local organizations that might support the expedition, especially since raising awareness about marine conservation was central to our mission. Having never been to Cyprus before, this expedition would also mark my first visit to the island — a perfect blend of adventure and discovery.
Just a few days later, Vasilis brought news. He had already spoken with his friend Pavlos Pavlides, both of them very active in the island’s historic automobile scene. Through Pavlos, I was put in contact with Christothea Constantinou, who was then an officer of the Cyprus Canoe Federation. Christothea and I began discussing how the expedition could be carried out, how the Federation could support it, and we agreed that it would also be an excellent opportunity to promote Cyprus internationally as a sea kayaking destination.
Much has happened since then.
What began as just a pin on the map gradually grew into something much more: a deepening relationship with Cyprus. A second base for the team was established on the island. Kayaks and gear were slowly transported there, scouting trips were undertaken, and the first sea kayaking training sessions took place —with both local residents and visitors from abroad. The project seemed to fulfill a different purpose first: to bring me into contact with the island, before quietly stepping aside. From 2021 to 2024, other expeditions —this time once again in Greek waters— took its place. In a way, it was forgotten. Every year, we postponed it to the next.
But five years after that first idea on the map, its time finally came
Non-occupied Coastline
A circumnavigation is traditionally defined as departing from and returning to the same point, having navigated the entire coastline in between. In the case of Cyprus, however, this was not possible—not because of physical obstacles, but due to a political wound that remains open for over five decades. Of the island’s 340 nautical miles of coastline, 180 remain under illegal Turkish military occupation since the invasion of 1974. For us, paddling in the occupied areas was never an option. Requesting “permission” from the self-declared regime that controls them would mean legitimizing an unlawful invasion and the ongoing violation of international law. It would mean recognizing a puppet entity that has displaced thousands of people, destroyed cultural heritage, and split the island in two. We have never crossed into the occupied territories—not on land, not as tourists, not for any reason—and we would certainly not do so by sea. To do so would be a betrayal of everything this expedition stands for: freedom, dignity, and respect for the island as a whole. And if, in the foreseeable future, Cyprus is finally reunified—if the occupying army withdraws and the island becomes whole and free once more, from Akamas to Cape Greco, from Kyrenia to Famagusta—then the very next day, we will set our kayaks afloat and paddle the full 340 nautical miles of its coastline. As a celebration. A tribute to unity, freedom, and hope fulfilled.
As with every one of our missions, this expedition aimed to shed light on the mounting threats facing the marine environment—plastic pollution, habitat loss, overfishing. But here, we also sought to highlight the unique challenges facing Cyprus: a divided island, a fragile balance between progress and preservation. At the same time, we wanted to showcase what still survives—places untouched by development, like Akamas, the island’s wild western cape, where nature still breathes freely under protection. A glimpse of what could be, if we choose wisely.
Before Departure
The numbers were clear: we had exactly seven days to cover the 160-mile circumnavigation. I revisited old notes from 2021 in my journal, when I first started gathering data for the trip with Christothea’s help. The original plan had been divided into 10 legs, and with two or three rest days added, it would have stretched into nearly a two-week journey. Back then, I expected broader team participation, so it made sense to maintain a relaxed pace, allowing everyone to enjoy the journey without feeling rushed. But circumstances had changed. In the end, only Antonis and I would take part. Moreover, we no longer had the luxury of time — various obligations were closing in fast. Even having one week was a blessing. For timing, we chose a window between late March and early April. In the months ahead, new family commitments would make it impossible to spend so many consecutive days at sea.
Monday, 31 March 2025, 10:45 AM – Nicosia. I was sitting in the car, fully loaded, waiting for Vasilis Karikas so we could set off. Our plan was to pick up Antonis at Larnaca airport and head straight to Pachyammos for the launch. Vasilis would then return the car to our base in Nicosia. Pachyammos marks the start of the non-occupied coastline in the northwest—technically the second point, after Pyrgos Tyllirias. Between Pyrgos and Pachyammos lies a small occupied area, Kokkina, where the Turkish military has maintained a base since 1963, when intercommunal violence broke out. Since then, it’s been a bridgehead for the illegal transfer of military equipment from Turkey to Turkish Cypriots. Launching from Pyrgos would have meant paddling past Kokkina, with the real risk of being fired upon by occupation forces. The regime’s ruthlessness leaves no doubt. That’s why Pachyammos was chosen as our safe starting point. We had to be there by 13:30 to launch at 14:30 and reach the cape by 19:30. Instead of hugging the shore, we planned to cross Polis Chrysochous bay to save time. Rounding Cape Arnaouti— the Akamas peninsula and the island’s westernmost tip— was absolutely crucial. Missing it and getting stuck inside the bay would mean losing the next day, with strong easterly winds of 7–8 Beaufort forecast to halt all progress. Losing a day so early would jeopardize the entire expedition.
I was already nervous waiting for Vasilis, who was running late. When he finally arrived, we were 45 minutes behind schedule. We rushed to the airport where Antonis was waiting, already landed. Around noon, we hit the road. To make good use of travel time, Antonis began preparing gear from the back seat—mixing isotonic drinks, charging devices, sorting equipment. Despite the pressure, spirits were high. Still, I couldn’t stop running calculations in my head—distances, durations, ETAs. We had a chance, but just barely.
Then, on the highway, a column of thick black smoke rose in the distance. Minutes later, a police roadblock forced us onto a detour. Moments before, a tanker truck had collided with another vehicle, causing chaos. The overwhelmed police struggled to direct traffic. We were stuck. Navigating narrow country roads, we finally got back onto the highway—an hour lost. We sped past Limassol at 110–120 km/h. Just before Paphos, another setback: a car fire blocked the road, costing us more time. Past Paphos, the highway ended, replaced by a winding, steep provincial road with one lane each way.
My BMW E39 fought hard, loaded with three people, two kayaks, and heavy equipment. The six-cylinder engine roared at high revs, climbing the mountain with precision. The Mediterranean view from above was stunning, but the race against time was lost. Overall, we had lost more than two hours. Sticking to the original plan —departing from Pachyammos— would have made the day’s miles impossible. The solution was clear: to save the expedition, we had to shorten this leg by changing the departure point. We would reduce the sea route by about 8–10 miles, departing instead from Latchi. Not ideal, but not the end of the world.
“A low-pressure system was steadily extending its reach over the island. Lost in thought as I paddled, I suddenly heard Antonis shout.”
Ready for the sea
Monday, 31.03.2025, 15:30, Latchi. Day 1. Everything was ready. The beach at Latchi was beautiful and easily accessible, with breakwaters sheltering the area from the wind, leaving the waters calm. Antonis took the Sea Lion; I took the Husky. As for paddles, we had our “weapons”: the Touring High Angle and Wing Wild by WaveDesign, and the Greenland by Select—all full carbon. After one last photo with Vasilis, who would drive the car back to our base, we entered the water. We filmed the classic departure video and made our first strokes. The wind was a north-easterly force 3–4, with some messy swell. After the tension of the road trip, I gradually began to feel calm. Antonis and I exchanged smiles. Around us stretched the entire southeastern Mediterranean. We were in battle mode. A long paddle lay ahead, and the weather forecasts were ominous—a low-pressure system was steadily extending its reach over the island. Lost in thought as I paddled, I suddenly heard Antonis shout, “Tuna! Tuna! A beast, man!”
I didn’t catch sight of it, but shortly after, another tuna leapt from the water. Apparently, there was life in these waters. We locked our course on the cape. Beyond Latchi, the coastline grew mostly rocky, dotted with just a few small coves and tiny beaches with stunning turquoise waters—like the Blue Lagoon. The waters there are so shallow and the beach so small and difficult to access by land that in summer it can only be reached by kayak. However, it becomes packed with tour boats anchoring offshore and dropping people off to swim in the shallows. Now, of course, none of that was happening. But we had no time to relax. The sun was beginning to set, shining directly into our eyes. This area demanded caution—Cyprus is riddled with reefs even just half a mile from shore. The numerous shipwrecks along its coast are no coincidence. Kayaks have a shallow draft, but even so, letting your guard down isn’t an option. We scanned the sea constantly for suspicious wave breaks.
After about three hours of paddling, we reached the westernmost tip of Cyprus—Akamas. Possibly the last remaining piece of untouched Cypriot land. According to legend, it was named after the mythical Akamas, son of Theseus and Phaedra, who, after the Trojan War, traveled to Cyprus and founded a colony. Akamas means “tireless.” A place of wild beauty and immense ecological significance, home to 530 plant species, 168 endemic bird species, 20 reptiles, 12 mammals, and 16 butterfly species.
Rounding the cape toward the south, the sea calmed. We had just a little more paddling to go—barely one or two miles—to a beach I’d marked on the map: Lighthouse Beach. A stretch of fine sand mixed with pebbles and scattered rocks further back, seemingly blocking any access from land. Signs of landslides were evident from rock debris on the upper part of the beach, so we had to be careful where we camped—to avoid being crushed by falling rocks. Everything felt more peaceful here. Thankfully, this place had been spared—for now—cement and mass tourism. As the sun began to set, we started preparing dinner: noodles and a few tins. Antonis had brought his handy little gas stove for boiling water. It was getting quite cold, but with our thermal layers on, it felt like lounging in a cozy living room. I smiled, remembering how I’d told Antonis not to worry about the weather—saying that this time of year, Cyprus is always warm.
Storms
Tuesday, 01.04.2025, 06:00, Lighthouse Beach. Day 2. From Cyprus to the Highlands of Scotland—that’s how the landscape looked when we woke up in the morning. Thick, grey clouds stretched across the sky, and a strong inland wind was blowing. We had slept well during the night and woke up eager to paddle. We were moving along the coast. Occasionally, strong gusts hit us from the left, but overall, the sea remained calm. A light drizzle was falling. I actually like this kind of weather—definitely better than the typical Cypriot heatwave that roasts you alive. The Akamas landscape looks nothing like the rest of Cyprus: lush, green, wild, and untouched. It’s like being on a different island. We paddled offshore from Lara Beach—a beautiful sandy shore where sea turtles come to lay their eggs. Ahead of us lay the small harbor of Agios Georgios Peyias and the island of Geronisos.
Holy island.
This barren little island was once a significant sacred site in the 1st century BCE. Archaeologists have uncovered remains of buildings and numerous artifacts: votive offerings, seals, amulets, and a fragment of a vessel inscribed with the name of Apollo. Among the buildings was also a cistern for collecting water. All these findings point to an organized sanctuary on the island. In fact, 14 bronze coins were discovered, most dating from the time of Cleopatra. Many of the artifacts, symbols, and votive offerings reveal clear influences from Egyptian religion and tradition, though purely Cypriot symbols were also found. Among the discoveries were fragments of vessels bearing childish inscriptions—letters written in a childlike hand—suggesting that people brought their young children, likely boys, to this sanctuary dedicated to Apollo, to place them under the god’s protection and guidance.
Just a few miles beyond Geronisos lies a small bay with an ancient harbor that would have been connected to the island. This is the site of Maniki. Its natural shape would have provided shelter from nearly all weather conditions, offering a safe anchorage. Additionally, a small islet just outside the bay added extra protection, especially from strong westerly winds. Near the center of the bay, carved mooring posts have been discovered, used to tie up ships, along with carved channels for loading and unloading cargo.
This entire stretch of coastline is full of sights and surprises. I believe it’s by far the most beautiful part of the non-occupied Cyprus and one of the best sea kayaking routes anyone could paddle. Secluded beaches, numerous sea caves, Geronisos Island, the ancient harbor, and a stunning recent shipwreck—the EDRO III—grounded entirely in the shallows. Antonis and I have settled into a steady paddling rhythm, taking minimal breaks. We passed offshore from Coral Bay, then Chloraka, and set course for the cape near the Tombs of the Kings. Suddenly, a sharp land breeze picks up. Within minutes, the sea surface wrinkles, and spray lashes our faces and stings our eyes. The whistle on my life jacket starts to howl on its own, carried by the wind.
Gusts easily reach close to 30 knots. Time for powerful strokes. Deep, steady breaths; body leaning forward; feet firmly braced on the footrests; paddle slicing the water with precision. I shout to Antonis that we should turn back toward shore, wait for the wind to ease, and then continue. But just as we steer landward, the wind dies abruptly—it was just a local gust. We press on. We pass the harbor of Paphos, once one of the Mediterranean’s most important commercial ports during the Hellenistic era—a naval base, trading hub, and shipyard that linked Rhodes, Cyprus, and Alexandria. The dense Paphos forests supplied timber for shipbuilding. Back then, Paphos was the island’s most significant city.
Our final destination for the day: Geroskipou.
We land, haul the kayaks ashore, peel off wet clothes, organize gear, and head out to prepare food. Nearby, a raised wooden platform with fake grass outside a closed shop looks like the perfect spot to sleep. We lay out our inflatable mattresses, sleeping bags, and pillows. Just a few hundred meters away is Paphos airport—planes roar overhead, taking off low against the chilly, clearing sky. On expeditions, you learn acceptance. Accepting conditions, unexpected twists, discomfort—even hardship—is part of the game. The sooner you embrace it, the more you appreciate the entire experience.
For now, though, we are comfortable. We eat, settle in, and fall asleep. The wind howls through the night, not easing until just before dawn.
Wednesday, 02.04.2025, 05:00, Geroskipou. Day 3. I opened my eyes before the alarm went off. It was still night. I noticed movement in the water and couldn’t believe what I was seeing — two or three elderly swimmers had just finished their morning swim and were wrapping themselves in towels. A strange bond stirred inside me, as if we were characters in a story titled “People who taste the sea while the rest of the world sleeps.” Antonis woke up too, and we got ready. Today, we were heading to Pissouri. The sea was unsettled, but the Rebel Husky is a weapon. It demands a combative, athletic approach—this isn’t the kind of kayak you sit back and relax in, nor is it for beginners. The more technique, power, and speed you give it, the more it gives back, becoming almost an extension of your body. It’s incredibly fast in all conditions, responding with surgical precision to every command. Antonis and the Sea Lion had become inseparable. Some storm clouds gathered ahead but gradually shifted inland. We reached Petra tou Romiou, the massive rock between land and sea, also known as Aphrodite’s Rock.
Legend has it that Aphrodite was born here, rising from the foaming sea, from the severed genitals of Uranus. Another local tale says the rock was hurled by Digenis Akritas from the Pentadaktylos Mountains to defend Cyprus from pirate invasions. Just then, my phone rang — a call from a Cypriot TV show. I shared a few words about the expedition and its mission. A few meters to my left, Antonis disappeared now and then among the big waves of the open sea that lifted and dropped us. This region is notorious for rough weather, especially when the wind blows from the west — the most common direction — building wide, powerful waves. Right now, a choppy Beaufort 4 wind came from the side and slightly astern. At Cape Aspro, we turned inward to enter the Bay of Pissouri. We were almost there. Approaching the beach, a huge wave grabbed Antonis and nearly flipped him. But Antonis, ever ready, threw himself and the Aquarius Sea Lion onto the wave, surfing it sideways, putting on quite a show. Okay, I was the only spectator — but that didn’t matter. At the landing, some surf still crashed onto the beach, but it was all under control.
“With our powerful headlamps and deck lights on, Antonis and I began paddling through the night. For the first time, the sea was perfectly calm. Across the water, the lights of the bases and the Akrotiri lighthouse twinkled faintly.”
Pissouri.
One of the two or three most beautiful villages in Cyprus. I could easily live there permanently if given the chance. The weather had warmed a bit — nothing special, around 18–19°C — but it felt great. Since the forecast predicted very strong winds for the next day, Thursday, April 3rd, we decided to stay put. I booked a room for some comfort. Once settled, we went out for food. We ordered two massive pizzas, barely fitting on the table, and a couple of beers. Later that evening, we dined at a refined restaurant with excellent food and service. The entire next day was spent resting. But time was running short. In the next three days, we had to cover serious distance. On the bright side, Cyprus’s counterclockwise sea current was on our side — weak, around 1 to 1.5 knots, but still giving us a push — and most importantly, a westerly wind at our backs as we traveled east.
“As we paddled alongside the British bases, we heard gunshots. A pickup truck appeared on a nearby dirt road, clearly observing us.”
Friday, 04.04.2025, 04:30, Pissouri. Day 5. To cover this leg of the journey, we had to start in the dark and cut directly across to Akrotiri, in the British Sovereign Base Areas — trimming the distance a bit. With our powerful headlamps and deck lights on, Antonis and I began paddling through the night. For the first time, the sea was perfectly calm. Across the water, the lights of the bases and the Akrotiri lighthouse twinkled faintly. Gradually, the blackness of night began to give way. First, a faint glow appeared behind Akrotiri, slowly spreading across the sky. Talking with Antonis as we paddled made the miles fly by. You get lost in conversation and barely notice when the next waypoint comes into view. The sun rose. Shortly after, we touched the western cape of Akrotiri. As we paddled alongside the British bases, we heard gunshots. A pickup truck appeared on a nearby dirt road, clearly observing us.
Most likely, we had been spotted on British radar, and someone was sent to check us out. The gunfire probably came from a nearby firing range. A little further along, we passed Aetokremnos — the oldest known site of human activity in Cyprus, dating back some 12,000 years, even predating the Neolithic settlement of Choirokoitia, and the oldest such site in the insular Mediterranean. Findings at Aetokremnos prove that humans were already making open-sea journeys with paddle-powered vessels during the Paleolithic era — somehow reaching the island despite the sea separating Cyprus from the nearest land. These early inhabitants are believed to have caused the extinction of two species native to the island during the Epipaleolithic: the pygmy hippopotamus and the pygmy elephant.
After passing Akrotiri, we set course for Limassol.
Above these shores, amid skyscrapers, metallic structures, luxury hotels, and restaurants, a completely different Cyprus lives and breathes. Unlike Paphos, which has developed with refinement and respect for tradition, Limassol loudly proclaims its “wealth” and “success.” Some people like it, others don’t. Although it’s not really my style, it does have a few charming spots — like the pier. We landed on a beach next to the yacht clubs for a coffee. Here, Russian is heard more often than Cypriot. We found two comfy chairs and relaxed for a while. Storm clouds were beginning to gather, playing with the sun. It was nearly noon, and we had already covered more than two-thirds of the leg.
About 11–12 coastal miles remained to Governor’s Beach. We got back into the kayaks for the final stretch of the day, with the wind at our backs. As we left Limassol behind, paddling beside the white limestone cliffs, the first thunderclaps echoed in the distance — still several kilometers inland, but a warning nonetheless. Sure enough, the storm caught up to us soon after — though weakened. Rain, darkness, cold, and strong gusts of wind followed. We hugged the cliffs as closely as possible for shelter. Not much farther now. Then the storm completely faded and the sky cleared. A magnificent rainbow appeared before us, displaying richer shades than we had ever seen — incredible blues, purples, and pinks. Like a small gift for all our effort. After paddling 37 nautical miles that day, we reached Governor’s Beach.
There was only one taverna open. A friend and former classmate of my brother’s, Dimitris Chatzikoutoulis, showed up there with his family. They had come to the island for a few days and had been following our progress on the Live Map. I was genuinely happy to see him. They also brought us a generous load of supplies. We all sat down and shared a meal together. The hospitable owner grilled some large pork chops for us — “kotolettes,” as they’re called here in Cyprus, or something similar. They had even lit a cozy fire inside. We placed our wet clothes near the hearth, hoping they’d dry a bit, since putting on damp kayaking gear at dawn for another day on the water was far from ideal. After all, with the chilly nights we’d had, there hadn’t been enough time for our second and third sets of clothes to dry properly. The owner kindly offered us the veranda outside the taverna to sleep on. It provided some shelter from the cold and dampness. Overnight, the temperature dropped to around 11–12°C.
Two Final Days
Saturday, 05.04.2025, 05:00, Governor’s Beach. Day 6. The colorful lights from the installations at the Vasilikos terminal reflected softly on the dark waters of the bay. This was where the construction of the LNG station had begun. Despite our efforts, the clothes near the fireplace hadn’t dried much. It didn’t matter — after the initial chill, the body always adjusts. It was the second to last day of our journey. Just before dawn, we passed under the ship-loading pier and headed straight northeast on a bearing of 65–70 degrees. With a favorable westerly breeze pushing us, we reached Perivolia easily, and at the lighthouse, we turned inward toward Larnaca Bay.
As expected, the weather went wild inside the bay, with gusts reaching 27–28 knots. The wind was so strong that, although blowing from the land, it curved around and blew nearly parallel to the coast. On the short, choppy waves, our kayaks surfed effortlessly. Antonis and the Sea Lion were having a blast. A tourist boat passed by. Some of the tourists spotted us, got excited, and waved.The wind raged on. Ahead lay Oroklini. We entered through the breakwaters, which softened the weather somewhat, and pulled the boats ashore. I had booked a room at a nice hotel. Being the penultimate day, we decided to treat ourselves to proper rest and a good meal. After so many miles and such a battle out there, there are no words to describe the feeling of lying down on a soft mattress.
Sunday, 06.04.2025, 08:00, Oroklini. Day 7. Final day. We decided to leave a bit later, to get some extra sleep.We set off from Oroklini in calm seas beneath light clouds. We paddled straight to Xylofagou. A couple of dolphins played nearby, and a large sea turtle swam slowly at the surface. The sea felt alive, even here. We paddled gently. After all, we were nearly done. I had imagined this expedition differently — more relaxed, with more participants, maybe some shore-based events where we could speak more about the threats facing the marine environment. But it turned out to be another commando-style mission. Fast and simple.
We made a short stop at Liopetri, then continued along the coast to Ayia Napa Marina, and from there set a course for Cape Greco, paddling offshore past golden beaches deserted at this time of year. Halfway through, we faced an easterly headwind. Nothing serious, a solid Force 3–4, but still — on the final day, we had hoped the calm would hold a bit longer. To finish like humans. More peacefully. To enjoy the coastline just a little more. I looked at Antonis, with his Sea Lion and Greenland paddle. We worked together excellently again this year. Everything is so much better, so much more beautiful, when you have good company — when there’s teamwork, mutual understanding, a positive spirit, and some laughs. Antonis made a huge effort to be here — a whole week away from family and work. The great rock of Cape Greco stood ahead.
We turned toward Protaras. The sea was a bit choppy. To our left, the chapel of Agioi Anargyroi. In the distance, I saw Christothea, with Kostas and Pantelitsa, waving at us. I felt emotional. Five years had passed since I first thought of this idea. And now it was coming to an end. With light surfing, we landed on the beach at Konnos Bay. Finish. In the distance, the occupied Famagusta. And even farther still, across the sea, Karpasia with Cape Apostolos Andreas — the easternmost tip of Cyprus. We stepped out of our kayaks and embraced each other. As much as I rejoiced that we had made it, I felt something was missing. We must not grow used to the idea that this — this divided version — is all that Cyprus is. From one checkpoint to another, with the Green Line and a few barricades splitting the island in two. Let us keep alive the dream of liberation and reunification. A dream in which the kayaks don’t stop at Protaras and Paralimni, but continue to Rizokarpaso, Apostolos Andreas, and from there to Kyrenia, Morphou, Pachyammos, and all the way back again.
A perfect circle.
Antonis Sotiropoulos
I remember years ago hearing Aggelos — fresh back from his expedition in Italy — talking excitedly about planning a sea voyage the following year to cover the unoccupied coastline of Cyprus. A particularly demanding mission, once again outside Greece, one that would require solving dozens of logistical puzzles before we could even set foot in the water. It was clear from the start: this journey would be anything but simple. In the end, instead of us going to Cyprus for the expedition, Aggelos was the one who started a new life there — and the pandemic lockdown postponed our original plans indefinitely.
The years passed as we continued to explore the Aegean, while Aggelos settled into his “semi-permanent” life on the island, slowly uncovering Cyprus’s hidden beauties. Last year, while covering Amorgos — somewhere out there lost in the “Infinite” — we made our decision: the time had come for Cyprus. After a scouting trip to assess the waters and climate, everything was set in motion for our 15th expedition. Maps came out of storage, and planning began in earnest. As always, our commitments were immense, and such a journey demanded time. This year, it would be just Aggelos and me — so we decided to go commando-style, aiming to cover 25 to 30 nautical miles per day, with a goal to complete the route in no more than a week. The only months we could paddle were March and April. Fortunately, that posed no problem for Cyprus — April, in particular, is almost a summer month with temperatures exceeding 20°C. From my trip at the same time last year, I still remember being impressed by the warmth that felt more like early summer than spring.
Months passed in a blur of preparation, both on and off the water, until the moment finally arrived to pack our summer gear and essential equipment — because in just a few days, we were flying to Cyprus!
And that’s when the surprises began…
I’ll never forget Aggelos’ call five days before departure:
“Man, we’ve got a major problem with the weather — I’ve never seen anything like this in Cyprus at this time of year.” Temperatures barely above freezing, thunderstorms, and fierce winds were forecast for the entire expedition week. Suddenly, our summer gear with sun protection had to be swapped out for a demanding full winter kit. When you’re paddling all day in such conditions, staying warm and dry after landing on a deserted beach is essential — without it, finishing is impossible. Seven days straight like that is not just tough — it’s dangerous. We had to rethink the entire route after downloading the weather charts and realizing our carefully crafted itinerary was basically a six-day storm crossing. At first, we seriously considered canceling — that thought crossed our minds more than once. But after many adjustments and much reflection, I found myself boarding a plane to Cyprus at dawn on Monday. I couldn’t even imagine what the sea had in store for us.
The schedule was so tight that as soon as I landed, Aggelos and our friend Vasilis picked me up — and within three hours, we had to be in northwestern Cyprus to start, wasting not a single minute. All week, we would push beyond our limits to outrun the storms. As always, we forgot the golden rule: plans exist to be broken. Just 15 minutes into the drive, a massive traffic jam stopped us cold. A serious accident had split the island in two, closing roads and backing up traffic for miles. But a good kayaker must adapt. After 4 grueling hours, through fields and mountains, we finally arrived at the starting point.
Eyes blazing with determination, within 20 minutes our boats were packed to the brim — winter gear and provisions leaving no inch of free space in the hatches. With the Greenland paddle hitting the deck, we launched into a race against the clock… For a week, we faced everything: Four seasons. Violent thunderstorms flashing lightning across the sky, headwinds over 25 knots, massive following seas. Despite the relentless weather and the challenges on land and sea, Aggelos and I moved like a single, finely tuned machine. After all these miles together, in the water, we are one body. And truly, it’s this bond that carried us through.
Covering 38 nautical miles in a single day in rain and wind — then reaching your destination cold and soaked, the only living soul around your paddling partner — and still rising at 4 AM to do it all again the next day. It’s easy to break under that kind of pressure. Only the strongest seafaring bonds bring joy in such conditions — and we found plenty to smile about. For a week, we paddled through an incredible coastline — wild cliffs, sandy beaches, towering skyscrapers, and traditional fishing villages. The conditions were brutal, but our smiles never faded. When huge tuna leapt beside us, my smile grew even wider. Not a single day passed without marveling at the rich marine life — from carefree sea turtles cruising near the surface to pods of dolphins offshore.
Cyprus’s coastline is truly worth every effort. You experience something no other way can offer. Thankfully, chaotic mass-tourism hasn’t swallowed the entire shore — large stretches remain wild, clean, and vibrant with life. And “wild,” “clean,” and “untouched” are exactly the words that linger with me from this 15th expedition.
Through all the hardship, I feel an equal measure of fulfillment whenever I think back. These experiences let you glimpse the truth of things. And that truth is out there…
On the biggest wave we ever rode.
So now — let’s set sail for the next one.
Planning for Expedition 16 has already begun.
