FETHIYE, Turkey - We knew the fish at lunch was fresh. Just 10 minutes before, our captain had plucked this catch from a wire basket he had pulled onto the boat.
Once aboard, the fish were barbecued whole on a grill in the bow before appearing at our table on the stern deck of our "gulet" (pronounced goo-let), an 85-foot replica of a traditional Turkish fishing boat. We ate them with warm bread, tomatoes, two kinds of olives, mixed salad, feta cheese, stuffed peppers, bulgar, and strawberries.
Fresh food and brilliant sunshine are a large part of every small-boat cruise along the Aegean and Mediterranean coasts. But it's the color of the water - a dazzling, clear, intense blue - that brings travelers here from all over the world. At greater depths the water becomes a strong cobalt blue, morphing into a lighter luminosity that mimics the semiprecious gem and gives this part of Turkey its name: the Turquoise Coast.
Running from Bodrum, the St. Tropez of Turkey, to Finike near Antalya, the Turquoise Coast borders both the Aegean and Mediterranean seas. In Turkey, to sail and motor in and out of secluded coves and inlets at the foot of the precipitous fir-sided Taurus Mountains is to take "the Blue Voyage," a trip that draws tourists from all over.
We boarded our gulet on a soft afternoon in May along with a dozen other Americans. Eyeing our dusty sandals as we stepped onboard the polished teak deck, the smiling captain showed us the cupboard for our shoes and indicated that we should never wear street shoes on this gleaming wood.
Captain Dursun-Ay, and his two sons who made up the crew, spoke no English, and none of us spoke Turkish. Throughout the trip, however, one of our fellow travelers, a sailor, carried on animated "marine speak" with him, involving engines, sails, and navigation.
We boarded at Marmaris, its harbor full of flag-decorated gulets of different sizes but all with the characteristic pointed bow and rounded aft, equipped with mainsail, jib, genoa, and mizzen mast. Walking up the gangplank we could see the Greek island of Rhodes, the last inhabited large island we would be near for the rest of our cruise. An hour or so later, after our vessel had left the harbor, we saw nothing but that mesmerizing water and the Taurus Mountains in the far distance, topped with white rocks that looked like snow.
At anchor that night, snug in our cabin, the deep silence of the remote bay made for peaceful sleep. We understood, on these quiet nights, why Homer called the Aegean coastline "the country of dreams." (Had we wished to sleep outside, the deck at the bow was covered with soft blue pallets for lying under the moon and stars.)