If there's a fig tree on the shore of a cove in August, you'll know it by the smell first. In the midday heat its leaves warm through, and that heavy, faintly milky scent drifts all the way down to the water. The branches hang low; pull off a ripe fig and a drop of white sap wells from the stem, sticks to your finger, stings a little. If the base of the fruit has split, it's just right — that split is the tree saying "ready now." In your mouth comes the warmth of the sun first, then a honeyed sweetness, and last the faint crunch of the little seeds.
The fig from a supermarket isn't this. It's something else.
Why It Won't Travel
At full ripeness a fig is so delicate it can barely carry its own weight. So the ones sent to export or a distant market are picked before they're ready, still firm; they "ripen" on the road, but leave half of that first taste behind them. In the Aegean, old orchard keepers pick figs early in the morning, while it's cool — because as the day warms the fruit softens and loses its hold on the branch. And there's this: a tree gives twice in a single summer. The first crop is early summer's large, faintly watery fig; the real abundance comes with the second crop in August — smaller, darker, sweeter. If you pass by sea and the shade under the shoreline figs has deepened, you're in the middle of the season.
Figs on Deck
There's no need to wonder what to do with figs aboard; the best thing is to do nothing. Rinse them, halve them, lay them on a plate. A little salty white cheese sits well alongside — the old friendship of sweet and salt. Some captains crack a piece of walnut over them, others serve them with a spoon of clotted cream. Late in the afternoon, as the sun comes down, with something cold beside it, the fig's place is usually before dessert, the plainest moment of the table. Don't keep what's left for morning — the fig doesn't like to wait, so don't make it.
For a charter guest, the meaning of this is the tie between the rhythm of the sea and what you eat. A fig taken from the shore while anchored in a cove isn't a course; it's the date of that day, a reminder of where you stopped and which tree you passed beneath. A good crew knows this and sets the route not only by the wind, but sometimes by what the season is giving.
The stem is still sticky on your finger. You rinse it with seawater and it doesn't quite come off. Leave it; until evening, that scent will keep reminding you it's August.
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