Arrive at a cove early on a September morning and you'll notice it: a week ago there were six boats here, today there are two. The water still holds yesterday's warmth, but the air above it has thinned a little. The smell of the pines comes through more clearly in the morning — as if the heat had thickened it all through August and only now let it go. The sound of the chain going down lasts longer in an empty cove.
In August a boat arriving here in the afternoon would find nowhere to lie. Now you have a choice.
The Memory of the Water
The warmest month of the sea is not August, as most people assume. Water, unlike land, warms slowly and cools slowly; it gathers the whole summer's heat inside itself and carries that heat into September. That's why September water often feels a touch warmer to the skin than August water. This gap — between an air that cools in the morning and a sea that is still summer — is also why the cove lies flat and unglazed at dawn. Sailors count on it: if the wind is going to come up late, the morning passage is an easy one.
The Meltem Withdraws
The meltem does not cut out all at once in September; it changes its habits. The northwesterly that pressed down hard in the afternoons of July and August now comes up later, drops earlier, and on some days doesn't come at all. This makes the sailing easier, but it also deceives: a captain who chooses an anchorage out of habit, saying "the meltem comes in the afternoon," can meet a wind that turns in the evening and probes the cove from another direction through the night. In September the old captains look not to one direction when they anchor, but to two at once. However sheltered the cove looks in the morning, the breeze that turns at night has to be accounted for.
The Right Rhythm in Little Time
A September route looks no different on the chart from a July one; the difference is in the hours. The same Gökova, the same coves — but now no one is rushing you. You can stay in a cove through the morning, linger until noon, then make a short passage before the wind drops and meet the evening in another cove. Short distances, long pauses. The idea of "many places in little time" belongs to July; September asks for "much time in few places." With the crowd gone, the coves return to what they were: an afternoon fishing boat passes, the sound of an anchor comes from far off, and then silence again.
And there is the light. In September the sun strikes at a lower angle; the steep white glare of the afternoon softens, and the water turns to copper toward evening. Photographers know this light. Sailors know it too, but for another reason: a low light makes the bottom easier to read. When you anchor, it becomes simpler to see the ground, the seagrass, the sand.
September water promises you nothing. It only draws back and leaves the cove to you. The rest is a matter of knowing how to be in the right place at the right hour.
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