The dock is deserted as I step off the ferry. Granted, I did just catch a quick mid-morning ride down the coast; most monks on Athos, Greece’s Orthodox Christian peninsula, will retreat to their quarters in the daytime heat. But to now be the only pilgrim making his way up the dusty stone pathway – which, as far as I can tell in the glare, snakes its way between a collection of hillside structures before cresting over a jagged peak onward toward the monastery Stavronikita – is a bit daunting. At each of the other monasteries I visited I arrived with a group of other pilgrims, the vast majority Greek, Romanian, or Bulgarian; but nonetheless together, sweating and sore from crisscrossing the holy landmass on foot, by boat, and by overstuffed van seeking opportunities to commune with monks, venerate sacred relics, and be immersed in a lifestyle that has largely remained unchanged for a thousand years. Until now, I’d benefitted from the guidance of these devout Orthodox Christians, some of them on their third, twelfth, even fiftieth pilgrimage to the peninsula.

With the mechanical sputter of the ferry engine quickly fading behind me, I sheepishly approach the compound. To my left is a small motorized fishing boat draped in a gold sheet, and before me and up the stone walkway are mounds and mounds of coiled fishing nets. I ascend lugging my backpack and camera bag, hoping to come upon a smiling monk eager to offer a handful of loukoumi, the Greek version of Turkish delight, and a quick shot of the herbal liquor tsipouro while checking my entry permit, as had typically occurred; but no – only the din of cicadas greets me.

I peer into one of the buildings. Inside is a scattered smattering of tools and half-completed handyman projects, clearly the workshop of someone operating in solitude. Inside another building an array of black vestments hangs from multicolored plastic clothespins to dry; not haphazardly, per se, but in the manner of someone who has grown comfortable in the liberation achieved when unbothered by the judgments of others.

Suddenly, a whirl of black cloth emerges behind me. “Hello!” says my host, arm outstretched and cloak billowing. Here is the smiling monk, I think, and a smile he indeed has, nestled within his unkempt gray beard. Hugging his eyes are deep laugh lines, etched, I imagine, from many years of joyful conversation. 

“Come,” he says, motioning toward his workshop. I follow him solemnly, as any respectful pilgrim would. He unlatches a heavy wooden door bearing a carved cross, and pushes it inward. 

The first thing I notice is the cacophony of the pet bird. In the far corner of the workshop along windows that overlook the Aegean Sea sits perched an African Grey parrot clicking and whistling on a custom-built tree habitat. Surrounding him – surrounding us all, really – is an array of Christian icons, candles, tools, and books; a fish tank gurgles along another wall, a chess board sits primed for play. This cluttered space is a stark contrast to the spartan interiors a la the Byzantine Era I’ve encountered elsewhere on the peninsula.

“Lucas,” the monk says, motioning to the bird in an act of introduction. The parrot eyes me with suspicion. Lucas, I think to myself, reflecting on the Gospel of Luke and Acts of the Apostles. Luke served as physician for and companion to Paul; likewise, a good pet serves as a companion to its owner, able to heal and comfort. The name seems appropriate, even profound. Luke, as an evangelist, emphasized mercy and humanity, and shared words of salvation and forgiveness.

“You know George Lucas? The film director,” the monk adds. I nod. It’s now my turn to smile.

“Can he talk?” I ask, nodding to Lucas.

“Yes,” the monk replies wryly. “He calls me ‘stupid.’”

I laugh, and the monk disappears into the building. I extract my entry permit from my bag, thinking I’m about to register for my overnight pilgrimage stay. I move aside a few items on the table in front of me in order to lay the document down flat and notice, secured beneath the plastic tabletop, a photograph of my monk friend posed triumphantly with a gigantic bluefin tuna. 

He returns, drawing my eyes back upward. In his hands are a grilled cheese sandwich, a chocolate bar, and a bottle of orange juice. “Please, sit,” the monk urges me. He lays the food before me – indeed, a delicious and welcome repast after journeying under the hot sun. He waves the permit away; his hospitality comes without any need for justification. I notice the orange juice bottle is only about two-thirds full. And grilled cheese? This is a far cry from the formal receptions of previous monasteries.

Between sips of the juice and bites of the sandwich and chocolate bar I engage in light conversation. I learn his name is Father Ieremías (“Jeremy, for you,” he says with another smile). Since nobody can be born on Athos, a peninsula that forbids women, he, like all monks, had to come from somewhere else. I learn he was born in Thessaloniki, and pursued a career as a teacher. His subjects were first history, then theology. This, he says, is why he knows some English, though he admits he rarely has the chance to speak it.

I point to the photo of him and the tuna. He nods and reveals his primary role within the monastery Stavronikita is that of fishermonk, a portmanteau I hadn’t considered before, but an obvious one nonetheless. Monks are allowed exclusive rights to fish in the 500 meters of sea surrounding the peninsula. They utilize rods, nets, and small, sometimes motorized boats. The guiding ethos on the peninsula is sustainability; after all, the monasteries grow and source their own food, and each monk reduces his net consumption to near-nil, using only what is needed and eschewing the rest. 

As we continue to talk, Father Jeremy doesn’t strike me as being like the rest of the Holy Community. While the rest of the brotherhood rises in the very early morning to perform the daily liturgy, Jeremy rises to perform the duties of a fisherman. Solitude is a shared experience for all monks, but Jeremy prefers solitude amidst rolling waters, or talkative birds. The chess board, the tools, the fishing rod – devotion comes in many forms.

I look again at the orange juice bottle, now empty. The informality of this encounter, the disinterest Father Jeremy showed in the entry permit, the grilled cheese sandwich – I realize I’ve been spending time not with a pilgrim coordinator, but with a laborer taken away from his work. Serving the orange juice wasn’t planned; it was just what he had in his fridge, a spontaneous decision to honor a monastic commitment to hospitality, even if only two-thirds full.

“Come,” he says. He senses I’ve had this minor epiphany and saves me the humble embarrassment by relocating our conversation to the water. We move toward the door. “Watch for Lucas,” Father Jeremy warns, ushering me outdoors as the bird lunges toward us. With swift precision, Father Jeremy swings the door shut just in time to blockade Lucas inside in what seems like a regular routine. “Stupid!” the bird calls, his voice now muffled by the thick wood.

We walk back down to the shore. To my surprise, two younger men stand hidden along the craggy coastline, fishing. A third rod leans against a rock. From this vantage point I can see the stone walkway where I, a wandering stranger, undoubtedly caught this trio off-guard. These younger men are monks-in-training visiting from Athens, guests who had also been welcomed in by Father Jeremy.

Monks step away from modern society for a variety of reasons; Father Jeremy hinted, without ever stating outright, that his monastic vocation stemmed from his dedication to theology, and that his life’s dramatic turn was an attempt to more embody fully the spirituality he had formerly studied. All monks of Athos, fishermonks included, maintain a singular focus: a devotion to God, to prayer, and to the counsel of pilgrims.

And for any given pilgrim, whose journey is as internal as it is external, the act of transitioning from a materialistic world to a more spiritual one – or interpreting experiences when those worlds overlap – may require guidance. Perhaps Father Jeremy’s background in secular academia uniquely equips him for this role – someone who is far more casual and jovial than many monks, who fishes with pilgrims rather than performing the daily liturgy with them. For me, and likely for other pilgrims traveling this sacred peninsula, Father Jeremy is like a lighthouse, a beacon when we find ourselves on uncharted waters seeking dry land. The young men nod at me, but nothing more. As in monastic life, we are alone, but together.