Charles Veley and others of his ilk aren’t like most of us. They want, and intend, to go everywhere.

I met Charles last night when I went to hear Rolf Potts speak about his books, Vagabonding: An Uncommon Guide to the Art of Long-Term World Travel, and Marco Polo Didn’t Go There: Stories and Revelations from One Decade as a Postmodern Travel Writer.

I’ve known Rolf for many years now but catch up with him only occasionally. My excuse last night was he was in San Francisco, and as executive editor of Travelers’ Tales I was partly responsible for bringing his latest book, Marco Polo Didn’t Go There, into the world. I couldn’t let our author pass through town with saying hello and shaking his hand.

It turned out that Rolf had written a story about Charles for The New York Times Magazine that had run just two days earlier, on Sunday, Nov. 16, and Charles and his wife were there with a basket of wine to greet Rolf and improve the mood after the event.

Charles looked vaguely familiar—I realized I’d read about him somewhere before and must have seen a photo of him. But here he was in the flesh, the current title holder of Most Traveled Person in the World with 709 of the world’s recognized places under his belt (well, perhaps more appropriately their soil in the treads of his well-worn boots). Turned out the reigning king of travel isn’t a swashbuckler but an engaging, gracious regular guy.

We chatted about kids and schools and books and finding office space in the Presidio (where Triporati is located) and when Rolf’s book-signing duties were over the party moved down the street to a restaurant. When you’re with the World’s Most Traveled Person and Rolf Potts, vagabond and writer extraordinaire, you assume the conversation will range all over the world, and I’m sure it did.

I, however, being a writer myself, had a deadline that night for a story that my editors in the eastern time zone would be demanding before I awoke the next day, so I had to leave. But I took solace in the knowledge that I’d have another chance to talk with Charles because he was here in San Francisco—for a while. I’m sure it won’t be long before he heads out to visit place number 758.

I took a deep breath, gazed at the horizon, looked down once more, then dove toward that memory. Down, down, arms reaching, chin tucked, feet pointed, down to the sea, slicing without impact into that lapis pool, cool silk caressing my skin. Down, down, into that radiant mystical sapphire that dazzles like a sunrise, like a shooting star, like a full moon glimpsed through autumn trees. Down into that blue that is so blue it feels like it’s reaching into the cosmos.

My favorite moments on the seven-day gulet trip were diving off the bow, swimming in that jewel-colored water, floating on my back looking into the blue sky, then rolling over and gazing into the depths that threw back an even bluer reflection. I never tired of it no matter how much the salt stung my eyes, and I gladly returned every day.

Paddling a kayak also provided a way to immerse myself in the seascape, feeling the paddle pulling the water as I propelled forward, exploring the shoreline out to the ends of the harbors and beyond. My moments of deepest tranquility—except for one moment of lying on deck looking up the main mast as the sails captured the wind—took place in the kayak.

These were the two activities I was loath to leave behind, so on our last day at sea I made sure to do both, swimming early and late in the day, diving off the bowsprit each time, then paddling slowly along the shore as the sun began to settle, giving up only when I knew it was time to move on, back to Bodrum, back to Istanbul and San Francisco and my life off the boat.

With the final paddle strokes I took solace in the knowledge that I would be back, as certain as the dolphins leap in the sea, the bathing beauties come to Cleopatra’s Island to show off their stuff, and the Turkish people welcome visitors with open arms.

But I’d never seen or tasted “yellow tea,” served to us in a café seldom visited by tourists in the village of Bozalan. The men of the town had congregated there, as they no doubt do every day, and welcomed us to their fraternity.

At our captain’s recommendation we ordered the local brew, and when it came the pale yellow tea had a grassy, earthy smell and flavor that was hard to identify. Eventually someone recognized it: sage. It tasted of the dry earth and local fields, an herb tea I plan to try to recreate at home. But without the hourglass-shaped glass, demi-spoon, and our Turkish hosts watching over us it probably won’t be the same. I’ll try nonetheless, and I can call that village scene to mind whenever I do.

Carpet merchants from the cities know that the women of Bozalan make some of Turkey’s finest carpets, and they come regularly to buy finished carpets or place orders. The labor and skill involved in weaving these carpets staggers the imagination.

The women are so skilled at a young age, having been weaving since their teens, that they produce the intricate designs the carpets are known for without using a pattern: they create them from memory. All the wool is hand-dyed, the looms hand-operated. The tasks to weave a large carpet require the labor of four people ten hours a day for a month, with the final product selling for about 2,000 Turkish lire, or roughly $1,667.

At that rate I found myself appropriately concerned about spilling food when we were invited to sit on cushions on these exquisite carpets to feast on gözleme (traditional Turkish flatbread stuffed with cheese or greens or potatoes), olives, eggplant, ayran (a traditional Turkish yogurt drink), salad of greens, tomatoes and cucumbers, and a focaccia-like moist bread that was so delicious I can still taste it. Our plates were covered in sauces and oils, the serving dishes unavoidably showing drips down their sides as we ate. How could we keep stains off these exquisite carpets? But only we seemed to be concerned. Adnan Görgün and his wife Gülnaz and daughters paid no heed to such matters, extending hospitality without a second thought. And somehow we avoided making a mess as we relaxed in their open-air living room beneath an arbor covered with leafy vines overlooking the village and the hills that tumbled to the sapphire sea sparkling in the distance.

Sated, we thanked them, paid them for our lunch, and made our way down the mountain. There was never a thought of buying or selling carpets, just a desire to show us what their lives were like, how carpets were made, how hospitality is granted.

It was a charming story and I thought little more of it until about an hour later when we were cruising toward our next anchorage. Suddenly Jennifer shrieked “Dolphin!” and Captain Mustafa dashed to starboard and up to the bow howling with joy. He grabbed a steel rod and began banging it against the anchor pulley and calling to them. One after the other they leapt out of the sea alongside us, a dozen or more sleek gray creatures arcing above the surface like dancers. We leaned over the rail, too awed to do more than shriek and wail.

Then suddenly they were gone.

“They were feeding,” Mustafa said, “that’s why some came, then turned back. They were busy. But they were playing with us.”

“What a sight,” I said. “There were so many.”

“About thirty,” Mustafa said, boyish excitement in his voice.

His whole life has been of the sea, yet no matter how many years he’s spent on the water, it’s clear he’s still enchanted by it. For me it was impossible not to be enchanted as well.

Business was brisk but the pace unhurried, as if everyone knew that the point of the market was to socialize and enjoy themselves even if the motivation was to convert goods to cash. Most women wore traditional dress: loose headscarves in striking colors, long patterned skirts. Ages ranged from young to ancient. Their faces projected a deep calmness, as if settled like the sea on a windless day. Same with the men: their lined faces with bristly mustaches formed quiet portraits of time, but their sudden smiles burst like sunrises revealing a mischievous appreciation of the moment.

We strolled among the stalls, made our purchases to contribute to the commonweal, then returned to the beach with its straw umbrellas in many colors that fellow sailor Judy said looked like parasols in fancy cocktails. The sea reflected the tranquility of the village, its calm surface disturbed only by the dingy coming to collect us and return us to the ship.

Dozens of bathers filled the shallow turquoise waters lapping a short crescent beach that was roped off to prevent damage from all of us. Behind the beach an army of chaise longues shaded by umbrellas marched in rows to accommodate the crowds. It was as if I’d wandered from an isolated, essentially deserted beach scene into a parallel universe where hedonism was the law of the land. In the water, women of all ages, sizes, and shapes posed in all their glory for “Cleopatra” photo-ops that made me appreciate their obvious comfort with their bodies. I learned later that they were Russians, and they inspired the women in our group to channel their inner Cleopatras and pose for similar campy photos.

Signs abounded warning us not to remove any sand or face the full weight of the Turkish state bearing down on us. We could reach through the ropes or stick in a toe to feel it, and I must confess it did have a fine texture, though I don’t think I’d be able to identify it in a blind test.

I made my way around the island visiting the amphitheater that once held 2500 people, the Apollo Sanctuary, the Byzantine Basilica, watchtowers and cisterns, even walking the short perimeter of the island where broken lines on the map suggested half a trail existed, but that turned out to be an exaggeration and I led two of my sailing compatriots seriously astray. One, Carrie, feared she’d have to throw away her skirt because it became so covered in burrs; the other, Judy, would have throttled me if she could have caught up with me without spraining an ankle on the rubble. I have to admit I felt a little embarrassed to be scrambling through the underbrush tramping over the remains of such a prominent ancient site. But that’s also part of the appeal of Turkey: you can walk in, on, and around ancient historical sites and feel them with your feet and hands.

The best part of the walk was simply sitting on the remains of a wall and gazing out to sea, letting the eons wash over me with the breeze and the lapping waves. And then I had my second surreal experience of the day. When I returned to Cleopatra Beach I saw absolutely no one. It was as if that parallel universe had snapped back and I was left with that deserted beach scene I’d started with. The beach chairs, the beach, the bay, everything was deserted as if no one had ever come. And sure enough, the roped off beach with the famous sand showed nary a footprint.

We sailed the same lapis sea, dove into the same blue, blue water, but visited other places such as English Harbor, where the British hid their submarines during World War II, Bachelor Harbor, where before the age of engines sailors waited for the winter winds to blow them back to their homes after stocking up on firewood, Cleopatra’s Island, with its famous government-protected sand found only there and in Egypt, the quiet seaside village of Oren with its engaging Wednesday market, the hill town of Bozalan, known for its carpet weaving but now known to our group as a place of special hospitality.

We may have been biased but our boat, the gulet Kaptan Sevket (a gulet is a traditional Turkish wooden yacht), was the most beautiful on the high seas with its blue and woodgrain mahogany hull and blue masts. For seven days it was our home, seven days of relaxing on deck, swimming in the sea, paddling kayaks in hidden coves, hiking in the forest, and exploring Hellenic ruins, all the while eating like Ottoman royalty. We also had our own special interest, building a writers’ group and pursuing the writer’s craft, which we did for several hours each day. But such special interest is no requirement: gulets can be booked with no agenda beyond enjoying yourself. There’s just one thing to keep in mind: once you’ve sailed here you may be compelled to come back again and again. The exquisite waters of the Aegean Sea quickly get into your blood.