info@thedukeofmykonos.com
Ornos 84600, Mykonos, Cyclades, Greece
The Last Bachelor: A Brotherhood in Mykonos
Alex had one rule for his bachelor party: “No suits, no speeches, no pretending we’re adults.” So when his five closest friends landed in Mykonos, we handed them the keys to a fleet of ATVs and a map scribbled with directions to Agios Sostis, a beach whispered about only in local circles.
They tore through the island’s backroads at dawn, engines growling, dust swirling behind them like storm clouds. The path wound past sun-bleached chapels and terraced hillsides where wild goats paused to stare. Alex led the pack, his bandana flapping in the wind, whooping as they skidded around bends. By the time they reached Agios Sostis, the sun hung high, and the beach lay empty—a crescent of golden sand lapped by water so clear it mirrored the sky. They dove in, shirts discarded on rocks, the cold shock of the Aegean jolting them awake. For hours, they floated, traded stories of college pranks, and dared each other to cliff-jump off the jagged cove. “This,” Alex’s childhood friend Mark yelled, treading water, “is how you say goodbye to freedom.”
By afternoon, a sleek yacht awaited them at Ornos Bay. The crew greeted them with glasses of Santorini Assyrtiko and plates of grilled octopus, its edges charred to perfection. As the boat carved through the waves toward Rhenia Island, the group sprawled on deck, sunglasses slipping down noses, skin glistening with salt. The captain anchored in a secluded bay, and they plunged into the deep blue, racing to touch the seabed. Later, sprawled on sun pads, they passed a bottle of ouzo, its anise bite sharp on their tongues. The crew chuckled at their jokes—stories of Alex’s infamous karaoke nights and the time they’d gotten lost in Barcelona. “Remember when we thought we’d never make it to 30?” Alex grinned, swirling his drink. “Now we’re here, and I’m the last one standing.”
Back at their villa, twilight painted the sky in lavender streaks. We’d transformed the terrace into a scene from a Mediterranean fairy tale: long wooden tables draped in ivory linen, fairy lights tangled in olive branches, and a local chef tending a roaring grill. The scent of rosemary-marinated lamb and lemon-infused smoke hung in the air. Alex’s friends ribbed him mercilessly—“You’re signing your life away, mate!”—but their toasts betrayed softer truths. Mark clinked his glass: “To Alex, who once bet me he’d never get married… and to Elena, for proving him wrong.” Laughter echoed as platters of dakos salad, saganaki cheese, and slow-cooked beef arrived. Between bites, they resurrected old inside jokes, their voices rising over the clatter of cutlery.
The night blurred into a haze of retsina and nostalgia. They piled into the infinity pool, shirtsleeves rolled up, phones abandoned. Someone produced a waterproof speaker, and soon they were belting out 2000s rock anthems, off-key and unashamed. At 2 a.m., the chef reappeared with a platter of loukoumades—golden dough balls drenched in honey—and a bottle of mastiha liqueur. “For the final toast,” he winked.
By sunrise, they were sprawled in the luxury van, sandy-haired and sunburned, legs propped on leather seats. Nikos, their driver, handed out chilled bottles of water and grinned at their half-conscious banter. Alex fumbled with a disposable Polaroid camera we’d left as a surprise. The first photo captured Mark mid-yawn, head lolled against a window. The second: a blur of limbs as they’d tackled Alex into the pool. But the third—that one stopped them. In it, Alex stood on the yacht’s bow, arms flung wide, his friends’ hands gripping his shoulders. Behind them, the Aegean stretched into infinity, a blue so vivid it seemed painted.
“That’s the one,” Alex said quietly. “That’s how I’ll remember this.”
Mykonos has a way of turning fleeting moments into legends. It’s not just the lamb smoky from the grill, the adrenaline of an ATV ride, or the way the stars cling to the sky here. It’s the way the island pulls you into its rhythm, untethered and alive, until every laugh, every toast, every splash in the sea becomes part of its story—and yours.
As the van curved toward the airport, Alex tucked the Polaroid into his passport. A bookmark, he called it, for the chapter he was closing. But Mykonos? Mykonos never really lets you leave. It lingers in the salt on your skin, the echo of a friend’s laughter, and the quiet certainty that somewhere, an Aegean breeze is still tugging at your shirt, urging you to stay.
To the island that feels like a secret only we know.
Alex
