August. One day before Savior's Day. On a remote small harbor of some forgotten Greek beach, a group of people are bathing, waiting for the moon to shine above them, running a course through the calm sea. As they are talking, pretty much about everything and nothing, as it must have happened with everyone who bathed there before them. Sofoklis Pothoulakis and Evripidis Periandros with his wife Evlambia, three heads above water, three passing reflections of history into the dimming light, are commenting, overanalyzing, feel frustrated, wishing upon everything relating to their life and this place. And as the pilgrims are gathering one by one, the moon, full, is rising in the horizon.