Prologue: The Dragon, the Goats, and the Rusks
According to Cretan legend, Dia and its islets were not merely born of stone and sea, but of divine anger and sudden mercy.
From his throne on Olympus, Zeus looked down upon Crete, the island of his birth. What he saw filled him with fury: Cretans hunting the wild goats (kri-kris) that roamed the mountains—the sacred children of Amalthea, the goat who had nourished him with milk while he hid from Kronus in the Diktaean Cave.
Enraged, Zeus resolved to destroy them all. He struck the sea with lightning, and from the waves rose a monstrous dragon, sent to devour the island and its people. The other gods pleaded with him to relent, but Zeus would not listen. Then Poseidon, lord of the sea, spoke:
“Father and King, how can you devastate the Kourites? Is this how you repay the ones who saved you?”
The Kourites were the same Cretans who had clashed their shields to muffle the cries of infant Zeus, protecting him from Kronos’ hunger. At Poseidon’s words, Zeus faltered. His rage turned to guilt, and in a moment of remorse, he cast two pieces of rusk into the sea. The dragon snapped at them, but Zeus hurled a thunderbolt, turning the beast to stone, petrified forever with the rusks in its jaws.
Thus Dia took shape, the great dragon-island guarding the horizon of Heraklion, with the smaller islets of Paximadi and Petalidi lying beside it like crumbs of bread.
Every wave that breaks against Dia still carries the echo of that myth.
Born of Myth
The Cretan poet Vitsentzos Kornaros recalled how Zeus, angered by mortals, once sent a giant dragon to devour Crete. At the last moment, the god of the sea, Poseidon, intervened—turning the beast into stone. That dragon became Dia, and the smaller outcrops beside it—Paximadi and Petalidi—are said to be the fragments of fire that fell from its jaws.
Today, from the Venetian harbor walls of Heraklion, the island still appears alive: its curved spine, its jagged “head,” and the smaller islets, like teeth, scattered in the deep blue. For centuries, sailors swore that Dia guarded the city, a mythic breakwater keeping enemies at bay.
A Landscape Untouched
Beyond the story, Dia is a protected Natura 2000 reserve, largely untouched by modern development. Its cliffs fall sharply into astonishingly clear waters, a turquoise clarity that reminds visitors how fragile the Aegean remains. Paximadi and Petalidi, little more than barren islets beside their dragon-shaped mother, are part of the same ecological embrace: rocky refuges for seabirds, resting points for migratory flocks, and silent witnesses to millennia of navigation.
On Dia itself, aromatic shrubs—thyme, sage, dittany—cling to dry soil, while wild goats move cautiously across the ridges. The shoreline serves as a nesting site for the endangered Mediterranean monk seal. Underwater, the seagrass meadows ripple like green silk, feeding fish that sustain not only the ecosystem but also local fishing traditions back in Heraklion.
The Venetian Harbor’s Companion
For locals, Dia is more than a reserve—it is a constant presence. Sitting in Heraklion’s cafés along the seafront, people often point out its silhouette, noting how the island changes color with the time of day. At dawn, it is a soft pink; at noon, it is a sharp ochre; by evening, it sinks into violet. Its smaller companions, Paximadi and Petalidi, are harder to glimpse. Still, old fishermen know them well: tiny marks on the chart, but crucial for reading the currents and for the long history of seafaring between Crete and the Cyclades.
Among the thyme-scented slopes of Dia lives a shy, almost mythical creature: the Cretan wild goat, or kri-kri. Once roaming freely across Crete, today their numbers are small and carefully protected. On Dia, they find refuge in the steep cliffs and hidden ravines, where few humans tread.
The kri-kris are part of Crete’s living heritage. With their curved horns and sure-footed grace, they embody both resilience and fragility—symbols of survival in a rugged land. For visitors lucky enough to glimpse them, even at a distance, they are reminders that Dia is more than stone and legend: it is a sanctuary, still pulsing with life.
Jacques-Yves Cousteau and the Secrets of Dia
In the 1970s, the legendary oceanographer Jacques-Yves Cousteau turned his gaze to Crete. His explorations around Dia revealed more than just crystalline waters. Off the island’s southern coast, divers uncovered traces of ancient harbor works—remnants of a Minoan past when Dia was not only myth but also a living port.
These submerged structures, mapped and photographed during Cousteau’s surveys, confirmed local stories that the island once played a vital role in seafaring. They also fed the imagination: could Dia have been one of the harbors of Knossos, lost to earthquakes and rising seas?
For Heraklion residents, Cousteau’s discovery sealed Dia’s place in modern lore. The island was no longer only the dragon of Zeus, but also a silent witness to Minoan maritime power.
Between Silence and Memory
There are ruins on Dia—Minoan harbor installations once mapped by Jacques Cousteau during his explorations of the 1970s. These submerged stones whisper that the island was not always lonely, that people once tried to tame its shores. Today, visitors arrive by boat for a swim or a walk among the thyme, but the sense is always of stepping into a silence larger than oneself. Paximadi and Petalidi are stricter still: you cannot walk their bones of rock without feeling you are intruding on something that belongs solely to the sea.
In an age of overexposed coastlines, Dia remains different: no resorts, no neon, no clamoring tavernas. Just rock, herb, bird, and water. It serves as an antidote to overdevelopment and a reminder that some places should remain primarily for nature, rather than commerce. For Crete, its value is both ecological and symbolic—an anchor of identity just offshore, where legend and geology merge.
The smaller islets, Paximadi and Petalidi, reinforce the lesson. Their very names recall everyday Greek life—paximadi as a humble bread, petalidi as a shellfish—yet their presence is stark, austere, elemental. They remind us that the simplest things endure, if left unspoiled.
Dia, Paximadi, Petalidi: three names, one myth, one fragile ecosystem. To stand on the Heraklion waterfront at sunset and watch the dragon sink into shadow is to understand Crete’s gift: a land where myth explains nature, and nature, in turn, keeps myth alive.
