The Captain had been sailing for three days through waters that appeared on no chart when the island emerged from the fog - small, remote, impossibly green against the grey Atlantic. His throat was parched, his flask empty, and the thought of finding provisions drove him to drop anchor in the tiny harbor.

The island seemed abandoned at first. No fishing boats bobbed at the docks, no smoke rose from chimneys save one. But as the Captain made his way inland along the single dirt path, he encountered women in black robes moving silently between stone buildings arranged around a courtyard with a chapel at its center. Orthodox nuns, he realized - an entire monastery on this forgotten speck of land.

And there, tending a small garden plot, was a half-bald man in priestly vestments, his remaining hair pulled back in the traditional style. The spiritual father of the community, no doubt - for in Orthodox tradition, women's monasteries require a priest or spiritual guide to celebrate the sacraments and provide pastoral care, even as the abbess maintains authority over the community's daily life.

The Captain nodded respectfully as he passed, following signs that pointed toward what the weathered wood proclaimed as "The Island Store."

The Peculiar Establishment

What the Captain found inside defied all expectation. He had anticipated dried fish, perhaps some bread, maybe a few staples for sailors blown off course. Instead, he stood before floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked with bottles from every corner of the earth - Japanese whisky beside Scottish single malts, Russian vodka next to Kentucky bourbon, French cognac alongside Mexican mezcal. The collection would have impressed the finest establishments in London or New York.

Behind the counter stood two nuns, their faces serene beneath black veils.

"Good day, sisters," the Captain said, removing his woolen hat. "The Captain seeks provisions. Specifically, he wonders if you might have any Navy grog?"

The elder nun consulted a leather-bound ledger, her finger tracing down columns of entries. "We carried it until last week, Captain. A Dutch merchant vessel purchased our entire stock."

The Captain's disappointment must have shown, for the younger nun spoke up. "Perhaps you would like to try our local spirit? We distill it here on the island."

"You distill?" The Captain raised an eyebrow. "Forgive the Captain's surprise, but he had assumed..."

"That we drink it?" The elder nun smiled. "We neither drink nor smoke, Captain. We simply understand that those who sail the seas often seek such comforts. The monastery has maintained its distillery for two centuries - the tradition came with the founding abbess from Russia."

The younger nun produced a clay bottle and a small glass. "The craft sustains us. We grow our own grain, tend our copper stills as carefully as we tend our prayers, and trade what we make for the necessities we cannot produce ourselves."

She poured a measure into the glass. The Captain raised it to his nose - hints of grain and honey, something floral he couldn't quite place. He tasted it. Smooth, strong, with warmth that spread from throat to chest without harshness.

"This," the Captain said, "is exceptional work."

The Mystery Deepens

The Captain purchased three bottles - one for the journey ahead, one for the journey after that, and one for the memory of this strange place. As he paid in silver coins, he asked about the island, about how they came to be here, about the priest in the garden.

"Father Seraphim has been with us for forty years," the elder nun said. "He arrived as a young monk, drawn by a vision of a cross rising from these waters. The community has existed here since the sixteenth century, though we were abandoned twice - once during wars, once during times when such remote places were forgotten by the world."

The Captain nodded, storing his bottles carefully in his satchel. "The Captain will return," he said. "Perhaps next time you will have his Navy grog restored to stock."

"Perhaps," the elder nun said, but something in her tone suggested doubt.

The Vanishing

Three months later, when the Captain's other bottles had been emptied - shared with crew on cold nights, savored alone in contemplative moments - he set course for those same coordinates. He searched for two days through fog and clear weather alike, tracing every inlet and outcropping.

The island was gone.

Not destroyed, not abandoned - simply gone, as though it had never existed. The Captain checked his charts, questioned his crew, even examined the empty clay bottles to confirm his memory. But the waters showed only waves, the horizon only emptiness.

Some islands, the Captain concluded, exist in their own time, appearing when needed and vanishing when their purpose is served. Like a good spirit, they warm you when you need warming, then fade when the thirst is satisfied - leaving only memory and the faint hope that need and place might coincide again someday.

The Captain's thirst would return, as thirst always does. And perhaps, on another foggy day in waters marked on no chart, the island of the distilling nuns would emerge once more from the grey Atlantic, its single store ready to serve those who seek what they cannot name but recognize the moment it touches their lips.

Until then, the memory alone would have to suffice - which, the Captain reflected, was not such a poor substitute after all.

---

The Captain's note: For those curious about the ancient craft those nuns practiced, the Captain has compiled what he learned in his Treasure Trove.