Way back in the mists of time, I used to do a regular excursion as an escort from Rhodes to Halki. In high season sometimes I’d do it two, even three times in a week. It was a long day out and the pay was rubbish but, to be honest, in general I enjoyed the work immensely for several reasons. One, the island of Halki is still probably one of my favourite places not only in Greece, but in the entire planet. It’s wonderfully small, sleepy, a long way from the major tourist traps of the world, and extremely photogenic. During my ten years as an escort, I worked for a number of different companies, and I did the Halki trip mainly for Travel Exchange and TUI. In both cases I had wonderful fellow workers to spend the time with and have, as a consequence, some indelible memories.

We’d usually do a slight detour to Butterfly Valley before heading down the west coast of Rhodes to the tiny port of Kamiros Skala, quite a few km further south from Ancient Kamiros. Arriving on the quayside, we’d shepherd our guests on board the boats and set out for the crossing of around 75 minutes from there to the picturesque harbour at Halki. While working for TUI, I had to wear a TUI polo shirt, but from the waist down (careful girls) I could wear whatever I wanted, which, inevitably would be a pair of tailored shorts from my own wardrobe. My fellow escorts would do the same (female or male, we all dressed the same) and so, apart from the fact we wore ID badges too, the guests could easily spot us on the quayside, especially for the return trip, when there’d be an almighty scrum to get back aboard before the boat cast off for the return trip, usually around 4.00pm, sometimes 4.15, and sometimes 4.30.

Nine times out of ten I’d be on board the Nissos Halki. Another boat that does the crossing and is of a similar age to the Nissos Halki is the Nikos Express, although she was a might slower and usually arrived a few minutes after us at the island. In the last few years during which I did the trip the brand new Fedon also joined the fray and cut around 20 minutes off the crossing time for those fortunate enough to get on board her. The Nissos Halki and the Nikos Express both had a small vehicle deck at the stern, capable of carrying up to four vehicles at a push. The Fedon has no vehicle deck, and was much sleeker as a result.

Once we cast off from Kamiros Skala us reps would make a bee-line for the open-air bar on the upper deck and procure ourselves an iced coffee, for which we didn’t ever have to pay, of course. Coffee in hand, we’d make our way back downstairs and either go into the air-conditioned salon, which in good weather was only ever occupied by a few locals, since all the tourists would be as high up on the superstructure as they could get in order to catch a few rays during the crossing, or we’d sit on a couple of plastic patio chairs that the crew kept on the vehicle deck, just near the doorway into the salon. Within ten minutes of having made our departure, we escorts would be nattering about our charges and all the dramas that we’d encountered since we’d last been together. Usually sitting along with us there were a couple of crew members, one of which was always Alexandros, the guy in Betty’s photo (next shot below). He’d be one of those who handled the mooring ropes whenever they tied up, or perhaps he’d operate the electric motor that raised or lowered the side ramp when we were at the quayside, since they hardly ever tied up astern-to-the-quay, but always port-side to it. Occasionally the electric motor would play up, and then a couple of crew would have to raise or lower the very heavy steel-plate ramp by hand pulley. You didn’t want to get in their way when they were doing that.

During the almost ten years or so that I did the Halki excursion, Alexandros was a member of the crew on the Nissos Halki, and he looked as old when I first met him as he does now. Many Greek men who work out in the sun for decades, seem to acquire that leathery-look to their skin when still quite young. I’ve never seen a crew member applying suntan cream, that’s for sure. Alexandros still has a good head of grey hair, whereas some lose theirs early and thus may look older than their years. As we’d sit and chat in subdued tones during the crossing, crewmen like Alex would tell us stories about their years doing the back-and-forth trip, plus they’d regale us with anecdotes about island life, since they all had other work that they’d do in wintertime as well. In the course of one season alone, you very quickly became fast friends with the likes of him. After several years on the job, you were very easy in each other’s company.

So it was that one particular day, as we set sail from Kamiros Skala, I sat down on the vehicle deck with my coffee, having pulled up one of the rickety, cracked patio chairs, and began a conversation with Betty, Grace, Mihali, and whoever of the crew was around too. As we sat there I would often marvel at the fact that there’d be maybe two vehicles making the crossing this time, one of which was a van, and the other a pickup, and both were loaded down with supplies. They were always shoehorned in aboard among the pallets carrying white goods (new fridges and washing machines for island residents), crates laden with fruit and vegetables, and a variety of building materials like sheet-rock (plasterboard), cement bags and pipes for water etc. On more than one occasion we made the crossing with a coffin under a tarpaulin also installed on the rear deck. 

On the day in question, I remember accidentally glancing down at my lap, you know how sometimes you get a sense that something’s not right, but you don’t really know what it might be (more than likely I sensed a bit of a draught around the old turntables)? Well, as I glanced down I got a full view of the front of my underpants, which thank goodness I am in the habit of wearing – most of the time anyway. The fly on my shorts was gaping open, owing to the fact that I was sitting down, you get the picture I’m sure. Thinking that it was just a matter of zipping them up, because it wouldn’t have been the first time I’d got dressed in a hurry and fled the house before zipping up my shorts, I went to do so, only to discover that the zipper was already at the top. The flaming zip had only gone and burst open hadn’t it. Since we were surrounded by a few dozen holidaymakers and they were looking to us with a degree of confidence, I didn’t think it would be a good idea to ask one of the girls I was working with to see if she could sort the problem out. Can you imagine what kind of photos would have soon been all over the social media if I’d done that? I hastily placed my clipboard over the offending wardrobe malfunction and asked around if anyone had a safety pin. No one did. I still had around 6 hours in the company of my guests to get through and so far I had no prospect of being able to close up the fly on my shorts. I occasionally like to be thought of as ‘flash,’ don’t we all chaps? But I didn’t want to be known by that epithet for the wrong reason.

Step into the breach (appropriate metaphor, eh?) Alexandros, crusty crew-member.

“Ela Gianni,” He said, and beckoned me go up the steps with him to the bridge. The bridge on these boats is only a few metres wide and very narrow. All along the panel below the front windows are the sparse controls for running the ship, but along the back wall (or is that a bulkhead?) is a padded bench, which we would occasionally employ in order to take a nap when we wanted to be somewhere where our guests couldn’t poke us when they wanted to ask some question or other. Alexandros bade me come with him into the bridge itself, and then he lifted up a section of the padded bench. Sorting among the ancient lifejackets, flares and other paraphernalia, he lifted out a fairly serviceable pair of shorts, kind of coffee-coloured. They looked to be an OK cut too, thank goodness. In fact, they were in pretty good condition and, most importantly, the zip was intact on the fly. 

“Take these down to the WC Gianni, and try them on. I do use them quite often, but if they fit you well enough they’ll see you through today without risking arrest, won’t they?” He said that last bit with an ear-to-ear grin on his wizened face.

Off I trotted, down the stairs to the ship’s toilets, entered a cubicle and, to the gentle rocking of the boat as she made headway between the islands, I got my own shorts off, and Alex’s on. I was well impressed with the fit too. Phew, saved. Returning to the bridge, where Alexandros had remained, awaiting my verdict on the borrowed shorts, I thanked him profusely and did a twirl. 

“Bravo, Gianni!” Was the chorus from all the crew inside the bridge, and Alex added, “But if you don’t mind, I’ll have them back on the next trip, OK?” I didn’t have a problem with that, of course.

Only, actually, I did. The following week, which was the final week in the season that we were doing the Halki trip until the next year, I was assigned to the Fedon, and not the Nissos Halki. I had packed the shorts in my rucksack with every intention of returning them to their rightful owner, honest. The only trouble was, once the day got under way, the fact that I was on the Fedon sent the shorts that lurked in the bottom of my bag to the back of my mind. In fact, I got home at around 9.00pm that evening, exhausted, as I usually was after having left the house at 6.00am that morning, and only then, as I sorted out the contents of the rucksack, did I discover Alex’s shorts, still there, neatly folded and protected by a plastic bag all ready to be given back.

In actual fact, I didn’t know at that point that we’d not be doing the Halki trip the next week, as the weather often dictated exactly when we stopped the trip from going. So I fully intended to have another go at giving them back the following week, but it wasn’t to be, as the trip was stopped for the winter. Alex and his shorts were parted and there wasn’t much that could be done about it until May the following year. The situation was further exacerbated when I changed my working arrangements and, although I hadn’t planned it this way, wound down my excursion work in readiness to give it up all together. I never did another Halki trip as an escort.

This would have been (the broken zip affair that is) around 2017-2018, not entirely sure now which, but, just yesterday, we went to the beach for an iced coffee and a swim at Gra Ligia and guess what shorts I wore? I’ve never been one to chuck out clothes that are still serviceable, however I’d procured them. I wonder whether Alexandros has forgiven me. I think, from what I know about him as a person, that he probably very soon realised what had happened and wished me well in my relationship with my newly-acquired cargo shorts. I suppose there’s always the possibility that we’ll once more set foot on Halki some day and, if we do, I’ll seek out my old friend and see if he wants his shorts back then.

Incidentally, not letting an opportunity slip, the wonderful island of Halki is the setting for the fictional island of Spilos, where most of the action takes place in my novel “Sometimes You Just Can’t Tell.” Just thought I’d slip that in…

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