41 - Summers of Early Adolescence

During our family summer vacations in the camping of Skotina, the conflict between my introversion (innate or nurtured, it had become irrelevant...) and one of the desiderata of human nature, that is the recognition and acceptance one expects and longs for from one’s environment, this conflict would manifest itself with renewed intensity from the depths of my young soul. Camus, the author of my very first philosophical readings at the threshold of adulthood that profoundly affected thereafter my thinking and whom I rediscovered in maturity in the light of accumulated knowledge and life experience, once wrote: "Consciousness is the desire to be recognized and proclaimed as such by other consciousnesses. It is the others who create us. Only in our relationships and connection with others do we acquire human value." I observed later in life that prestige and status are essential wants and, therefore, for obtaining those two valuable assets one strives throughout life for the recognition of his individuality and value by other beings in one’s intimate environment and broader social circles. There are battles an individual fights either in tandem or against the omni-potent and omni-present struggles at social levels for shares in the national and global wealth and power. The camping offered a space of seclusion, insular from the daily tedium of the city afar, a microcosm where old and young, from Greece and abroad, enjoyed a few weeks of summer vacation free from shackles of work and study. It also became an arena of personal strive for advancement and realisation of my existence, and the recognition of my conscience and being, as Camus said, primarily by adolescent peers, but also by adults who, I could sense, observed expectantly from a discrete distance our movements and behaviour. We were growing into personalities and were forming, rather unconsciously, into types of beings yet unknown to ourselves and others.

Morning dips and swimming in the sea did not excite me; much less, the afternoon ones. The former were always done in the presence and under the supervision of parents: ‘there are many dangers lurking in the sea for kids’ we were told. And a parent or guardian had to time the interval between the last meal and the first dive an OK is given, then be on alert for the threat of sunshine, the risk of sunstrokes and sunburns under the relentless Greek summer sun. The incident with the young man's pale body on the sand being given in vain the ‘kiss of life’ until the ambulance collected his dead body, an event I witnessed and shocked me in one of my holidays there, intensified the sense of danger and our parents’ vigilance. Mother was always a fearful novice when it came to swimming, and neither sea- nor sun-bathing by lying on the beach towel ever exerted an attraction, partly due to her growing in a backward village. In contrast to Father, who always enjoyed his swims, venturing fearlessly far away from the foreshore, and afterwards lounging on the burning hot sand under the sun to dry his body. Although in the shores of the Skotina camping I learned how to float in the sea water without fear and eventually self-learnt how to swim, the ritual of sea-bathing during in Greek summers has never enthralled like it does with others.

Father, for whom, as said, sea bathing was a sine qua non of his summer holidays, devoted the best part of those mornings either to teach swimming and play sand games with little Brother or, lounging by the foreshore and unfazed by the heat and sun to be involved in endless conversations with friends, recent acquaintances from the resort who won his esteem -by no means an easy feat, and the few strangers who somehow intrigued him. Predominant amongst the latter was an Italian gentleman who spent two consecutive summers on vacation with his caravan and family at the campsite. Sitting on the sand and embracing their knees, the Italian on one side of Father, and Brother, a fidgety toddler on the other, the two men were chatting. Usually about politics and current affairs: the dictatorial regime in Greece, the PCI and Enrico Berlinguer in Italy. Even though freedoms of expression in public and public debates had been curtailed by the military junta, and to the disconcertment of Mother nearby, Father with his loud and piercing voice allowed himself to be heard up to where I was sitting and eavesdropping, whilst aimlessly digging holes in the sand. It had been a mystery what Father could discuss with the Italian with his limited Italian vocabulary. And it was a wonder how he managed to learn that little Italian, let alone converse in that language. His admiration for the Italian culture, especially the cinema in its golden era, would certainly not have sufficed for effecting communication in that foreign language. But I was watching, with the wonder of a naturally timid person, Father’s self-confidence on display, as the discussions with the Italian, on an almost daily basis at the same very point of the beach, lasted a long time. ‘Leggi sembre i libri, Giovanni!’ was the Italian's main advice to Brother, a motivation for reading books and learning he had not managed, as he had mentioned, to foster in his daughter: during her teenage holidays in a foreign country, she was more concerned with the sea and the sun, and enjoyed those in isolation from her parents. Father pronounced and recalled his Italian’s friend advice, as a trophy from those conversations of the two men on the beach, for the several years afterwards that we were receiving Christmas cards from the Italian family –to which, rather predictably, Father never reciprocated.

Some unusually competitive chess games were played on some folding tables in the shade of the poplars, soothed by their rustling leaves and the coolness of the afternoon sea breeze. It was an activity I craved more than others during the long lazy siesta hours. My main opponents were Yugoslavs (who, we knew beforehand that were strong chess players). Although Father bought me my first chess board and taught me its rules and moves, and played a few games with me, by and large my limited chess skills were developed via self-learning and playing against myself in the solitude of my room. Sometimes, Father, after his siesta, he would turn up, not to play, but only watch those impromptu friendly chess games amongst the holidaymaker. Sitting by me, he watched with the intensity of an ardent family supporter, agonisingly holding his breath in anticipation of my move, so that the sigh from his deep breaths would not have disturbed my concentration; then he would wheeze exhaling, in relief or disappointment, after I played my move... So, under the poplars, one could say, that I somehow put to a mild test my mental ability and reason, which, admittedly, were above the average for my age, although not exceptional. I was always ‘the positive one’, as Mrs. Kiki had said, in any intellectual enterprise, including chess-playing, which in simple terms meant that I ranked somewhat above average, yet far from the peaks a genius or prodigy attain.

On the other hand, I paid more regular visits to the basketball courts when the sun was still high on its arc, exercising all its brutality, and the barely endurable temperatures of the afternoon at their peaks, at an hour, that is, when most holidaymakers were resting in their bungalows, caravans or tents, or even under a tree. I was too eager to practice my techniques and improve on my skinny physique and endurance with a ball of professional standards and attires of recognized brands –Converse All Star, Adidas, etc. to show off later. For those afternoon trips to the sun-drenched, deserted by the human presence courts, I paid a price and learnt a few lessons: a sunstroke and a burn-scarred shoulders and back for life to remember. Not long after my arrival, the courts filled with Greek and Yugoslav athletic youth of the resort for spontaneous acquaintances and impromptu basketball games. The expensive ball I possessed always attracted eager players around me: for one-against-one to games with several players who often did not speak the same language, but we got along just fine, as either teammates or opponents. In those games I was able to display another ‘positive’ attribute, in the accuracy of my shots to the basket, and a competitive presence despite my short stature and skinny physique, attributes, of course, that would have rendered a sport like basketball unsuitable for one to take up.

Later, at the golden hour before dusk when the heat of the day was subsiding, the holidaymakers used to gather in the open-air café, parents for their afternoon coffee and conversation, children for refreshments and plays in the play area, in anticipation of dinner and the occasional evening entertainment program. But after dinner, the bulk of the youth, with the power of that invisible affinity that glues them together towards a common aim, further intensified by the force world of adults exerts in holiday spots, which repels young people in directions far and away from their families, would rally en masse to their own corner scarcely accessible to adults: a cobbled area fenced with reeds, with ping-pong tables and billiards, and later in the evening, a makeshift disco run by a hired by the camp management DJ. And as midnight approached, the hard and leading core of the young populace would gather around a remote patch of the beach for improvised parties, make log fires by the waves, bring along guitars and radio cassette players, alcohol, in the pursuit of kisses and love; under the moon and the stars, the dark uniform expanse of the sea, its horizon blemished only by flickering lights from desolate spots along the coastline, the murmur of the waves, the scents and caresses of the gentle breeze, nature wonders and sensations which the young party goers were yet unable to appreciate and enjoy consciously. The focus was on the young night, music and dance and love.