ENTRY THREE — The Cyclades

Europe
June 13th 1986

Published: December 22nd 2005

ENTRY THREE — June 13th 1986
The Cyclades

Powerful waves struck the side of the ferry, rocking the boat from side to side. The Mediterranean had become rough and angry. Incongruously, bright sun shone in the blue sky above: below, a stormy sea.

Row after row of passengers sat in comfortable chairs, although the expression on their faces was anything but one of comfort. Miranda commented, "I once read that the best place to ride out a storm at sea is in the bow."

"That makes absolutely no sense — “ I said, the nausea welling up inside me, "there's much more movement at the front of the boat than in the center."

"Trust me!" My confident wife grabbed my hand and dragged me out through the front hatch to where the open deck began to narrow to a point. "Keep your eyes on the horizon."

As I fixed my eyes on the skyline, the fresh spray and the sheer beauty of the powerful view hit me and my seasickness began to fade.

"This is actually quite exhilarating," I conceded, "but we should be careful to hold on tight."

We seated ourselves at the front

National Gardens, Athens, Greece

Life in Greece moves at a slower pace.

of the ferry. Miranda looked lovely, eyes scanning the horizon, hands carefully clutching the rail. Her dampened white T-shirt revealed the curve of her breasts — the intense blue of her eyes was deepened by the color of the Mediterranean. Her eyelashes and hair glistened, the effect brought on by bright sunshine and sea spray. She had never looked more beautiful.

The island of Santorini appeared on the horizon, a sparkling gem on a deep blue cloth. Whitewashed houses were separated by the occasional azure dome — all perched on top of commanding rock-faced cliffs."There's Fira!" Miranda called out over the crashing waves, as we proceeded to the Athinios Port.

The Edge of Eternity

It was good to have our feet on solid ground, away from the radiation that was poisoning Europe. God seemed to have changed our plans: we now intended to stay seven weeks in the Greek Islands known as the Cyclades.

The unspoiled beauty of Santorini was contrasted by several ramshackle vehicles parked a few meters from the dock. The driver of our bus leaned nonchalantly against its grill, cigarette dangling from thin lips revealing stained teeth, a worn fishing cap pulled low over

Roof of Joseph House, Athens 1986

Bryan with Parthenon in the background.

his eyes.

Soon all the buses were filled, well beyond their capacity. With a puff of smoke and the grinding of gears, our convoy was off. Our bus was first in line, struggling slowly and noisily up the steep incline. The road zig-zagged higher and higher. In my standing position I had a marvelous view in all directions. I hesitated to look straight down as we climbed ever more steeply on the narrow track.

At a point where the road began to level out, a hefty local woman boarded the bus, carrying a live chicken. She pushed her way past me, the bird's wings flapping in Miranda's face. The sight struck me with absolute horror. Miranda is allergic to feathers — particularly chicken feathers.

She sneezed. It was a powerful sneeze, a deep respiratory sneeze. A sneeze so powerful, so extraordinarily forceful as to startle the fat lady and panic her chicken. This stupid fowl, wings flapping madly, feet clawing the heads of passengers, headed toward the nearest open window.

The bird never made it. Rather, it flew into the head of our driver. Immediately, two powerful, swarthy hands reached up and snapped the bird's neck. The

"AMY!"

Bryan and Miranda with friends Mark and Amy in the National Gardens, Athens. (Summer 1986 FotoetimePhoto CR)

driver lost control of the bus for only a moment, but that had been enough time to swerve six feet to the left.

My heart skipped a beat. To me our fate was certain: we were going to die. The steep drop would ensure no survivors.

Our bus driver acted quickly to bring our vehicle to an immediate halt. Nevertheless, we had jumped the tiny stone barrier and were teetering on the edge of eternity. I looked over at Miranda, still seated in the second row from the front. To me, she seemed almost oblivious to what had transpired, as if she were enjoying the view.

The driver, shouting in Greek, English and French, ordered the people not to exit the bus, but to move immediately to the rear. Everyone squeezed into the back half of the bus, leaving the front half totally empty. A physical impossibility, when you think of it. This stabilized the bus, reducing the risk of us going over the edge.

We now felt our vehicle moving backward onto the road. Like Swiss Army Ants, the people in the other buses had been mobilized, chains were fastened to the other vehicles, rocks

Cave House, Karterados

Outside our Greek "house" in the village of Karterados, Santorini, we keep in touch with our parents through letters and photo diaries.

were placed strategically behind the tires, and so on. The entire episode, from Miranda's sneeze to the time we were back en route had been less than ten minutes. The only casualty was the chicken.

Akrotiri

It's strange how near-tragedy can bring people together. Almost everyone on the bus began to interact. The couple standing next to me had Canadian flags on their pack, so I asked them in which part of the country they lived.

"Los Angeles, California," they replied, going into an explanation that was not needed. As we chatted away, I learned that both Mark and Loraine were newly qualified doctors.

"This island was once a large volcano," Miranda expounded, joining our conversation. "Those vines produce an excellent variety of grape used in making local wine."

"I could use a couple of glasses of wine," commented Loraine, still shaken from our ordeal. The conversation turned to our close encounter with death. "It was the first time in my life that I felt truly aware of my own mortality," Loraine confessed.

Then our discussion moved to extinct civilizations - Atlantis, Vinland the Good, and King Arthur's Camelot. We were all

Cave house - Villa in Karterados

The interior of our "villa" was cool, built into solid rock. It was also quiet.

intrigued by the legends, and the ultimate tragedies that wiped out these worlds of long ago. Miranda informed us that Akrotiri (at the south end of the island) was believed to be the site of the lost civilization of Atlantis. We made plans to visit the archaeological dig together.

Our discourse ended when we arrived at the bus station in Fira. It was like a zoo. The hotel staff from various establishments crowded around the disgorging buses. They were competing for the few travelers. Chernobyl had devastated the tourist industry and there was an air of desperation.

A shy but pretty teenage girl had somehow managed to latch onto Miranda and was leading her away from the melee. I caught up to them. Miranda explained that the girl's parents rented out accommodation in the village next to Fira, and it was supposed to be quite pleasant.

"Why not?" I sighed, exhausted. "We can always find another place tomorrow if we don't like this one." After confirming our plans with Mark and Loraine, we climbed into a beat-up old blue car, which transported us to the parking lot on the outskirts of Karterados. Our lodging was an old whitewashed Greek house built into the side of a hill.

Oia, Santorini

Bryan and Miranda near Oia, a place of beautiful sunsets on the Greek island of Santorini.

This cave house was designed to be cool during the heat of the day — being built deep into the rock face. The village itself was quaint: much less touristy than Fira. Constructed with lanes too narrow for cars and trucks, Karterados had not yet lost its old-world charm. Whether it was because I was a papas or because of Chernobyl, we were offered the "lovely villa" at a price we could well afford.

Enigma

It was the fourth (or maybe the fifth) morning of our sojourn? Miranda was still sleeping, as we had been out late the night before with Mark and Loraine. Dawn was breaking as I neared the vineyards. The surreal color of the sea, the radiant tip of the rising sun, the moon hovering just above the horizon: awe-inspiring.

As I walked down the path to the sea, I came across a small white chapel. Disappointed at finding the door locked, I looked up to see a small cemetery off in the distance. It was well kept, the gravestones having been recently painted a bright white. Above where one entered, a sign read: "The End of the Age".

There was

Fira, Santorini.

Bryan feeds his friend, as he walks from Karterados to Fira.

a freshly dug grave with flowers on it. I moved toward it, curious. In the eerie pink light the tombstone read:

The Rev. Bryan Porter

Nov 5, 1950 - May 27, 1986

My eyes dropped to the center of the tombstone. There was a beautiful stone engraving of a chicken.

"Bryan, wake up! You're making some very strange sounds. You must be having another nightmare," came Miranda's voice from nowhere and everywhere.

"It was terrible," I said, shakily. "The tombstone had a chicken as my cause of death!"

"It was just a dream."

"Miranda, it's the third night in a row I've had a nightmare about chickens."

Miranda placed her hand on my shoulder to comfort me. "It wasn't as bad as the one where you had a guardian angel with giant chicken wings," she said reassuringly. Yet, I could tell from the way she held her mouth that she wasn't taking my dreams seriously.

The time was 3:30 a.m. I was in a cold sweat. Miranda suggested we take a hot shower and go to the Enigma She knew I wouldn't be

Dining with friends

Eating in our favorite restaurant in Fira with Canadian friends John and John. Greek friend Georgia in the foreground.

able to go back to sleep in my current state.

On our walk to Fira, I puzzled over why my brain had produced chicken dreams three nights in a row. Probably the trauma of nearly going over a cliff because of a panicked chicken, Miranda would say in a matter-of-fact tone. She would be right, of course, but it was more than that. If I had died, my life and death would have been trivial . . . without meaning.

When I voiced some of my thoughts, Miranda reminded me, "You didn't die. Your journey — our journey together—is just beginning."

We arrived at the Enigma Club at 4:30 a.m. It seemed almost dreamlike, but people were still partying in a wild fashion. Madonna's voice could be heard pounding out "Like a Virgin". The crowd, male and female, were decked-out in various fashions, revealing as much flesh as possible.

The disc jockey announced "Total Eclipse of the Heart". Miranda grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the dance-floor, saying, "May I have this dance?" Sliding naturally into each other's arms, we slowly revolved in time to the music, becoming oblivious to the world around us....