Windsurfing Hell

The day began as innocently as the previous four sun-drenched days had, with the group of tourists assembling one by one at the open-air breakfast area. They stumbled out of their respective rooms bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, the inevitable side effect of staying out until five a.m. at one of the island's nightclubs. The usual moaning and groaning about the evils of alcohol was occasionally pierced by questions such as "I did what?!" or "Is a hangover life-threatening?" The only thing out of the ordinary was that the sun was hidden behind an impenetrable cover of clouds. There was a gloomy, almost ominous feel in the air as the group finished breakfast and gulped the last of the strong Greek coffee. Then, feeling slightly more human, they tackled the task of deciding which beach to flop on for the day. This was not an inconsiderable task. The Greek island of Samos, just off the western coast of Turkey, offers dozen of gorgeous, sandy, white beaches. Due in part to the weather and in part to lack of energy, they decided to stay at the hotel's somewhat pebbly beach.

Herman sighed. Fidgeting restlessly on his beach towel, he tried to make himself comfortable, but couldn't seem to find a position to nap in without pebbles poking him in the back. Giving up, he rolled over onto his stomach and began impatiently thumbing through his Motorcycles Monthly. Still restless, he jumped up and strode purposefully over to the pile of windsurf boards nestled next to the bright multi-coloured sails. Following his cue, two other bored surfing fanatics from the group, Stuart and Tony, joined him.

The side of Samos where the hotel was situated is separated from the Turkish mainland by a narrow strait of water just over a kilometre wide. Definitely close enough to be tempting to windsurf over, touch land, and sail back. All three boys were joking about doing it while rigging up their boards. "You'd better tuck your passports in your swimsuits," called one of the people staying behind on the beach. And with that, they set out.

Just as they reached the middle of the strait, the hotel manager bolted out of his office and sprinted onto the beach. Highly agitated, he halted in front of the group and began babbling frantically in Greek. At this point, Steve Tzimoulis stepped forward, his fluency in Greek winning him the dubious honour of being the leader of this motley crew. With Steve's attempts to calm Nikos down succeeding somewhat, the group gathered that the customs police from the main port had rung up saying that they would arrest the three errant windsurfers as soon as they put a foot back on Greek soil. After all, it's illegal to cross international waters without going through the proper channels, such as passport control or customs. Apparently, the middle of that narrow strait was in fact where Greece ended and Turkey began. So while the boys happily enjoyed themselves out on the sparkling azure water, everyone else sat on the beach envisioning all kinds of bureaucratic trouble.

The windsurfers returned about forty-five minutes later, satisfied yet exhausted from their efforts to get back. The wind had dropped almost completely, making it increasingly difficult to maneuver back to the hotel beach. The hordes of Greek police waving handcuffs and forms in triplicate that the group had expected to turn up the moment the boys stepped off their boards never materialised. Steve had succeeded in placating them with "typical stupid tourist" explanations and a small gift of drachmas for their trouble, which was most persuasive. However, a more serious problem had arisen. Only two windsurfers had returned, Stuart and Tony. Herman was nowhere to be seen.

At first, nobody gave it much thought. After all, Herman was an experienced windsurfer who knew how to handle any difficulties that might crop up out on the water. Slowly another hour went by without a sign of him and the group began to worry. They organised moped search parties that went to the various look-out points around the hotel area where the strait could be viewed, hoping to see one small Belgian stranded on a windsurf board. After two and a half hours and still no Herman, the hotel manager radioed the Greek Coast Guard who in turn called the Turkish Coast Guard. With each progress check the news was the same: no sign of him anywhere. Where was he?

Meanwhile, the rest of the group sat around trying to find something to do to keep their minds off what could have happened. Some pretended to read, but didn't really absorb the words and some flipped distractedly through magazines, looking at the pictures. Others sat idly chatting and drinking frappes, an iced coffee drink popular in Greece. Inevitably, the conversation turned back to the problem at hand. The most worrying complication was the hostility between the Greeks and the Turks. Recently, there had been an incident where a Greek fisherman had been shot and killed by Turkish soldiers when he had sailed just a bit too close to the Turkish shore for their liking. Of course, the thought that they would open fire on a small blonde tourist on a windsurf was ridiculous, wasn't it? And what about sharks? Oh, everybody knew that there weren't any sharks in the area, were there?

After five hours, thoughts turned even more morbid, as the sun sunk lower in the sky. What if he wasn't found before nightfall? It didn't help that the locals running the hotel confided to Stuart that they didn't hold out much hope of finding him. The current, they explained, was very strong in the strait, and he was probably carried out into the open sea. The radio behind the bar, constantly manned by the manager, squawked in unintelligible Greek, frequently repeating, "HERMAN VAN LIERDE, V-A-N L-I-E-R-D-E." Finally, fed up with sitting around helplessly, Steve talked the hotel manager into borrowing a fishing boat to cruise around the island and look for Herman as well.

The new search party, consisting of Steve, Tony, and the boat's captain, set out in the direction where Herman had last been seen, intending to go all the way around the island if necessary. The sun was sinking lower and lower. It threw a glare on the surface of the water, making it difficult to see in that direction. It was dead calm and the silence was broken only by the cries of the gulls and the soft splashing sound of the boat cutting through the water. Suddenly, Steve saw a few faint shapes swimming alongside the front of the boat, a couple of feet underwater. As he leaned over the rail for a closer look, one of them broke the surface, gracefully leaping high in the air. Dolphins! A whole school of them, jumping and playing delightedly, seeming to be egging the search boat on to go just a bit further and not give up. After five minutes or so, they stopped escorting the boat and disappeared in the glare of the sunset. Steve had never seen anything as beautiful as the sight of so many cavorting, silvery dolphins and somehow knew without a doubt that Herman was alive.

Twenty minutes later, having abandoned his sail on the Turkish shore and spent six and a half hours battling against the current, an exhausted Herman paddled into view. Other than a mild case of sunstroke and serious dehydration, he was perfectly fine. It was fortunate for him that the day had been overcast so he didn't have to contend with the full intensity of the Mediterranean sun. Herman is now famous, or rather infamous, on Samos. Customs people, fishermen, and hotel staff across the entire island know his name and physical description. After all, he was the one that almost got away.