I must have been about 9 when my family and I were making our summer pilgrimage over to the Greek island of Corfu from Italy where we lived. A handsome Greek sailor, probably in his late twenties, asked my parents if he could show me around the ship and there's never been any doubt in my mind that my folks were thrilled to have at least one of us kids out of their hair for awhile. So they sent me off with a smile, feeling confident I'm sure, that I would be well looked after.
Taking me by the hand and never letting go of it the entire time we were together, the young sailor showed me around the ship; the captains quarters, the engine room and all those secret little places that you don't get to see just by wandering around on your own. He spoke nothing but Greek to me as if I was understanding every word he said. I probably answered him mostly in Italian since I figured out very young that not too many people in Italy and Greece in the early sixties spoke English. Whatever the nature of our communication was, the fact is, I remember feeling very special and very safe with him.
Sunset found us standing alone on the bow of the ship, the salt water from the Mediterranean spraying against our cheeks and the chill in the air beginning to be quite noticeable. I remember him pulling the collar of his P-coat up against his neck and then leaning his back against the railing and leaning me back against him, wrapping his arms over my shoulders around my chest and crossing them in front of me, keeping me close and warm. After awhile, he took one of my hands in one of his and pulled it back around and in between us and pushed it gently and firmly against his crotch. It wasn't until years later in remembering the incident that I realized that my hand had been pressed against his erection. I guess you have to know what one is to know what one is. At 9 years old I didn't.
It never went any further than just his pressing my hand against his crotch through his pants for awhile. What for him was undoubtedly something sexual, for me must have been something else because sex didn't really register much then. The whole experience was so simple and so gentle that I really thought nothing of it after it was over. I never felt like I had to tell anybody about it because it didn't seem like anything strange or wrong. It was just another adventure like so many others that I had as a kid growing up in Europe. It was nice and I liked it. The young sailor eventually took me back to my parents and we journeyed on to Corfu and spent several idyllic weeks there that summer exploring little villages, snorkeling in the crystalline waters and playing on the white sandy beaches.
As I got older and began to recall the events of my youth, I realized that I had this wonderful little treasure in my memories - this once and only, innocent little moment from my childhood. I've sometimes wondered if my sailor saw something in me he recognized; something that made him choose me over my other brothers and sisters. Did I give off the vibe of someone who to his own sex was inclined, even at 9 years old? There must have been something but I'm not sure what it was. I like to think that my sailor was heaven-sent to take me by the hand and show me the way, insuring that my first experience with another man would be a good one, a sweet one and a gentle one. And it was all of those things.
If someone had told me back then that the sailor's behavior was inappropriate, then that's probably what I'd have believed. But left to my own devices and not having ever been told that this was either good or bad at 9 years old, my time with the young sailor entered my consciousness as a beautiful experience - and that's how it's remained all these years; untouched by anything anybody might ever have to say about it.
It all seems so black and white on the surface; that an adult should never touch a child in a sexual way no matter what. But when I dig a little deeper I find 256 shades of gray coloring my experience with the Greek sailor. And all the frantic scrubbing in the world won't reduce them down into the simplicity of black and white. As much as we'd like to believe that the boundaries of morality and social correctness can be drawn with black lines on a white background, the reality is much more complex.
Each of our eyes has approximately 125 million sensors that allows it to absorb reflected light from our environment; thus enabling us to see literally billions of shades of color. And so it seems that with this almost infinite capacity that we have for interpreting color and with the almost infinite number of colors here for us to interpret, that we might be somewhat disingenuous in believing that the human experience can be reduced to a black and white duotone. If the physical body is capable of such extraordinary feats of interpretation, would not the emotional and psychological parts of us be at least equally capable of managing an almost infinite number of variables?
It makes me wonder what it might be like to grow up homosexual and never be told at any point, that there is anything wrong or unusual with that way of thinking and feeling - much the way a young heterosexual boy grows up feeling about his attractions and desires. Maybe someday, as our cultures continue evolving, all young boys and girls will be allowed to mature unfettered into the perfection of their true natures and homosexual writers like me will find other things to explore, rather than always trying to explain or justify ourselves to the world at large.
The Greek Sailor
Copyright 2003 by Tom Clark
All rights reserved
This article may not be reproduced or reprinted
without written permission from the author.