My athletic ability should never have been the bane of my life. Running freed my spirit, gave me a sense of power as I drove myself to greater speeds. I was fourteen when I discovered that I could cover 80 metres faster than other boys in my school. At 15 I was area champion at 100 metres.
Passing years have revealed that there are mothers who need to control, or rather direct, any sign of ability their child may have. A seemingly laudable fact. 'Talent needs to be nurtured'; 'Too young to know what's best for them." So it was that, by the time I was fifteen, my mother had taken charge, and the restrictions on my life began.
"No late nights. No smoking. No drinking. Girls will hold you back. Believe me, I only want the best for you. You'll be twenty one when the 1956 Olympics start. We'll have you in perfect condition by then," she declared. She set me up with a personal trainer, but supervised everything he did.
My father, a success in his own air conditioning business, was sympathetic. "I'd like to see him do well, Greta. But the lad needs a life."
"He'll have a life," my mother would reply," but it will be a successful one."
My father would shrug hopelessly in my direction. Successful and positive as he was in his business world, he always relented in the face of my mother's determination.
So the activity I loved became a hindrance in so many ways. No late nights naturally precluded much activity with girls. My mother was constantly warning me how physical contact with the opposite sex would interfere with my progress.
By the time I was seventeen my experience with girls had been limited to remote, flat kisses, a fumble around the breast area before my hand was knocked away. Remember, this was decades ago, when most girls believed they should keep it until they were married.
At least that's what I thought. But hearing my school mates talk of their experiences you would have thought we lived in an age of rampant nymphos. Much of their boasting was empty wishful thinking, I told myself, but wondered how they could know so much. Just reading about it, I hoped, but hating the idea of being left behind.
Anyway, it left me wondering, as I approached my eighteenth year, just how I would ever be able to react in an intimate situation with a girl. I would be starting university at the end of Summer and was beginning to see it as a gateway of escape from my mother's oppression. Not that I didn't appreciate her intentions for me. Being an Olympic athlete was an appealing goal, but her methods were just way over the top.
Such was her involvement that I was sure that many of my High School colleagues saw me as a 'Mummy's boy'. It seemed to me that soon I had to take some kind of stance.
Then she came up with what was to be a life changing arrangement.
She had that pleased-with-herself look on her face as she announced, "I've booked us a lovely holiday for your eighteenth birthday, Harry. Three weeks on a quiet Greek island. You can keep up your training, read some of your study books, and your father needs a quiet break from the stress of his work."
All my friends were going off to Summer camps, or touring together. And I was going on holiday with my parents. Mother's boy, indeed.
"Do we have to?" I asked plaintively.
"It's all booked. You're going to love it."
If only she knew just how true her words would be.
The island of Agistri was only a short ferry ride from Piraeus, the port for Athens. A jewel in an azure sea, the brochure said. For me it appeared to be a disguised Alcatraz, only just over two miles wide at its narrowest point.
It has changed much over the years, but at that time Agistri boasted one small hotel and a couple of tavernas, alongside scattered cottages of residents, mostly fishing folk.
It turned out that my room in the hotel was on the ground floor, whereas my parents were on the first floor. I immediately saw some advantages in that. Although I couldn't tell myself what they were.
My mother had called it a quiet island and the significance of that was immediately apparent. It seemed that most of the other hotel guests were there for the peace and quiet of their twilight years. Out on the street I saw l one or two back-packing couples, who might be island hopping or who, over the subsequent years, would become hippie folk.
My mother quickly showed me the sandy beach just down from the hotel. A stretch of almost white soft sand, with the landward side shielded by clumps of shrubbery, with the occasionally vivid red of bougainvillea.
"This is where you can run, Harry. A good stretch for three quarter pace and the occasional fast burst."
I felt like being awkward, "There's no tide, so it's all soft sand---speed won't be much."
"Running the soft sand will help strengthen your legs," she smiled that smile of extra wisdom," and if you run just on the very edge of the sea you'll find it firmer---and nice and splashy."
"What about the heat?" I persisted with my negatives..
"Oh, early in the morning, of course, before the sun gets too high."
So the routine began. The next morning, which happened to be my birthday, I was out just after eight, barefooted, and wearing only a pair of shorts. As soon as I began running, I felt that old exhilaration, that sense of power. Striding over the soft sand required more effort, and I did a three quarter rate the length of the beach, which I estimated was about three quarters of a mile.
On the way back I attempted a few faster bursts, splashing through the edge of the transparent sea. By the time I'd finished I was coated in sweat, and was happy to plunge into the warm balm of the water.
That evening it was surprising to find that the food in the hotel restaurant was first class. Afterwards, because there was nothing else to do other than perhaps take a walk, I succumbed to my mother's pleas to join her and my father in the small bar area. "To get your present," she said with an excited smile.
There were comfortable booths around the main area with maroon leather sofas and seats. A handful of other people were scattered about the room, and piped music, low, gentle issued over the whole scene.
My father ordered a Greek beer for himself, a Bacardi and coke for my mother, and, with an apologetic glance at me, an orange juice.
With an excited smile my mother placed a small gift wrapped package on the table. "Happy birthday, son," she said, rather huskily, and as I reached for it she added, "but before you open it-----" And she raised her hand in the air.
Immediately the piped music changed to the tune of 'Happy Birthday', and the hotel manager appeared carrying a decorated cake complete with burning candles. My mother began to sing, my father joined in in his growling tones and as others turned their heads they joined in too.
I so wanted to feel grateful, yet I couldn't avoid the sense that I was being treated like a nine year old. The song ended and there was a little patter of applause as I dutifully blew out the candles.
I opened the package and found a very presentable gold watch. "It has a stop watch in it." My mother said. I wasn't surprised. But it was a fine looking watch and I warmly expressed my gratitude.
After a few minutes, I excused myself to visit the toilet, which took me past the bar, where only one person was sitting. A lady with long dark hair down her back, over a sleeveless turquoise dress. Briefly my mind registered the curve of her waist to hip.
As I was on my way back, she turned in her seat and her dark eyes watched my approach. The dress was cut low enough to give a hint of a gently sloping bosom. Her wide mouth smiled as I was about to pass.
"Happy birthday," she said quietly. There was a warmth about her that I couldn't define.
I muttered my thanks and was about to move on, uncertain how to say more.
"You're twenty first?"
I stopped, feeling my face redden, " Eighteenth."
Her eyebrows raised, "Really? You look more mature---and an athlete."
I just stood, wanting to ask how she knew that, but was lost in her interest.
She laughed, "I saw you this morning. Very impressive."
