polio shoe

Bill, the Irishman, told me a helluva story about his first grand travel adventure. When he was a young man, he and a buddy flew from Ireland to South Africa where his buddy had family. The family provided a base of operations, and the plan was that Bill and his buddy would rent a
motorcycle and trek across Africa. So, they rented a motorcycle and, within days of doing so, they crashed.

Bill was horribly injured.
His buddy was killed.

Bill's right leg was pulverized. His condition was so severe that he spent months in the hospital. I could only imagine Bill’s feelings during that time — his emotional pain at having lost his buddy, his physical pain from the injuries, his fear that he’d never walk again, his adventure smashed on the pavement before it even began.

Eventually, Bill was released from the hospital. He did walk again, but on a leg that was much shorter than before the accident. Now, his right shoe included a tall, chunky, lift — "my polio shoe," Bill called it.

Remarkably, once he recovered, Bill embarked on something like his grand travel adventure. Relying on his handyman skills, and off-the-books income, Bill became a vagabond. When I met him in a scrappy hostel, Bill had been on the road for twenty years.

The scrappy hostel was in Heraklion, the largest city on the island of Crete, and Bill was far from the only interesting character in the place. Two notable others were Pierre and Ernest.

Pierre, the Frenchman, and Ernest, the German, were travel partners. They could have stepped out of the pages of Steinbeck's Mice and Men. Pierre in the role of George — small, clever and protective of his companion. Ernest in the role of Lennie — big, gentle and dim witted.

Pierre was resourceful and persuasive. He encouraged us, his hostel mates, to contribute to food purchases. He then used his little hot plate to clandestinely make meals in his room — a gross violation of hostel rules. This was one way that he and Ernest got by on the cheap.

Val, my travel partner, quickly formed her new crew in the hostel's woman's room. There, she befriended several Australians and a Japanese woman.

The woman's room was next to the room I shared with Bill. The rooms were spartan, with bunk beds, wooden tables and chairs, and no lockers or means of securing belongings.They had doors that opened to a shared balcony, that ran the length of the front of the hostel, one floor above the street. The balcony doors were a flimsy, bi-fold, style — better suited to a closet than an exterior door. Shoddy locks on the doors wouldn't stand up to a shove of a hand let alone a serious boot or shoulder smash.

The lounge on the first floor was similarly hard scrabble, furnished with wooden tables and chairs for maybe a dozen people. Coffee was served in the lounge in the morning, and Amstel beer in the evening. I seem to remember that Amstel was the only beer offered. I absolutely remember how we emptied big pint bottles, like it was nectar of the Gods, as we swapped travel tales with our hostel mates.

Eventually, it was time to leave Crete. Our destination was Rhodes, another Greek island to the north and east of Crete. Val and I had purchased boat tickets. Pierre and Ernest had tickets as well.

As the departure day drew near, it became clear that there'd be no departure. A storm unlike any I'd seen before or since descended on the island. Crete was socked in. No planes or ships could come or go, and the storm lasted for days.

Ticket sellers in the small shops near our hostel could tell us nothing. Updates could only come from the port. There, port workers would tell us what they could which was mostly, "no ships today, come back tomorrow."

This was fine by me since I saw the storm up close and personal. From the storm's onset, Pierre and I walked the short distance from the hostel to the port for information. We tipped our bodies into the wind, or risked getting blown over.

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Beyond the harbor's breakwater, the sea looked like an angry monster. Waves seemed to come from all directions and the spray of the waves striking the breakwater rose to house-like heights. Had the port workers told us that our ship was departing, I'd have said "no thanks," and kissed my ticket expense goodbye.

There was nothing to do but hunker down at the hostel, swap stories, and drink Amstels.

In the midst of the storm, two scruffy men arrived at the hostel. They stashed their stuff in the room that Bill and I were using. They drank beer in the lounge, but they kept to themselves. I paid them little mind, same as Bill, but Pierre was suspicious, saying, "Why would they be traveling now? There are no planes or boats arriving. Who would change accommodations in this weather? I don't trust them. I think they are thieves."

Pierre's suspicions became suggestions. "Peter, Bill, you must change rooms. There are bunks available in my room with Ernest. You are not safe in the room with the strangers. They will be gone in the morning along with your packs, or worse. I've seen their type before.”

Bill and I thought that Pierre was overreacting. We thought it would be an insult to the strangers to move rather than share a room with them. Pierre, however, was insistent, and his concern was plausible. So, Bill and I relented. We briefly left our Amstels and moved our packs into Pierre's room.

Back in the lounge, and out of earshot of the strangers, our crew had a planning session. The women decided to place a table in their room in front of the flimsy doors to the balcony. They'd make sure their belongings were safely stashed deeply under their bunks. The table wouldn't stop the strangers if they tried to break in from the balcony, but it would alert the women so they could respond by turning on the lights and calling for help. The call for help would come from Val who would dash down the hall and pound on our men's-room door.

With the plan in place, it was back to our Amstels until, tired and drunk, we stumbled off to our beds.

For Bill and me, bed was now two lower bunks, with Ernest and Pierre above us. I don't recall about Ernest, but Pierre fell asleep quickly and snored like a damn grizzly bear.

Bill and I shot each other resigned glances across the space between our bunks. Then, we fell asleep.

Wham, wham, wham on the door, and Val's voice shouting, "Peter, they're coming in," jolted Bill and me out of our sleep. Neither Pierre or Ernest stirred. Clothes and shoes were hastily put on. Bill and I locked eyes from the edges of our bunks. As I understood it, Bill's look meant —
Are you ready? Are we on? Let's go!

Bill and I burst out of the men's room, with me in the lead. We stormed down the hall past the women in their now-lit-up room. They pointed at the open balcony doors and tipped over table. They directed us down the hall towards the staircase where the strangers had gone after they'd crashed through the women's room.

It was only when I reached the stairs that I began to consider how badly this might turn out. Who knew what the strangers were capable of?

Then, on the stairs behind me, I heard Bill, his polio shoe crashing down on each step. Step, clomp. Step, clomp. The intensity of the sound matched the intensity of the look he'd given me seconds before in our room. Hell yeah, I thought, Frankenstein is my fight buddy.

We hit the ground floor, passed the lounge, and found the hostel's front door open and banging in the storm's wind. The stranger's were gone and their grab-and-dash scheme had failed.

Rain pelted the streets outside the hostel. Bill and I laughed at the idea that the strangers were getting soaked as they made their escape. Then, it was back up the steps to our crew and our rooms, and Bill and I had just become more than bunk mates and drinking buddies —we were now brothers who had been ready to go into battle together.

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