So this is not a story but a memory.

In 1980, a Brooklyn contractor sent me to Jacksonville, Florida to revamp an oil tanker. The company was a strange mix: its leaders were Greek; the bulk of the welders Greek and European; the pipefitters mixed Greeks, Europeans, and a slew of Panamanians. We electricians were mostly American—with one exception.

He answered to "Mark," but that wasn't his name. He was a Pole who fled to America to work. He understood little English—only what he needed for the job, speaking even less. He was, however, friendly, joining the crew for beers even though he had no idea about our conversations. He also introduced us to a great Polish beer, Krakus.

I also represented a strange anomaly: I read, wrote, listened to classical music, and traveled with a chessboard. Mark learned this, stopping by my hotel room with a six-pack of Krakus, pointing to my chess set. We broke out the board, drank beers, and played. We tried connecting in limited conversation; this is when our "relationship" began. I discovered he was married with two daughters, sending what money he could to them through legal or illegal channels. Then, we made a major breakthrough. I mentioned names: Rolling Stones, Poe, Godfather, Dali, Conrad (he was, after all, Polish). Some of them he shook his head "no" to (he either didn't know them or judged them unworthy of interest); to others, he nodded in the affirmative.

Then I said, "Shakespeare."

His eyes lit up. He left, returning with a copy of Shakespeare in his native language. He spent about an hour turning to and pointing out the parts he liked.

The next day, standing on the foredeck, Mark came up, pointed at the sun trying to cut through heavy fog, and said, "MacBeth. Witches," comparing the gloom of that scene to the day we were about to experience. From then on, we talked on many topics by using lines, titles, or quotes from Shakespeare, whose work became our medium. The relationship grew through the quotes.

Toward the middle of October that year, labor leader Lech Walesa saw his previous efforts coming to fruition, and there was a loosening of governmental policies in Mark's native nation. He came one night, and again, using Shakespeare, informed me he was returning to his family. He held optimism for his country; it was time to go back. The conversations, such as they were, ended, but my admiration never has. I hope he valued our brief friendship as much as I over the years.

I saved a photo of Mark, standing under cables and breaker boxes, wearing a yellow shirt and floppy white hat, as he smiles slightly with pride in his work. He was a great man who did whatever he had to for his loved ones, and in spite of the fact that we could never talk at length, I believe I knew him as well as I have known anyone in my life.