HOG HAVEN

CHAPTER ONE

I put the wheel over, slipped into reverse, and let the starboard aft spring line warp my bow out to get around the 80 footer that had tied up in front of me during the night. With motion stopped and the engine in neutral, I stepped out of the pilothouse quickly slipping the warping dock line before the wind had a chance to move me too far. Back at the wheel, I eased the throttle forward and the throaty, low rumble of my trusty old Perkins diesel sang a welcome and familiar tune. Once again happily outward bound through the twisting narrow channel to the sea-opening on the leeward side of the island, I was nevertheless, apprehensive over this charter and the woman still asleep in the forward cabin.

To paraphrase Williams, I have always depended on the kindness of semi-strangers. In this instance, my LA buddy, Roger, had recommended me personally as the solution to someone's problem. My experience over the years has been that solving problems generally only requires serious listening. And I am good at that. So the woman in question contacted me and we blocked off a two-week period amenable to both of us. She sounded busy and stressed and had difficulty clearing two full weeks but I insisted and said it was a long way to travel and two weeks was the minimum time necessary to get one's head clear. Now, why I said that I have no idea, because I hadn't the faintest notion as to the nature of her particular problem.

Maybe I should go back a bit and cover some earlier ground lest you get the wrong idea. I own a comfortable old 42-foot trawler based out of Roataan, the main island of a small group called the Bay Islands off the coast of Honduras. I charter myself and the boat to those few people lucky enough to find out about me, generally through my friend Roger who supplies about 80% of my clientele. We fish a little bit, snorkel a bit, and eat fresh seafood everyday for however long they decide to stay on with me. Most of the time my guests are couples, one or two at a time, but I have also had groups of three and four guys now and again. I would prefer groups of women but Roger never recommends me to them, or as he puts it, women don't do that sort of thing. I am captain, cook, guide, and father confessor to city people who are convinced living on a boat invests one with great insight and in-depth knowledge on the theory of everything. Do not misunderstand me, I never, never discourage such opinions.
However, this woman was being difficult. Particularly when she didn't want to tell me how many people were going to show up. She wasn't sure, she said, and the numbers could change at the last second. Huh? I thought to myself. Regardless of where you are in the States, first you fly to New Orleans, and then hitch a ride on a very old SAHSA 727 to either Tegucigulpa or San Pedro Sula, where you transfer to a vintage (meaning early 1940's) DC-3 complete with original oil spewing R-1830 Pratt and Whitney engines, bullet holes through the cabin sole, (floor, to you land huggers) and short swarthy pilots with holstered .45's neatly obscured by beer-belly overhang. One needs to pray fervently that the rate of climb on that particular DC-3 will exceed the rise of the mountains that lie between you and the Islands. My point being that people don't just drop in to my place for a cup of coffee. She said she'd call me back. Un huh… right.

What's to call back about? Five is the max I can take it shouldn't be that difficult to figure out the logistics of getting here and then I blithely wrote her off knowing she'd never call back. Unfortunately, I don't have ANY charters for December, January or February. It's a very lucky happenstance that I delight in fish as food. On the other hand, I am a hermit at heart and enjoy my times alone. With plenty of fish around, a great hardship for those three months without a paying charter, it would not be. So while I was planning which little out of the way harbor I would pop into first to enjoy the enforced solitude, the radio crackled informing me of another phone call from the states. This old trawler of mine has one or two electronic gadgets aboard but a satellite phone is beyond my budget, so I tromp back over to the dock office phone, and am shocked to hear her voice again.

"OK, here's the deal Mr. Captain," she directed in a husky voice, "your reputation is one of competence, so this is what I want. I want your boat to take me to small bays and small beaches. I don't want to see cabanas. I don't want to see another boat. I don't want to see another person except for you and whatever crew you need, and then only when serving. I want to be served and pampered. I am told that is possible in that place. And you can charge me whatever you like. Is it a deal?"

"Whoa," I said, "we still have to know how many people and what kind of preferences they have for beverages and various other things so I can plan supplies. And yes I can arrange the solitude, the beaches and the small private bays. You and your party will have a vacation you won't regret," I added remembering the sales pitch.

"Put on supplies for three and whatever you choose will be fine. Be at the Roataan airport a week from Tuesday at 10:20 AM."

Click. Hmmm. A plimsol mark or two below friendly, I think to myself, and error prone on top of it. The only flight to the island is out of San Pedro Sula and arrives anywhere between 9AM and 9:30AM, not 10:20 as she thinks. And also I hate it when they tell you "anything is fine." They never mean it and will bitch and moan when they can't find the Anchor Steam beer that is their favorite or the Carr water table crackers with sesame seeds. Roataan does not have a Wal-mart and choices are limited. Severely so. I try to be up front with people preventing expectations from being dashed when they find the selection of beer is limited to Heinekens warm or Heinekens lukewarm, unless the refrigeration system works for a few consecutive hours. Then a third option, namely, Heinekens cool, is available. But hey, it's a paying job and thus started on the stores list, knowing full well whatever I chose would be wrong.

My next unpleasant surprise came a week from Tuesday at the airport. Of course I was there at 9:00 AM to meet the SAHSA island hopper. The DC-3 stopped at the end of the copra runway and the usual group got off. A couple of divers, a few islanders, a travel writer/photographer, six or eight small pigs and a dozen or so chattering chickens. No one that even vaguely resembled my party of three. Now this was a bit disconcerting. I could have a serious problem after stocking the boat at some expense, only to be stiffed by this party. I have always expected the people who had been recommended to me were of a financially trustworthy nature and I had never been disappointed... until this morning. While I sat around the tin shack that served as the airport outhouse/office sharing a beer with Moses, the old dive guide and our unofficial local harbormaster who drove over with me, I pondered my next step. Maybe I got the day wrong, maybe they simply missed a connection, maybe it was time for me to move on.
Moses laughed at me and grabbing the beer out of my hand said, "If'n you not goin' to drink mon, doan warm dis beer wit your hond. Besides, tomorrow be a good day for worry." His philosophy always cut to the heart of the matter. Tomorrow WAS a better day to worry than today. So I watched him take another swig of my now warm Heineken.

As we sat leaning against the corrugated tin shack, we talked women, fish, women, boats, women, life, and women. Moses has been "married" six or seven times. I say that with some inaccuracy since his definition of marriage is simply a relationship that results in a child. His or whomever's. It may sound a little loose to an outsider but I see the children around the island regularly and they have a plethora of fathers, all taking a part in the child rearing. It is not a bad system, and the kids certainly seem to revel in the fatherly attention… all of them. Jealousy does not appear to play a major role in any of their lives. There is a lesson in that somewhere but I am too relaxed to divine its meaning and am thinking about suggesting to Moses that we leave before I start seeing more than the two muddy ruts that make up our freeway back to the harbor.

No sooner do the two of us get up to do just that, than an unfamiliar sound floats down on us. Having a little too much experience with the characteristic sound of various jet engines, I look up a little incredulous. I'm right. The characteristic whine of a pair of small Rolls Royce engines fitted to a sleek private jet is turning final to land on our little island airport. It is a Gulfstream IV, as pretty a small private luxury jet as was ever designed. Such modes of travel are generally preceded by one arriving in one's Lamborghini which pulls up to the thickly carpeted gangplank of said airplane while many people kiss your butt. This particular G-4 was rolling onto final for a landing at our short and I mean short, strip. Being well west of East Jesus, a private plane is not a common sight here on the island but a Gulfstream IV private jet is near on to wild imagination. Our copra landing strip is a little under 5000 feet long and tight against the shore ensuring a rapid quickening of both blood pressure and heartbeat for any on board particularly whoever might be sitting in the left seat of her cockpit. Moses and I both said "Oh shit!" simultaneously and sat back down to watch what could easily be this pilot's last landing. With full flaps, he was coming in fast and high and dropping hard. He lined up the end of the runway perfectly, flared, put the wheels on the ground within two feet of the end of the runway and slammed the engines into retro. Turbines screaming as he passed us at about 70 knots, the new-looking Gulfstream came to a near stop about 30 feet from the opposite end of the runway, did a rapid rolling 180, and taxied back to the shack. Having piloted a bit on a private ticket in my earlier years, I was totally impressed. As far as I was concerned, this guy was as good as any of those navy jocks I used to watch hooking their F-6's on the pitching deck of a carrier at midnight in the middle of a South Asian monsoon. I mean our little shell runway was but a mere postage stamp compared to where this plane normally landed and he greased it on the first shot. If he had made a low pass to check it out, we would have heard him two miles out, but no, not this guy. Straight in and on the green in one. Very impressive. I look at my weather-beaten old Rolex, a security blanket from my Southeast Asia days, and it reads 10:20 plus about 10 seconds.

With a growing feeling of dread, I watch the door open and the hydraulic stairs drop to the ground as a nattily attired uniform steps down the.. you guessed it… thickly carpeted gangplank. It hardly seems fair to call it a gangplank when the carpeting is thicker than the grass on the African veldt at the heart of the rainy season. Following the uniform is a striking curvaceous woman carrying a small bag. It's a Prada by the looks of it and the pilot quickly takes it out of her hand as the two of them head our way. She's not thin but you don't notice because some women just have presence. And even at 60 feet distant this woman had presence. What she didn't have was companions. No one else came down the steps as the pilot steps out and he and the woman walked toward me and Moses. Moses simply takes another swig and eyes the two of them warily. I'm still trying to close my mouth. The woman looks directly at me and says, "Are you the captain?"

"Well," I stammer, "if you've come to the StarGazer, I guess I am."

"Good," she replies to me, then looks at the pilot, takes back the little bag and says, "Thank you, Mr. Baron, it was a pleasant ride. I'll expect you at the same time in two weeks."

"Yes Ma'am, I'll be here." And he salutes her, pivots and smartly walks back to the plane. A lot of military bearing in that walk I think to myself. And while I am still watching Mr. Baron disappear up the gangplank, the lady says, "Well, do we have transportation or do we walk?"

"Ummm, Ma'am," I say respectfully, taking my cue from the pilot, "your luggage? The rest of your party? Do we wait…or …?"

"Captain, this is my luggage," holding up what I am now able to confirm as a Prada bag, "and there are no more to my party. Deal with it."

Still friendly, I think to myself as I lead the way to the old Jeep Moses lets me use when I'm at the dock. An interesting thing happens when we get to the Jeep. I expect her to hop into the front seat immediately but instead she looks at Moses and asks where he wants to sit. Now this is surprising from someone who until now has not shown a great deal of concern towards me or my problems. Moses smiles that big island smile at her and motions for her to choose. She hops in the front seat and I notice that the small bag she has been carrying is tossed in the back next to Moses and it must weigh no more than a few pounds. Well, she did say she did not want to see anyone so I guess she doesn't need a great deal in the way of wardrobe. And we've never been big on makeup out here either.

The old six cylinder chatters to life and we drive off and up the winding rutted dirt road that traverses the steep volcanic hills forming the backbone of this main island. Breadfruit and mango trees hunch over the road preventing us from seeing the G-IV take off but we can hear it above the macaw and monkey din as it roars to cruising altitude.

"That's quite a pilot," I remark.

"Yes," she says and looks off to her right where the edge of the road suddenly ends in a deep crevice as we cross the divide and begin our descent to the harbor still hidden below. Liana and orchids litter the side of the road and droop down, brushing our heads as we pass underneath the lower hanging branches. Dropping down to the final turn, I manage to hit squarely the deep rut that I have missed only once or twice in the hundred odd trips on this donkey path, and we slue violently as the jeep bounces around the turn. With a sudden flash of skylight, the tiny harbor opens up in full view before us. She does make a small gasp. It is classically beautiful, a perfect hurricane hole a half mile from the sea, nestled among palms and mango with a shocking blue sky above. It is after 11 now and the first of the big heavy clouds sweep across our skyline as they prepare to wash the island for a few minutes as they do every day around noon this time of the year. Sometimes the rain will stay longer if any tropical storms have meandered up the coast a ways, but generally the noon weather is a naturally refreshing shower one takes at midday. The temperature range for this part of the world is 78 to 82 degrees year round. In this shrinking world of ours, it is hard to believe the island has not been "discovered" or bought by some LBO or ex-DotCom billionaire.

All this time I have been trying to organize my thoughts about this charter. Now I have food for three and myself aboard and I have only one guest. Furthermore, I had stonewalled my thoughts about her personally. A striking woman with a short but quite compact body that boasted curves in all the proper places, she epitomized the shape Rueben made famous and clearly defined herself as "woman" not "girl." Upon reflection, she appeared far more solid than Rueben's women, but who was I to quibble. Luckily her demeanor cleansed my lustful head of any untoward thoughts, knowing she probably was also adept in one of those arcane oriental martial arts things and would have no problem in ripping off parts of my body I might deem essential.

Her face displayed those sexy little lines around her eyes that said she'd earned the right to be a woman. That has always intrigued me. Of course, twenty year old bodies are nice, but unfortunately they always come with twenty year old heads attached. There was nothing twenty about this woman except maybe the zeros behind her net worth. G-4's run high. And she did have a way of moving… purposefully yes, but also sensual. Some women can wag their butts through an arc of 30 degrees thinking it is sensual but they're wrong. It is merely a crass sort of sexy. Oh, I know many men wouldn't know the difference or even care, but for me, sexy is merely the icing on the whole cake that is sensuality. And for more years than I can recall now, I have only been satisfied with the whole cake. It is the prerogative of the older male. The concomitant result of course, is that I also spend most nights in the company of my hands. And I don't mean the crew.

I showed her to her forward cabin in the bow of the boat, gave her instructions on the use of a marine head, and said lunch would be ready in about fifteen minutes and did she care to eat inside or out on the aft deck. Considering that at the moment, raindrops the size of pullet eggs were drumming an urgent message on the deck above she gave me a strange look. I told her that the rain would be over in 8 or 9 minutes and the sun would return. She said nothing, but did close the stateroom door as I stepped up and into the main salon of StarGazer to prepare lunch.
I am always nervous about the first meal aboard even if we are still at the dock. It sets the tone for an entire trip and tells the guests as well as me what we might expect from each other over the next week or two. Most of my guests are reasonably affluent or they couldn't afford this trip, but none has ever arrived via private jet. Obviously this is a woman used to being catered to and I was more nervous than usual. I decided on a simple country lunch starting off with a cold gazpacho, and then a decent Stilton I'd had shipped in a while back, a slab or two of the rosemary bread I'd made earlier in the morning, (no, of course not from scratch, I have a bread maker aboard) a couple of slices of a prosciutto-like local smoked ham, and the first bottle from one of the cases of Renwood Zinfandel I'd put aboard for this charter. A little winery in Amador County, California, found for me by trusty old Roger, they produced a very small quantity of the most complex Zin I'd ever tasted. I fell in love with it in spite of the fact that I've always considered Zins, "second tier" wines. If she didn't like the reds, I had some nice Pinot Grigio, I liked from Sonoma. Lunch we'd finish off with the standard array of fruits indigenous to the island and then she could then take the rest of the afternoon to explore the local environs for a few hours while I rearranged a few mechanical devices on board to meet the demands of only one passenger.

Now that I was going to be the only working hand I had to make a few minor changes so that I could work the boat by myself. Normally guests love to help by hauling on lines and anchor chains and I am just bright enough to think that it doesn't hurt to allow them to learn what they will. I did not believe this woman was interested in learning boat handling skills. The first port of call I had planned on was about four hours distant, at one of the smaller islands, named Hog Island. Not for any feral bacon running around but for the shape of the north end promontory, which when squinted at with one eye closed, closely resembled the rear end of pig right down to a scraggly old tree curling out of the expected locale. The island was not inhabited and few locals would go there due to some old superstitions about strange noises. But the only available anchorage was a coral reef enclosed inlet that was a bit tricky to get into due to numerous coral heads. Avoiding the coral heads meant navigating the entrance only at high sun hours, thus we would start out early the coming morning and take a leisurely cruise to the island and slip through the breach in the reef just before noon. A reasonable plan and one that should meet the solitude requirements of my charge.

When she came out of her cabin for lunch, she wore a loose fitting smooth something tee that was quite thin. The pale yellow was the color of our early morning sunrise, but it was difficult to concentrate on the color because it was very thin. In fact the shape of her torso could have not been more sensually accented if the tee had been form fitting. While quickly glancing at the bottle of wine I was about to open, she abruptly walked past me to the stairs leading to the aft deck and said, "Hmmm, you were correct." I could only surmise she was referring to the sunshine that had replaced the raindrops from a few minutes earlier. She obviously wanted to eat on the aft deck so I followed her up the companionway through the pilothouse and out on to the aft deck. Mind you this was a pleasant experience since the bottoms she was wearing were nothing more than a miniscule thong exposing 99% of her not insubstantial derriere. Wow, a thong on a woman never to be accused of anorexia. Obviously at peace with herself, I thought to myself. She effortlessly glided between the chairs with a swirl and fluid hip swiveling that took my breath away for a second and as I served the glass of wine to her, she looked me straight in the eye and said, "My attire is acceptable in this culture?"

"In any sane culture Ma'am," I replied.

"Listen up Cap, we're going to be here a while, so please call me Charleen."

"Yes ma'am, Charleen it is. Let me bring lunch up." And I quickly retreated to the galley and loaded up the serving tray, thinking this was going to be a very difficult trip indeed. It was one thing to lust after the women on board accompanied by boyfriends and husbands because the fantasy is entirely, and purely mental. With this sensual and attractive, lone woman on board, I sensed I would be doing a great deal of masturbating while she was off sunbathing or snorkeling. I didn't know what it was she was running from, or hiding from, or simply getting away from, but I knew my thinking about her in this way was not going to please her. Unless of course teasing was her thing, but she didn't seem the type. She appeared a woman who knew what she wanted and when. And an ogling old boat bum like myself would not fill her cup of tea, and what's more, I was not about to lose my professional captain's demeanor. I pride myself on my seamanship and serious fantasizing about a guest would be an unprofessional distraction that I would not allow to happen on this trip.

While I served lunch she immediately told me in no uncertain terms that in the future, since we were to be alone on this boat, I was to eat meals with her and not in my cabin or in the galley unless she specifically requested to eat alone. Great, I thought, now I have to be close to her during meals. I have always thought one of the more erotic events in one's life is sharing food with an exciting woman. Just watching her purse her full lower lip around the wine goblet was making me erect. And what IS that material covering those firm breasts that makes me want to run my hands over her so desperately? The trip IS going to be hard. Very hard, I thought smiling wryly at my unintentional double entendre. We discussed the options available for her the rest of the day and I inquired if she would like to consider menus for the days ahead.

"No, I want to make zero, zip, nada decisions for the next couple of weeks so please choose whatever appeals to you. I eat anything and can be adventuresome so feel free. Is that where your friend stays?" she inquired pointing to Moses's palapa next to the shack that served as his dock office.

"Yes, Ma'am, but if you visit, it's local custom to take over a cold beer for him."

"I will not mention it again, but do NOT call me 'Ma'am' one more time. And give me a six-pack or two."

"Yes Ma… Charleen," I said, quickly correcting myself. But when I took two six-packs out of the cooler, she grabbed both of them and then a third for good measure. She ignored my stares and hopped off the aft swim platform onto the old dock. It was a display of infinite grace as parts of her moved apparently independent of connection to anything. The rest of the afternoon I spent rigging remote anchor releases, repeaters for the depth-sounders, fixing retrieval lines, and calibrating the old Seascan radar unit. Not that I expected to use it, but I feel better knowing it all works before I leave the dock. And all this while hearing the constant, loud, and raucous music of the Dixie Chicks and Tom Waits' raspy wailing from the palapa, interspersed with roars of laughter emanating from which one of the two of them I could not discern. This is so not like Mr. No Extra Words Moses. When I finished my tasks, I sat down on the foredeck out of sight of Moses's place, thought about dinner, and worried about the next two weeks.

The sun barely above the palms and it was not yet seven AM, as the bow of StarGazer nosed its way along the narrow channel leading to the sea. I had made cappuccino, shaved a little fresh coconut on the top and peeled a ripe mango for her breakfast when she awakened. Three six-packs did not appear to improve my guest's demeanor, but they also didn't seem to have any adverse after effects in the later afternoon. As I expected, being asleep, she offered no help when we left the dock nor was it needed. Now as I contemplated the course to take over to the island, I gauged the wind and was pleased to think we would have a smooth few hours and could even follow a gentle curving course taking us close on to several of the smaller islands in the chain.

I took us near several reefs and slowed to a drift pace so she could sit with her legs off the bow and watch the teeming and colorful reef life, which she did with little outward emotion. If she smiled I could not see it. What was it with this woman I thought to myself. It is quite difficult to not be happy out here. Smiling is something everyone does here without thinking. The last leg of our short voyage was across a ten mile gap in the chain and I let her stay on the bow as I gently came up to cruising speed which is about 9 knots on my boat. The seas were flat, the sun was climbing, and our bow wave sputtered and folded over on itself as we glided across the azure carpet. I watched as a pod of dolphins appeared on our port and I beeped the horn slightly so that she would look at me and I could point them out. There was no need however as they soon closed on the boat and began to ride our bow wave squeaking approval as they each in turn inspected this human hanging over the rail trying to pet them. They stayed with us for twenty minutes and were gone as quickly as they came leaving in their wake, the glow that comes from communing with other sentient creatures. It may be superstition but I welcomed their attentions and felt the better for it as we approached Hog Island from the windward side circling the two mile long palm covered speck, checking it out before I entered the bay on the leeward side of the island.

I've been in the bay dozens of times and I think I have memorized the coral heads and where they are but I still like going in with bright overhead sun so heads are clearly visible. At the narrowest gap, although I have only about three feet clearance on each side, it looks hairier than it is because there is rarely a sea running and the water is deep in the channel. Charleen stood near the bow and watched the surface intently as the coral heads slipped by our hull, not disturbing in the least the three foot Angel fish who I have spied often as he inspected his reef. I've named him Quincy but he's not acknowledged it as of yet. I dropped the anchor in 16 feet white sand bottom, set it and turned off the diesel. The quiet was deafening. Charleen remained on the bow staring off at the shore a mere 20 yards away and for the first time since I'd run up the engine, I took the luxury of observing her. Still wearing the "not there" thong, she had on another of those smooth tees that looked like silk. I could only fantasize about how it might feel to the touch, but I wasn't about to go there.

She stepped aside as I made the anchor fast and attached the snubber, but didn't say anything to me and only continued to gaze off at the shore and the swaying palms. It was about 80 degrees but her nipples were at attention. At least, I thought, something makes her happy. I only wish it had been me. And that's when I knew the world was truly screwed up. I mean, after all, I was the worldly sea captain, and she the forty-something city woman. She was supposed to be in love with me before we left the dock. And here I was mooning after a woman who didn't smile, didn't speak, and didn't understand the rules. Life is not fair.

I suggested she might want to snorkel or explore a bit in the immediate vicinity of the boat while I prepared a lunch for us. I reminded her to slather on the sunblock using the new waterproof stuff I had stored on board. Tropic sun, crystalline water, and an abundance of exposed flesh were an explosive combination for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which was a burn. She agreed and as she came aft to go into the water she handed me the sunblock tube and said, "My back please." I took the tube but stood perplexed. She still had on her tee. Where did she want me to put this? She turned her back to me and pulled the tee up over her shoulders exposing her back but also an incredibly erotic side view of her un-bra-ed breasts. And the nipples were erect… still. Gritting my teeth, I hesitantly rubbed on the cream and she soon slipped off the edge of swim platform with her snorkel gear. My hands were shaking as I sought out a cool beer, a poor substitute for the cold shower I needed.

The noon rain cooled us both off, and having the added bonus of rinsing the salt from her togs. I served her fresh ceviche and salsa with homemade chips, and fish tacos as a light lunch and it was good. I mean everything, the food, the talk, the outline of her short wet blonde hair against deep green of the shore vegetation, and the diamond-like sparkle in her eyes that had not been there just twenty-four hours earlier. Of course she didn't smile, but then I assumed that she was genetically deficient and probably hadn't done it since early childhood and never would be able to for the rest of her life. It was OK because the rest of her was interesting enough to make up for that minor shortcoming. She asked if I would show her the reef after lunch, then explore the beach.

The beach, a 60 foot wide swath fully the entire half mile of our little bay, was powder white and because of the leeward bay and the last storm having passed through a few weeks back, immaculate. The only mangroves with their attendant no-see-ums, were on the far side from us and I told her not to venture in too close. I would be pleased to show her my favorite haunts in this small corner of Eden.

While we were over the reef, I spotted a couple of spinys and dropped them in my dive bag along with a dozen or so clams I taught her how to spot just below Stargazer. She walked the entire beach, napped for a couple of hours under a light gauze tent I set for her and swam back to the boat about four, where I had prepared the clams as an appetizer by broiling them with a little butter, garlic, and cilantro. I toasted points of the rosemary bread with the same butter and garlic and washed it all down with the Pinot Grigio, if only to make me hungry for our upcoming lobster dinner.

She dressed for dinner. By that I mean she wore a tee of a different color, (she must have twenty of them in that little bag) and a pair of loose fitting khaki hiking shorts. I tried not to stare but the sensuality of her was again overpowering. She abruptly stated that we would stay the entire two weeks in this place. She thought it perfect and did not want to leave. Neither did I. I wanted to stay far longer than two weeks. Dinner was delicious but uneventful and as I finished up the dishes, it went from dusk to dark in a few seconds and she asked what one did on the boat after dark. I explained that normally, cruising short handed as we were, late night partying was rare, and one went to bed when the sun went down, and rose when it came up.

"Hmmm…" she replied, and sensing an attack of boredom on her part, I showed her my library of forty or fifty paper backs, and added that I also had a CD-ROM on my laptop with another 300 literary classics if she was interested. She glanced over the books and picking one out said, "Oooh, I haven't read one of these in a while. Are you a fan?" She was holding up one of the volumes of the Ann Rice "Sleeping Beauty" trilogy. Caught by surprise, I visibly blushed and she said, "Oh, so you read your books too. A regular renaissance guy. These yours or somebody bring them aboard?"

"No, they're mine. I'm not a fan of Rice's vampire or witch stuff, but that trilogy caught my attention." She moved away from the shelf stroking the book thoughtfully and then leaned against the bulkhead. Her position accentuated her hips and tightened her shorts across the vee of her crotch clearly outlining the prominent pubic mound. Her breathing got deeper as she stared at me. I was afraid to move. After what seemed minutes though probably only a few seconds, she sighed small, said goodnight and walked forward to her cabin with the book. I quickly finished up and went to my cabin and suddenly realized that I had an erection. Damn, damn. Was it there when she was staring at me? No I'm sure it couldn't have been but I remembered so clearly those petite breasts with the erect nipples, and that wondrous mound inviting, but with it's charms so well hidden. Hell, I probably did have it then and she was disgusted or laughing or both. That's what one gets for wearing boxer trunks sans underwear. There is nothing to keep one in check. Nothing to hold one back from making a fool of one's self. Nothing to keep that damn old pole from waving in the breeze, if there were one.

Somewhere in the middle of the night I awoke with a start for no reason than some nights have unpleasant reminisces, so I got up and went to the galley for a drink of cold water. The view out the main salon windows came into focus and I stood for a while looking out over the bay at the tiny sliver of a moon that gave just enough light to glint off an occasional wavelet. Caught up in the sublime beauty of my personal little paradise, I didn't hear her come up silently and stand directly behind me until she said in throaty whisper, "Been up all night? And did you ease your male tensions? Don't lie to me because I intend to find out for myself."

With what seemed practiced efficiency, she slipped her right hand under my loose boxer leg around to the front and cradled my scrotum in her warm hand. With her left hand, she reached around from the other side of me, and began a gentle fondling of my rapidly growing penis. Standing on her tiptoes, pressing those hard nipples and firm breasts against my back, she whispered in my ear, "Perhaps, you shouldn't have let me read that book, Captain." I swear I could hear an actual smile on her face.

End Chapter One