The Last Time I Saw Tristan

This story, and all my stories, contain fictionalized characters from memories of my life.

I am a 60+ year old BI woman. My stories are memoirs spiced with kinky imagination. I am submissive by natural inclination in most relationships. If you like kinky mature bi women I hope you will like my stories.

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THE LAST TIME I SAW TRISTAN

Short version of a long story......

In the early 70's, a year out of grad school a friend, Julia, and I started a small boutique specialty software consulting firm. Four years later we sold it. On that day, I became one of those people with more money than common sense.

In the Autumn on a rare weekend off I found Sabrina, the prototype for what would eventually become the Pacific SeaCraft Flicka. She was a small live aboard, ocean passage capable, sailboat. Sabrina was for sale by the original designer and builder at the Newport Rhode Island, in the water, boat show. I fell in love with the small sloop but for many reasons did not buy her on that day. I, of course, regretted that decision the very same day while driving home to Boston.

I contacted the owners the following day but Sabrina was sold.

Short version of a long story .... fast forward.

A year later our company is sold and I'm looking to buy a live aboard sailboat and move south.

Searching boat yards around Narraganset bay in Rhode Island I found Sabrina or rather what was left of her. She was abandoned on the hard (on dry land) in the back lot of a run down boat yard. I was told that she hit a partially submerged shipping container in Long Island sound and sunk in relatively shallow water as she tried to limp into port. She was salvaged but the owners did not attempt repair and restoration but rather stripped her of all equipment, sold everything and abandoned her. All rigging was gone. In fact what I had found was a damaged bare hull with water inside. Such a shame to have such a pretty sloop treated that way.

I found the owner, arranged a survey, in this case an expert opinion as to weather she could be repaired and an estimate of the work required to make her seaworthy. Within two weeks I owned the heartache of a rescue boat.

Within weeks a contract was signed for structural repairs and repainting by a well known Rhode Island boat builder. The hull would be painted green, the color of season change and new beginnings. In early Spring she was delivered, a giant ball of shrink wrap to a small boatyard on the West Passage of Narraganset bay owned by a friend. I bought a suitable trailer to make her somewhat mobile, an older pickup truck and rented a small apartment nearby.

As the work began I paid for the construction of a shelter to shield the open boat from the elements and me as I worked from the sun. I began work on the most urgent task, closing the hull from the weather with ports, hatches, vents and a new companionway (entrance). As you might imagine the arrival of the boat and a young attractive woman working on it attracted many of the local boat yard gawkers. I quickly learned that I could get free necessary "man" power my simply wearing shorts and a halter top while I worked.

Many of the things I initially had to do were simply a matter of measuring making choices and ordering and installing parts. I quickly and painfully learned the price difference between bronze and aluminum port holes but Sabrina would get the best. I burned dollar after dollar buying parts, tools and supplies.

My apartment became a bed a shower and a parts and tools storeroom.

Every morning a small ruddy man dressed in rumpled clothes stopped by and with coffee in hand and watched me work. On occasion he would say hello and mumble a few words of encouragement. I learned his name was Tristan and he apparently lived on a small cutter moored in the harbor.

Then came my first real skill challenge, the last thing required to button her up, the companionway. This would require carpentry skills and experience I just did not have. As I sat in the cockpit looking at the task ahead I heard him climbing the ladder.

That was the beginning of a year of learning, mistakes and a friendship with Tristan Jones. Much was accomplished that Spring and early summer. Most days were spent working on Sabrina with an occasional sail and day off with Tristan in his boat.

It was never romance. It was much more a partnership and friendship, laughs, and beer working on a shared project. It was Pizza in the cockpit of one or the other boat and coffee, hundreds of cups of coffee. It was talking about the past and the future. In spite of all the talk I felt I barely scratched the surface of Tristan Jones, his past or his planned future.

On July 4th, my birthday, I awoke to a forecast of rain. I went out onto the porch of my little apartment and yes, it was overcast, the boats on moorings in the harbor were restless and yes it looked like it would be a rainy day. But, it was not raining yet so, a cup of coffee in hand I jumped in my truck and headed off to work. As I made the turn into the boatyard the skies opened and I parked thinking I would get Tristan and maybe talk him into helping get some interior cabin work done.

His boat was on a dock awaiting delivery of a new stove and I climbed aboard hoping to find him sleeping in. He was not aboard, perhaps out for breakfast? I had been aboard his boat many times but never below decks for any length of time and I sat in the main cabin thinking, hoping, he might return. Of course my curiosity took hold and I snooped. I found it on a shelf with others, The Incredible Voyage. Tristan was a writer and as I sat back down with his first work. The light from the cabin port was just enough to read and I discovered he was a rather good writer. He did not return that July morning.

The rain was slacking and I eventually left to get lunch but then returned to the book. I read through dinner and eventually fell asleep.

When I awoke I was seemingly alone but under the covers in the forward berth. As my thoughts cleared I realized that I had on only my bra and panties. I poked my head out and there in the glow of a small oil lamp was Tristan sleeping on the main cabin settee. I crawled out and woke him. As the cobwebs cleared he open his eyes. I gestured to my bra and panties and he smiled and said: "Well, you were wet."

I took his hand pulled him up and said simply: "Come to bed." That was it. No seduction, no romance really. My Birthday and we were in bed. The oil lamp was burning in the cabin casting shadows on the walls I could hear the water slapping against the hull.

I said: "So I was wet?"

He replied: "Yes you were, you should stay out of the rain. I swear all I did was remove your outer things and put you in bed." His arms pulled me closer. Our faces were only inches apart.

I continued: "I see you are a writer, and a good one."

Tristan said: "Yes, it's a part time job when I'm not helping a beautiful woman restore her boat." His hand was lower on my back pushing down my panties then on my butt cheeks pulling my hips into him.

"Weren't you even tempted?" My hand found the top of his boxer shorts.

"Yes I am." He unhooked my bra and he removed it. His lips kissed my breasts and his hand found me wet. My hand found his manhood and he looked at me and said: "I have wanted you since I first met you."

No more words were necessary that night. Tristan was a great lover, giving more than he received. Loving him was easy and when his tongue first touched my clit I had the first orgasm of several that night. No earth shattering bomb blasts just rolling waves of pleasure over and over.

It became obvious that his preference was to have me on top of him as it was mine. As I moved to please myself I could see from his face that I was pleasing him. His hands were on my breasts lighting my nipples on fire with little pinches and caresses and sucking. Another wave orgasm. After a while his tempo changed and became more urgent. His hands were on my ass and hips pushing me urging me to take him deeper. He moaned and I believe I felt him pulse inside me.

In the days that followed my little apartment became a storage facility for tools and parts and I moved aboard his boat. As work progressed on Sabrina we alternated sleeping on her and his boat and when we were not working or he was writing, we made love. After a while I became concerned that I was pregnant with his child but my cycle was always irregular, a harbinger of future events in my life, but my period arrived and I breathed a sigh of relief and started on the pill.

As the end of Summer approached Sabrina was rigged and in the water. After a few sails to work out details we decided to take her to Block Island for a weekend. That first evening at anchor in Block Island harbor we ate lobster and steamed clams aboard Sabrina to celebrate. When we returned summer was gone and Tristan told me he would need to leave.

I asked: "How long?" He did not reply, he merely shrugged his shoulders.

Short version of a long story .... fast forward.

Aboard Sabrina, Newport Harbor, Rhode Island

I lived on Sabrina for three years and returned to New England for the Summer. On a perfect New England Summer afternoon, I dropped anchor in Rhode Island's Newport harbor for the night. .My plan was to enjoy an evening of Newport Jazz Festival music under the stars in Sabrina's cockpit. I took my dog Puffin to shore in my dinghy for her evening ritual and finished setting up for a nice evening dinner. I took out and set aside my boom tent just in case I needed it later in the evening. I was about to radio the lobster boat for dinner, yes you can do that in Newport harbor, when a beautiful catamaran, Outward Leg sailed in and dropped anchor nearby.

I had only read of Outward Leg but I knew her captain very well indeed. By then, Tristan Jones, was well known in the sailing community as the author of many books recounting his memoirs of many voyages in wooden sail boats. Tristan recognized Sabrina, called on his ship's radio, and asked if he might join me for the evening and catch up on each other's journeys. When he said the word journey I recalled that Tristan said that every day is part of one's life journey so when he said he wanted to "catch up on each other's journeys" I knew, I hoped, he meant he wanted to talk about everything.

As I think back on that evening, he may have wanted to visit with me for the music and conversation but also, I'm sure, because of the prospect of a free meal. In any case, when the Lobster Boat arrived we ordered lobster and steamed clams and of course I paid. We toasted that seemingly forever ago dinner in Block Island harbor.

The music was great and the conversation easy. No mention of the distant past was made except for Block Island by either of us.

By the second glass of Jack Daniels Tristan was starting into one of his tales. I have always believed that perhaps at least some of the story may just have come from that bottle we shared under the summer stars but Tristan assured me that the story was truth. I was not disappointed in the tale, however, when at little after midnight, the story ended and Tristan took my hand and we went below. As he held me he tried to explain why he left years ago but I stopped him knowing he could not explain. He kissed me but the fire was gone. We made love but sadly it was not the passionate love of those early years. I was the lovemaking of a couple saying goodbye. Loving that left me longing for the abandon and passion of years gone by.

When aboard I am an extremely light sleeper yet somehow in the very early morning Tristan hauled anchor and sailed out of Newport without waking me or my dog Puffin.

Weeks later I received through my mail service a copy of his most recent book Heart of Oak autographed with a note expressing his love and wishing me and Sabrina many safe passages. He had never said the words "I love you" out loud but in his book note, he said what I knew. It was more than ships passing in the night.

Months later I heard that he and Outward Leg were lost in a storm off the Azores and with that storm I lost more than a friend. He was a lover, mentor, teacher and good friend and his death was a major turning point in my life. Still more was lost however when several years later a researcher studied Tristan's books and was able to prove that all the memoirs though still in print are fiction.

In his last letter to me he wrote.....

"At midnight on a warm Summer evening they lifted a glass to celebrate each other went below to make love. On that same night a young sailor rowed his skiff to shore and passed near their boat. He had admired her from a distance and couldn't pass up this opportunity to get up close to the pretty sloop. As he past near the bow he heard the sounds of people aboard, the sounds of people making love perhaps. He had seen no lights and, suddenly embarrassed, he headed away as silently and discreetly as he could. As he rowed away he heard a man speaking "I love you more than you could ever know." When the young man turned and looked back the boat was gone and there was only a ripple in the water. Sabrina and those aboard had vanished, now only a memory in time."