Men deprived of the presence of women for any length of time are capable of thinking of only one thing; the fragrant undetectable perfume of female pheromones.
Thus it was, one day many years ago, as we pulled into Charlotte Amalie harbor, St. Thomas, Virgin Islands. Our ship had been on an extended patrol, and we had not seen anything feminine in over a month. Now, the fragrance laden breezes that washed over the blue-green water carried the sweet smell of tropical flowers. And women. They were there. Many of them. Standing on the shore watching our bow drift slowly, carefully toward the dock.
We sailors tried mightily to keep our minds on the business of tying the ship up. But the obscure haze of the air of women dominated our awareness. We managed at our clumsy last to get the mooring lines out and get the ship soothed to a serene rest. And I did not have "The duty". That meant that I could have forty-eight care-free hours ashore. That meant that I would, likely, get laid. That meant that I would also, no doubt, get a little drunk.
Understand that in those days the white belt that held my white uniform pants up was only twenty six inches long. Understand that I had no fat on me, and the white uniform fit me as well as Frank Sinatra's and Gene Kelly's had fit them in some movie about sailors in Paris.
I cocked my white hat over my left eye and swaggered ashore with the pride of one who knows that the ship's arrival has squished more than one female pudenda into lusty anticipation.
But where the hell were they?
Most of my shipmates were heading toward Trader Dan's, the thatch-covered bar along the main wharf that was the center of Charlotte Amalie's commerce and social life. In an hour or so it would be too drunk in there to hear yourself think. I opted for the streets less traveled. I headed up the hill toward the shops where I could poke around among souvenir stores and little local restaurants. I would get a cup of the island's rich black coffee and sit for a bit while I worked out my itinerary.
She found me there.
Her name was Helen, and she was a late thirty-ish, maybe even forty-ish schoolteacher from Michigan. She had a soft look about her; like one unaccustomed to the nuances of a one-night-stand. She had asked if she might join me and I had, of course, invited her to sit down. She was intrigued, she told me, by how young I was and my uniform and those ribbons on it and what were they for because she wanted to tell her fourth grade class that she had met a real sailor and could I tell her something about the life I led. Like why?
"Look around." I answered. "I come here at least a couple of times a month most times. We're based at San Juan. I've learned Spanish and how to navigate and the service taught me morse code so that I speak it like a second language and, well, I guess it's just the adventure."
"I can't imagine such a life." She said. "It took me three years just to save up for this trip." She put her hand on mine. It was a delicate little schoolteacher's hand. It had red lacquered nails and looked like it might be made out of the hollow bones of birds. "So you're familiar with Charlotte Amalie?"
"Yes." I answered.
"Maybe you could give me a tour. I've only just arrived myself."
The steel band from Trader Dan's was in full voice as we walked along the wharf. Vendors in boats held up huge fish and exotic fruits and vegetables and handbags and wicker hats likely made in Taiwan and on one a very pretty little island girl sold flowers. I bought a little bouquet and gave them to Helen. She looked at them with a kind of whistful look on her face for a moment, then her face brightened and she put her arm in mine and we strolled. From time to time one of my shipmates would pass me with a "You sorry bastard, you've already scored" look on his face. It was an intoxicating afternoon of tropical sun, salt air, wild flowers and calypso music. By the time the sun had settled itself down to the horizon, Helen's face was pressed against my shoulder.
"How long can you stay off the boat?" She asked.
"Ship. It's a ship." I said. I looked at my watch. "I have another forty-six hours."
"I know that we'll never see each other again after this, but do you suppose, just for this little while, you could be, like, my boyfriend or something?" She asked.
I stopped and put my hands on her shoulders. "And what does that entail?" I asked.
She leaned up and kissed me. "Everything, maybe, if you don't mind an old broad like me."
"You're not an old broad." I said. "Just older than me."
"How old are you?" She asked between kisses.
