Beck was out of sorts for the next few days and retreated to her cabin, before gradually migrating back to Watson’s bed. The brush with the knife-wielding youth had cast a pall over her joie de vivre and the trauma was taking time to ebb away. Watson sat back patiently while Beck licked her spiritual wounds, steering Aurora far offshore to put the experience behind them.
With the sun out and the Bimini down, Watson was lounging in the open-air cockpit, five days into the passage and miles out to sea. When Beck emerged out into the sunshine, stark naked, Watson knew she was back on an even keel. She was freshly showered and smelt like a candy shop. Settling onto his lap, she leant back into him, then took his hand and put it between her legs. From the feel of her easily-parted, hot, slippery flesh, she’d been playing with herself, limbering up with either fingers or toy. Watson dipped his finger into her and she arched her back. “Someone’s feeling better.” the old man intoned.
Beck nodded. When Watson slid his finger up to her clit, she grabbed hold of it and jammed it in, right up to the knuckle. “Want to see something Tanya taught me?”
“Can’t wait.” Watson nodded, his shorts showing signs of a stirring cock.
Head back, eyes closed, Beck channelled every ounce of concentration into her vagina. Watson’s eyebrows elevated. Her insides began squeezing and relaxing, pulsating around his finger from tip to knuckle. It felt like a tiny fist inside her was jacking his digit. “Wow!” he said, and Beck smiled.
Bracing her thighs against Watson’s, she elevated off his finger and stood up in front of him. “Feel like a fuck?” she asked, holding out her hand.
Watson nodded at the swelling in his lap. “Does this answer your question?”
Beck arched her eyebrows and shot him a sly grin. “Come on then, let’s have some fun. Last one in bed’s a rotten egg.”
* * *
The monsoon arrived on an early flight, taking much of far North Queensland by storm. Caught short on the wrong side of Capricorn, Watson headed for the nearest safe-haven to lay-up for the next few months. Aurora was coming due for her yearly slipping anyway- anti-foul and repaint, repairs to the rigging. A whole list of renos, long postponed, involving hours of tedium and great big buckets of blood, sweat and elbow grease. The lot of the full-time yachtie.
There were writing deadlines as well, new scripts for a pilot programme, another common or garden six o’clock hack. As belaboured as they might be, these TV pulps paid the bills, and supported their fringe-dweller lifestyle.
Other domestic necessities were jostling for priority. Beck’s scant wardrobe was so threadbare much of it was see-through, which was awesome in the right circumstances but caused a stir when they turned up on land. Watson’s own tatty clothing, some of which was pre-divorce, was less haute-couture than nouveau-destitute. As much as it pained him to waste money on such fripperies, their wardrobes were in need of replacing.
There was more to the getting of land legs than simple adaptation to rocky stability. The longer he spent at sea, the more averse Watson was becoming to life on Terra Firma. This, after all, was where most humans dwelled and if there was one thing the ocean instilled, it was a deep and abiding love of solitude. The knots of strolling tourists and odd hi viz-clad worker, felt like a veritable swarm to the unshaven, grey-haired, weather-beaten seafarer fresh off the boat. And try as he did to dismiss the threats of a fat, stupid redneck, paranoia gnawed at his gut like a parasite.
He looked at the girl as they walked hand-in-hand, Beck happily swinging his arm, her curiosity at maximum volume as she tried to take in everything she saw. Watson, meanwhile, kept his head down. This was where they were at their most vulnerable. It would take one person to recognise Beck, one lowlife crim, or a fabled mate of the young rapist’s father, and word would get back to their tormentors. The ramifications of a showdown didn’t bear thinking about.
Air conditioning sent a chill up Watson’s spine as they stepped into the plush marina office. A well-dressed, staid, bottle-blonde looked up from her workspace as they entered, then went back to what she was doing, pointedly ignoring them. Beck wandered off to browse some upmarket merchandise- swimwear, souvenirs, books, assorted affectations for the nautically inclined, while Watson stood at the counter waiting to be served. When it finally became obvious he wasn’t about to just fuck off, the woman looked up and said, “Are you right?”
Watson briefly considered several alternative replies. ‘Most of the time’ was the first that sprang to mind, followed by, ‘if I was right, I wouldn’t be standing here, waiting for you to get off your ass to serve me’. In the end he decided to just play along. “We’ve just pulled in.” he said and thumbed over his shoulder. “I was wondering if I could get a berth for a forty-five foot sloop and arrange to have her slipped?”
“Oh,” the woman blinked, getting to her feet and straightening her skirt, “you’re a yachtie?”
“Uh huh.” Watson nodded. “Though most people just think I’m homeless.”
The woman instantly thawed. “Spoken like a true boat owner.”
A presence arrived at Watson’s elbow and Beck hove-to. She looked up at the woman with her big blue eyes. “Hi,” she said, “love your shop.”
“Why thank you, Sweetie. See anything you like?”
“Pretty much everything!”
The woman leant over the counter and in a theatrical whisper said, “I’ll keep your dad distracted while you go for his wallet.”
Beck’s tanned cheeks bunched with a grin as Watson shot the woman a rueful glance. “Watch out for moths.”
The woman laughed. “Right. You’re a yachtie. I forgot. Now then, a berth. How long you looking at?”
Watson shrugged. “How long is the cyclone season this year? I don’t know. Three months should do it.”
“Four would be safer. It’s meant to be a bad one.”
“Oh, goody. Can’t wait.”
The woman shrugged. “That’s life in the tropics.”
“I guess. though if things quieten down we might make a run for it south. Tassie maybe. It’s supposed to be nice this time of year.”
“Thrill seeker, huh?”
“No. I just don’t like being on land.”
“Man after my own heart.” the woman smiled.
“Oh well,” Watson replied, “you can’t be all bad.”
“Tell you what,” she said, peering at a computer screen, tapping her chin with the end of a biro, “there’s a thirteen meter berth that’s up for sale. The market’s pretty slow this time of year. I’ll give the owner a quick ring. He might want to make some cash while he’s waiting for a buyer.”
At first slightly taken aback by this show of kindness, on second thoughts Watson realised it was just the Beck Effect at work, the transformative power of the little blonde’s aura. The woman clip-clopped in her smart high-heels back to her desk and picked up the phone, then after a few minutes’ conversation returned. “Hundred a week sound fair?” she asked, “Plus shore power?”
Fair? It was an absolute steal. “That would be awesome.” Watson replied. “What if he gets a buyer?”
“That’s no problem, we can always shuffle her around. What do you say?”
“I say that’s extremely kind of you. Thank you.”
“No worries,” the woman waved his gratitude away, “that’s what yachties do.”
“Are you a yachtie?” Beck asked.
“Used to be.” the woman replied matter-of-factly. “I’ve done three circumnavigations, two of them solo. Broke my back on the last one, and that was the end of my sailing.”
“Like..” Beck mimed the act of breaking a stick in two.
The woman laughed. “Not quite. I broke the neural spines on three of the lumbar vertebrae. Got clobbered by a wave and fell backwards onto a winch. Couldn’t even climb down the companionway after it happened. Spent two weeks in the cockpit, steering my boat by autopilot, living on rainwater and the raft’s emergency rations.”
“Why didn’t you call someone?” Beck asked.
“Couldn’t reach the radio,” the woman replied, “it was downstairs. It was all I could do to just pull myself round in the cockpit.”
“EPIRB?”
“I would have lost my yacht.” the woman smiled.
As Watson looked at her, the staid-looking woman turned gradually transparent until all he could see was the brave, broken, indomitable young adventuress inside her, all alone in agony on an vast, empty sea.
“Wow,” Beck breathed, “so what happened?”
“I managed to make it into the Strait of Gibraltar. Let her run aground on a beach. It’s funny,” she mused, staring into space, “I used to think of places like that as being a bit of a backwater, but the locals couldn’t do enough for me. And the surgeon who did my back. My god, he was a saint.”
