Aurora Way Of The Goddess

This is a work of fiction. All characters depicted are 18 or over.

*****

An encounter of a different kind.

*****

Aurora quickly settled into the passage, leaving the last few days of drama and excitement behind. With Beck at the helm, Watson sat huddled over his battered old silver laptop, pursuing a storyline utterly mundane compared to the past few days' unlikely reality. Truth is stranger than fiction. It was a fact.

"Hey Old Boy!" a voice hailed and Watson looked up. "Have you had a look at these clouds?"

One of the first lessons Beck had learnt was to always look up at the sky. It was a theatre, the old man said, a book of signs, as reliable as a recipe and accurate as a map. Closing his laptop, Watson got to his feet and wearily scaled the companionway. When he looked up, massive dark clouds were gathering to the west, and the sea had taken on a distinctly disgruntled air. The old man ran a hand over his pate. "Weather's on the way."

"Like you always say, any weather's good weather."

"Except when it's bad."

Beck shrugged. "I like bad weather. It reminds me of that first night, after you found me."

Watson slung an arm around her shoulders and hugged her tight. How far she'd come from that malnourished waif, a little stray, dressed in a baggy green T-shirt that came down to her knees and oversized knickers with a safety pin holding them up. "Well," he sighed, "I guess we'd better get sorted before the party starts. What do you say? A cup of hot chocolate then batten down the hatches?"

The bad weather turned up like an uninvited guest full of booze and bad manners. Watson loved his boat, he revelled in the elements and the freedom of sailing. But in spite of it all, he was only newcomer to the art and times like these he wondered if he might have bitten off more than he could chew.

As the wind picked up and with it the swell, Watson reefed the mainsail to the size of a handkerchief and furled the headsail back to a tiny triangle. Aurora, on the other hand, was in her element, barrelling downwind kicking up her heels, her sails luffing and snapping in the swirling turbulence.

Unperturbed by the weather's scary grandeur, Beck emerged into the brightly lit cockpit with a big, sealed safety mug of syrupy hot chocolate for her old man. Already trussed into a safety harness, she clipped the free end to a hardpoint and, timing the trough, fell onto the upholstery next to him. Watson took a grateful sip and shot her a glare. "Did you put some rum in this?"

Beck raised a hand, finger and thumb almost touching.

"Thanks, Chook. That's bloody delicious."

The first big drops of an inbound shower pattered like little feet across the canvas overhead. Beck leant into him and he draped an arm over her. She'd been driven to wearing clothes by the rugged conditions- her favourite pink and grey board shorts and a hooded, poly-fleece thermal- and her hair was bound up in a ponytail. Her sky-blue eyes peered intently, with great calm and bottomless contentment into the gathering darkness. Whatever evil may have blighted her past she felt safe out here, amidst the restless, rolling waves, the whitecaps and the spray- not the sort of place where demons trespassed. She looked up at her old man and her heart soared. "Coming downstairs?"

Watson shook his head, then nodded at a bundle of camping gear- a sleeping bag and waterproof cover, a blow-up pillow and plastic tarpaulin. "I'd better stay up here. If George lets go we could end up in China."

"China?" Beck mused. "Now that would be cool."

"Maybe. Until I had to sell you."

"What for?"

"A ticket home."

"I mean how much do you think you'd get for me?"

"For you? Let's see. Multiply the exchange rate by the oil-to-gold ratio... minus the agent's fee... a bribe for the jailer and a few yuan for weed... There you go. A bag of rice and a water buffalo."

"A water what?"

"Buffalo. You know. One of those moo-cows that lives in the water."

Beck pushed upright. "You'd swap me for a cow?"

Watson shrugged. "Only if she was good looking."

"Pfft!" Beck blew a raspberry. "What's a cow got that I haven't got?"

Watson mulled it over. "Two extra tits?"

Beck took his hand and jammed it between her thighs. "And how about the rest of the package? Hmm?" Watson opened his mouth to reply as a wave broke over the cockpit and Beck cringed, cackling. "Dammit," she giggled heartily, "now I'm all wet."

Watson roughed her up. "I thought you liked that sort of thing."

"In the right place." Beck flicked the water from her fingertips. "Well, better duck downstairs and put on my slicks."

"What for?"

"Well if it's about to get gnarly."

Watson looked at her. It had been a busy few days for the girl, with snippets of sleep interrupted by hours of rampant sex. "Why don't you just bunk down for a while? Make up the settee. Roll out the lee-cloths and make yourself comfy."

There was nothing Beck loved more than falling asleep, to the pitch and hurl of the yacht on a spirited sea. On second thoughts there was one thing she loved more, something, coincidentally, that also involved bed, but the prospect of snuggling down, all safe and sound while the ocean was beating its chest outside was simply too good to resist. Beck yawned. "Are we gonna cook dinner?"

Watson thought about it briefly and shook his head. To go below, where the galley was on the high side, gather all the ingredients without falling over, assemble them in the sink where they couldn't fly away, then play pin the pot on the gimballed stove before attempting to shovel a few quick mouthfuls into his face, really, compared to that, a grumbling stomach was nothing. He shook his head. "I don't think so, Sweets. Are you hungry?"

Beck shrugged. "A little."

"Reckon you could rustle-up a Vegemite sandwich or two?"

"Too easy!" Light on her feet with cat-like poise, Beck never had trouble taming the galley in a jostling sea. "So you want one?"

Watson looked to the marbled waters for inspiration. "You know what, I think I would. Let's do dinner of Vegemite sangers for dinner then you can call it a day."

While Beck slept soundly on her makeshift bunk in the saloon, Watson endured a night of fitful sleep and constant worry. When he did manage to snatch some shuteye, it was crammed into the corner of side-seat to leeward, fully clothed with his safety harness secured, under the sleeping bag with the tarpaulin pulled over his head. Lying there, trying to drift off, he found himself overwhelmed by the tumult of storm and sea; the foaming rush of the whitecaps, the pounding of waves on the hull, singing wires, pinging rigging, shudders, thumps and groans, and the odd clatter of something hitting the floor down below. When he looked up from time to time, peeking out from under cover, the glowing instruments- GPS, log and radar, the swirling compass under its thick plastic dome- were as comforting as the coals of a campfire. Rain showers came and went, fresh water falling from heaven. For all the grinding fatigue it was beautiful.

The smell of toast roused Watson in the early hours of dawn. He blinked awake, rubbing his nose, as his eyes adjusted to the sight of a naked young female trussed up in a safety harness, swaying on her feet, her bony knees absorbing the deck's pitch and heave. With a mug of hot liquid in one hand, two slices of toast in the other, she stood looking at him with a big cheeky smile. "You look like that homeless man we saw in the park."

Watson arched his eyebrows. "Is that right? Let's just hope I don't smell like him."

She proffered a cup. "Spare change or tea?"

"Swim back or stay on the boat?"

"I take it you'd prefer tea."

Watson struggled upright with a groan. This last stretch of sleep had been the longest, just over an hour, and he felt almost as if he'd managed some rest. Sitting, he bundled the sleeping bag and tarpaulin into a haphazard nest and, holding out his hands, took the goodies. "Did you put honey in this?"

"Uh huh."

"Honey's only for special occasions."

"This is a special occasion."

"What?"

Beck shrugged, looking around for inspiration. "The sun's coming up?"

"What's so special about that?"

"What's not special about it? Like you say, any day you wake up alive..."

Watson followed her gaze. Somewhere over the horizon, above a deep layer of brooding overcast, the sun was preparing to climb into another day. The little blonde sage was right. Every moment was an adventure, unprecedented in the annals of the universe. "Becky?" he said, sounding a little hesitant. "It's five flippin' thirty a.m. Why aren't you wearing anything?"

Beck looked herself over. "I am."

"Apart from a safety harness."

"I need to go to the toilet."

Ever fastidious and even a little obsessive, Beck preferred the outside toilet- over the back off the transom- to the broom closet head that doubled as a bathroom. Watson craned his neck, looking past the RIB swinging on its davits, at the surging, steely-grey water off the stern. "What do you need?" he asked and Beck raised two fingers. "Use the head."

"It's a waste of the batteries." Beck whined.

"We've got four of the bloody things," Watson countered, "and you can't fall overboard in the dunny."

"Naww.." Beck frowned.

"Naww nothing. Look at the size of those waves. One slip," he snapped his fingers, "and you're in the shit, in this case literally. Then what would you do?"

She held up her safety line. "Pull myself in."

"What if it failed? What then?

"You'd jump in and save me."

"Fat chance!" Watson waved her away. "You only get one. Go on. Go away and use the toilet."

"Naww.." Beck said again, searching Watson's face for a chink in his will. The enclosed toilet evoked memories, memories she'd rather keep buried, of being locked in her squalid room for days at a time with a filthy steel bucket in the barren wardrobe. Watson returned her scrutiny with cool resolve, until Beck turned in a huff and went downstairs.

Task complete, Beck took the helm, manually steering, while Watson went downstairs and caught up on a few hours' sleep. This was her favourite time, alone at the helm, holding course by the bobbing, whirling compass, feeling the yacht shudder and shy under her splayed brown feet. One day this would all be hers, Watson promised, to sail where she willed for as long as the wanderlust drove her. In the meantime, the more time spent learning its secrets the better.

Lunch was chicken soup, prepared by Watson, sucked out of safety mugs and bolstered with toast. Tossing a tethered stainless steel pail overboard, Watson hauled in a bucket of fizzy-fresh seawater and washed the dishes while, naked under a fleece-lined wet-weather jacket, safely tethered to a jackstay by her harness, Beck held their course.

The safety harness was Watson's law and one she gladly observed. As much as she loved the ocean, adored in fact, she was nonetheless fearful of its manifest power. Watson put some music on and they sang along to some favourite tunes, whooping and hollering each time some mobile mountain barged under the stern. It was an exhilarating ride, powering downwind on a broad reach, but with the wind out of the north, the set was carrying them steadily out to sea.

Watson studied the GPS, pensively tapping his teeth while he checked their position. They were safely beyond the Barrier Reef, way out in the Coral Sea, on the edge of a shipping lane traversed by massive tankers and bulkies, steaming as fast as their enormous engines could drive them. With daylight seeping out of the sky, Watson decided to change course to the west, back towards the reef but away from the traffic. They would be safely clear of the enormous coral obstacle course until the next day, at which time he would make a decision; cut through the reef and go coastal, or head out to sea.

"We're going to have to jibe, Beck." he suddenly announced. "Let's put the wind up the tail and goosewing those sails."

"Great idea!" Beck replied eagerly. "What do you want me to do?"

Watson commenced winching in the mainsheet. "Bring her around to two one zero when I say. Ready?"

Beck threw off her bulky waterproof jacket and stood at the helm in her harness and goosebumps. Jibing- putting the stern of the boat through the wind- could be a somewhat sporting affair with lots of hardware flying around, sometimes dangerous but always fun. Licking her salty lips, Beck nodded. "Ready."

"Okay, Chooky, jibe-ho!"

Watson cranked the winch furiously, centring the mainsail as they came through the wind, preventing it from slamming to the opposite side. With the transition safely made, he eased out the mainsheet and set the sail to port, where it caught the wind like a big white wing. Stepping up to the starboard helm he nudged Beck. "Pull in that jib sheet on your side."

Beck bent over the winch handle and cranked for all she was worth, but the forward sail had barely travelled halfway before the tangled sheet jammed a block. Too many interfering waves over the deck had turned the usually well-ordered ropes into a sodden snarl and the harder she cranked the tighter it got. Leaning out of the cockpit, her round, bare ass in the air, she looked past the blue canvas dodger at the scene of the crime. "Dommeee..." she sang, "it's stu-uuuck."

The jib was flapping uselessly in the twenty knot breeze. The swell was rising up from behind, hurling the yacht down the front of each wave before dumping it in the following trough. Watson left the helm to its own devices for a moment and joined Beck at the side of the cockpit. "Dammit!" he muttered. "Take the wheel while I go and sort that lot out."

Beck reached for the clip of her safety harness. "I'll go."

"No. You stay here. I'll go."

"Well how am I supposed to learn?"

Watson did a quick reality check. The boat was surfing effortlessly through the sea, almost on an even keel, heaving lazily on the five-meter swell but otherwise stable. "Okay-" Beck was already unclipped before the second word had left his mouth, "-then, but make sure to clip on before leaving the cockpit."

Leaning as far out as she could, with Watson holding the back of her harness, Beck clipped onto the stainless wire cable that ran down the scuppers all the way to the bow. That done, she threw a leg out of the cockpit and made her way forward, nimble and secure. Watson kept one eye on the girl and the other on the steering, making sure to keep the wind at their back. Sitting herself down, shoulders hunched, giggling at fusillades of wind-driven spray, Beck set about methodically teasing individual ropes out of the multicoloured rats nest.

"You done yet?"

"Nearly." Eyeballing the reordered rigging, Beck briefly unclipped and reattached herself to the safety line. "Try now!"

Head down, Watson cranked the winch and the headsail sheet tightened, coiling into the cockpit at his feet. As the tension came on, he heard Beck swear. "Dammit! Hold up Domdom, I'm caught."

Watson stuck his head out past the dodger. Beck had managed to clip her safety line onto the running cable over the sheet. "No problem, Beck. Just climb under it."

Beck did as the old man suggested but now found her safety strap looped over the rigging.

"Sorry, Chook," Watson called, "I meant step over it."

Beck eyed the rolling ocean. "What should I do?"

"Look, just unclip and get yourself sorted. Stay low while you're doing it and keep yourself braced."

The girl did as suggested and in a few short seconds had untangled her tether.

"That's it," Watson urged, "now get back here and throw me that line."

A huge roller reared up unseen behind them. The yacht pitched up, then surfed down the front of the wave, picking up speed. Left its own devices, the rudder swung to port and the nose suddenly veered, until the mainsail felt the wind change sides.

"Here." Beck called and tossed the free end of the safety strap into Watson's waiting hands.

He felt the yacht roll. The mainsail boom flashed past overhead, sweeping in an arc to the limit of its rigging. Just forward of the cockpit, fighting for balance, Beck stood up at the same instant Watson bellowed, "DUCK!"

It all unfolded in lurid slow motion. The unrestrained boom caught Beck a glancing blow on the side of the head. Beam-on to the wind, broadside to the waves, Aurora lay down and over Beck went. Watson felt the bitter end of the safety strap ripped from his grip as she hit the foaming maelstrom and disappeared. He stood there blinking at the empty ocean for a couple of heartbeats, unable to fully comprehend what he had just seen. Beck, being flung overboard, untethered, into a raging, storm-tossed sea.

Instinct galvanised the old man's nerves and in the very next breath he shook himself free. He released the halyard, not taking his eyes off the water, dropping the mainsail before slackening the jib. While the big white wing was slowly collapsing on itself, he spun the helm hard to port and jammed on the friction. Hands shaking, he found the start button by feel and cranked up the diesel. Already twenty-five meters astern Beck's body briefly appeared, floating face down in the churning sea. Cresting a wave she was lost from view, as the peak raced towards Aurora's stern.

The yacht wallowed aimlessly, like a drunk attempting stairs. As they toppled over a crest, Watson caught sight of Beck once more, still face-down, either unconscious or dead, with rolls of whitewash breaking over her. "Oh, Becky." he whimpered as his heart hit the soles of his bare feet. If she was unconscious then only the diving reflex could save her. And if she was dead...

The yacht came around, lifting its nose into the pummelling wind, and began clawing its way back towards Beck. Another of the endless wave-tops robbed her body from view, and when the yacht crested the peak she was gone.

So overwhelmed by fear he could scarcely breath, Watson threw off his harness and scrambled onto the superstructure. Standing on tiptoes, he frantically scanned the panorama of ragged, dark sea, quietly stricken yet mortally calm. And there, to port, a good thirty meters away, he caught a fleeting glimpse, the merest flash, of ghostly white.

The next few seconds were as measured as they were desperate. Dropping into the cockpit, Watson pulled the throttle almost to idle, leaving the engine in gear, then cornered the rudder and locked it in place. Throwing every available rope over the side, he hurled a tethered life ring after them then climbed onto the grabrail. Waiting for the seascape to render up another fleeting glimpse of priceless flotsam, he dived overboard.

Even before he hit the water he thought, 'What am I doing?'

The first overwhelming impressions were of desolation and immensity. Waves jostled him like bargain hunters at a Boxing-day sale, and columns of slanting sunlight furled through the bottomless deeps, crisply defined in spite of the steely overcast. A transiting wall of water hoisted his body aloft and broke over him in a tumble of white-water, the fizz of effervescence hissing in his ears. Pausing, he looked up, treading water, kicking as high as he could go to get his bearings.

Just then, the powers of chaos shaping the elements chose that moment to pierce the clouds with a stunning sunbeam of gold, which ignited the churning tableau like a stage-light. And at that very instant, those same elemental forces created a fifty meter-wide swathe of relative calm. Like a shallow bowl, in which Watson found himself, he at the rim on one side, the limp, pale form of Beck on the other. Head down, swimming harder than he had ever swum in his life, Watson counted each stroke up to fifty, then stopped again and looked up. There, no more than a few meters away, lay Beck.

How long had she been like this he desperately wondered? Face down. Not breathing. Two minutes? Three? There seemed no way known she could possibly survive. But then again he reminded himself, in a fit of desperate optimism or bare-faced denial, Beck was a girl who could stay under water for four or five minutes, a fish in human form, a mermaid. Seizing her shoulders he spun her round and lifted her up. "BECK!" he shouted, shaking her. Swiping the water from the nerve endings on her face, he put his mouth to hers and blew.