This is a work of fiction. All characters are 18 years and over.
***
DESIDERATA
The old man sat hunched over his old silver laptop, hands clasped as if in prayer, the latest instalment a few keystrokes short of completion. Another script, another payday. His work had been attracting glowing critiques- his best work yet- and the more he made now the longer he could stay at sea, when the wet packed up and the trade winds returned. This, after all, might be the ultimate season.
Watson would be lying- not least of all to himself- if he said he hadn't hoped the idea would just go away- Beck and her dream of learning to fly. But it hadn't. In fact the girl just doubled down, biting back her terror of doctors to do a medical exam, before acquiring and ARN, the aviation reference number that would be hers for the rest of her days. Then she sat for, and passed, her very first aviation exam- Meteorology- ably assisted by Watson's constant quizzing and her own native intelligence. Sailing proved to be a wonderful classroom and she scored ninety eight percent, having been hardly able to write her own just a year before. The achievement spurred Beck on to ever more intense study and clinched the old man's decision. He would take Bragg up on his offer.
"Dommy!" a voice shouted and he jumped. "Dommy! Quick!"
"Not now now, Sweeheart..." the old man said, clenching his jaw, "I'm work-iiiing!"
"Quick! You have to see this."
"What is it?"
"Not telling. Hurry!"
Watson didn't hurry, and it was a full ten minutes before he hit the crucial key, launching his latest creation into the ether.
Beck was in the cockpit when he emerged, reclining on a side seat, her pride and joy- a second hand Mac Book- propped on her thighs. Emerging into the light, the old man scanned the familiar surrounds. "What's up, Moosh? What's all the excitement about?"
"Well he's gone now," the little blonde said, "thanks to you."
"Who has?" Watson asked, idly scratching his balls. He looked over the side. Nothing to see.
Beck struggled upright and set her computer on the cockpit table, on top of several open aviation text books. "Not telling."
"Suit yourself." Watson shrugged and turned to go.
"Oh my god!" Beck whispered in breathless excitement, "There he is."
"There who is?"
Beck pointed. "Look!"
A gleaming red dragonfly settled on the starboard wheel and sat showing off its glittering, gossamer wings. It was tradition- Tropical lore- the appearance of the first dragonfly signalled an end to the monsoon. Soon the trades would blow in and they'd blow out, under Aurora's Arctic-white sails. Watson sat down and slung his arm around her. "Well thank dog for that! You know what that means, don't you?"
"What?"
"We can finally haul canvas and get the you-know-what outta here."
"But look at the dragonfly." Beck breathed, "Isn't he gorgeous? Know what? I'm gonna look him up on the internet." After poring over her laptop for a moment she suddenly went, "Ah hah! Tramea loewii, a common glider." She looked up at the shimmering insect. "That's a silly name, isn't it boy? There's nothing common about you."
"Where's the fly spray." Watson teased and Beck elbowed his ribs.
"Know what we should do?" she said, her hand slipping under the leg of his shorts. "We should have a celebratory fuck."
"Aren't you working this afternoon?"
Katrina of the Marina had hired Beck as a part-time assistant. She looked so... grown up... in her company uniform; khaki cargo shorts and dark blue polo shirt bearing the company logo, dark blue baseball cap similarly emblazoned. With her sky blue eyes and platinum blonde hair, stunning little body and cheeky demeanour, she soon established a following- old salts mainly, who'd swing past to purchase some frippery or the other for the pleasure of a quick conversation.
Beck shrugged. "So what?"
"You'll turn up to work looking all hot and bothered. Remember last time? Poor old Katrina thought you were coming down with the flu."
"Naww... just a quick one. You can do me doggy so I don't mess up my hair."
Watson thought about it. It was tempting, but would violate the Aurora Convention: Article one; work first, play later. Still, the dragonfly's appearance was indeed auspicious and really did deserve a celebration. "Look, Beck. You nip downstairs and remake your bed. And if you happen to be bending over it when I accidentally walk in..."
"Hah!" Beck leapt to her feet. "Pushover!"
Watson slapped her butt. "No. You're gonna be the pushover. In about two minute's time."
"Two minutes? Gonna make me gag for it?"
"Rush, rush, rush. Why don't you just slow down a bit? Smell the roses?"
"Come on." she held out her hand, "Last one down is a rotten egg." The old man stood and she tilted her head to look up at him. "Know what, Dommy? I love this life. I hope it can be like this forever."
Watson's heart hit the soles of his bare feet. It wouldn't. "Would this morning do? Forever might be a bit of an ask."
"A hundred years then." she said flatly. "My final offer." Turning, she gave the bright red dragonfly a hearty thumbs up. "Thanks, Tramea loewii. When you hear me having an orgasm downstairs, it'll all be thanks to you."
* * *
Watson began preparing piecemeal for their departure, kidding himself he was unsure of the date while in fact he was just reluctant to go. As if by delaying their exit he could somehow forestall the end of the idyll, though of course the clock was ticking in spite of the ploy. The Universe, as it often did, settled it for him, and the decision turned up one morning in the shape of Marina Katrina. Watson was washing the breakfast dishes when he heard her footsteps on the concrete outside, followed shortly after by her standard cry.
"Ahoy there, Captain Watson. You home?"
Watson stopped what he was doing and dried his hands. "Look out! Prepare to repel boarders!"
"A cockroach in the sugar bowl should do the trick." Karina said dryly. "Am I right to come on board?"
'If only', Watson rolled his eyes in the privacy of the saloon. If she so much as crooked her finger. But her husband was a glowering redneck who took far too little notice of his beautiful wife and far too much of her little blonde sidekick. As fun as it was to imagine doing Katrina o the settee, going down that path could only lead to disaster. "You're always welcome, Kat, you know that. Fancy a cuppa?"
Katrina kicked off her red high heels and the boat rolled gently as she stepped onto the deck. "Nahh..." she sighed, "I gotta get back to the office."
By the time Watson had pulled on a T-shirt and given his head a vigorous rub, Katrina had taken a seat in the cockpit. Dressed in her work clothes, a tight grey skirt and button-up short-sleeved white shirt, she looked cool, efficient and simply delicious. Watson dipped his head. "Morning, Ma'am. You look stunning, as always."
"Oh you." Katrina scoffed, raising her arm to sweep back her hair, covert female body-language that said, 'if things were different...' She looked around. "Where's the Beckinator?"
"Out practicing for the Formula One."
"Another driving lesson?"
"Mmm hmm." Watson nodded. "That poor bloody instructor. I do believe they've put him on valium."
"Oh that girl of yours." Katrina laughed.
