This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
*
November is a good time of year to enjoy sunshine in the Canary Islands.
Lying off the coast of north west Africa, this scattering of Spanish islands is oven baked during the summer months of June, July and August, but the fierce heat of mid-summer eventually gives way to a gentler warmth that is less aggressive. By November, pale Nordic and Celtic types can spend much of the day on a beach, confident that regular basting with factor 30 sun tan lotion will be enough for them to avoid looking like a boiled lobster.
My wife and I were in our early forties and we had no kids, so we tended to take our holidays at off peak times. Kirsty was generously proportioned, but she worked at keeping fit and could still turn heads when she wore a bikini. She had always been a bit of a sun worshipper, so the idea of escaping from the cold, grey dampness of Edinburgh to top up her tan by spending a week in November somewhere in the Canary Islands appealed to her.
Unfortunately I have a pale complexion and end up 'lobstering' if I spend too long in the sun. Kirsty has Italian forebears and takes the sun without much of a problem. Her skin tone gradually changes to a warm shade of coppery brown that beautifully complements her long black hair. Of course, even in November the midday sun in the Canary Islands is still pretty powerful and encourages the keenest of sun worshippers to seek some respite under the large parasols that mark the territory of the countless restaurants and tavernas on the waterfront.
It was while we were lingering over a leisurely seafood lunch in a little outdoor café on the beach promenade that we first met Donald Larsson. The three couples at the next table looked and sounded like they might be Scandinavian snowbirds, flown south to take fleeting refuge from the cold autumnal winds blowing through northern Europe. Just like Florida is a winter haven for the Yanks, the Canary Islands have become a winter haven for Scandinavians.
After the waitress cleared away the dishes, they invited us to join their group for a digestif and introductions were made. It turned out they were on holiday from Shetland and had overheard our Scottish accents. The three men looked to be ages with Kirsty and myself. Donald, or Donnie as his friends called him, was a Shetlander of Norwegian descent and the other two men, Jan and Nils, were Norwegian. The women were quite a bit younger, possibly in their early thirties, and very attractive. An absolutely stunning strawberry blonde named Marie was with Donnie, Jan had his arm round a bubbly brunette called Betty and Nils was with Carol, a quieter type with long black hair gathered in a ponytail.
Scots and Norwegians getting together on Shetland is far from surprising. The Shetland Isles are part of Scotland, but they're situated halfway between Norway and Scotland. Centuries ago Shetland belonged to Norway, but the Norwegian king gave the islands to the Scottish king as part of the dowry of the tragic Maid of Norway, Princess Margaret, who was supposed to marry the Scottish crown prince. Unfortunately, the poor girl took seriously ill during the voyage to Scotland and died before her ship could make port. As recompense for their failure to supply a royal bride the Norwegians let the Scots keep Shetland.
Of course, had they known of the black gold under the surrounding seabed, it's unlikely the Norwegians would have been so generous. Shetland has maintained its close links to Norway and nowadays Norwegian companies involved in the North Sea oil business use Shetland as a support base for their offshore activities.
I don't remember all the details of our conversation that sunny afternoon, but I do remember being slightly overwhelmed by Donnie's presence. I'm fairly tall at around six feet, but he was a Goliath of a man, probably over six and a half feet tall, solidly built, clean shaven, with a shock of straw blond hair, a perpetual smile and twinkling blue eyes. He clearly loved playing the part of the genial host, punctuating his entertaining and witty conversation by gesturing with his large hands to illustrate whatever point he was making.
I'm a sociable type and fairly good looking, even if I do say so myself, but Donnie was the centre of the womenfolk's attention that afternoon. They lapped up his stories about the various characters he had come across while doing business and everyone laughed when he told us he got his nickname of "Pony" from transporting anything and everything for the oil industry in Shetland. The three women were originally from Aberdeen, but were now working for Donnie's onshore support services business, based in Lerwick. Jan and Nils were two of his best clients.
Donnie was proud of his heritage and told us all about the annual Viking festival, Up Helly Aa, when a squad of Shetland men dress up as Vikings and burn a replica Viking longboat in Lerwick on the last Tuesday of January. We listened enthralled, as he described the flaming torchlight procession of the Jarl Squad with their fearsome weapons. I could just imagine Donnie as a Viking, striding forth to do some raping and pillaging, whatever pillaging might mean.
Eventually we decided it was time for an afternoon siesta, so we parted company with Donnie and his friends, but not before exchanging mobile phone numbers and agreeing to meet up the next day. Kirsty worked in the Edinburgh office of an Aberdeen-based financial management company and she was a frequent visitor to "the granite city", as Aberdeen is known. Her obvious fondness for their home town had endeared her to the three women and they were keen for Kirsty and I to join them on a trip to the long, sandy beaches at the other end of the island. I wasn't bothered one way or the other, but Kirsty loved the idea she could tell her friends she had been sunbathing on what are said to be some of the best beaches in the world.
*
After an early breakfast the next morning we joined our new friends at their hotel. They had hired two cars and Jan and Nils set off with Betty and Carol in one car, while Kirsty and I joined Donnie and Marie in the other car. Both cars were loaded with supplies, including backpacks with bottles of water and snacks, canvas windbreaks, groundsheets and beach umbrellas. All that Kirsty and I had brought along were beach towels, swimwear and suntan lotion.
It was about an hour's drive to the resort of San Tomas, during which time Marie seemed to get ever more excited. Donnie and she had been there once before and she thought it was absolutely wonderful if you hiked along the beach, away from the crowds towards the quieter areas. She told us she liked to wear as little as possible when sunbathing and I was surprised when Kirsty seemed to endorse that idea. We're not introverts, but I wondered if she would really be prepared to strip off in front of the others. Donnie was concentrating on driving, but every now and then he would chip in a brief comment, endorsing Marie's views about nude sunbathing and the beautiful setting, with sandy beaches stretching for miles, bounded by dunes and a nature reserve.
We parked in a big public car park close to the lighthouse, el Faro de San Tomas, unpacked the two cars and set off eastwards along the beach, which was initially quite crowded. The four men carried the windbreaks, groundsheets and backpacks, while the women carried the beach umbrellas and beach towels. The series of consecutive beaches extends for several miles from San Tomas to the next resort of Playa de los Amigos. There are some small shacks selling cold drinks and snacks, but the whole area is protected from development and no permanent structures are permitted.
Women sunbathe topless anywhere on the beaches and there's a designated nudist bathing area, but Donnie's plan was supposedly to find a comparatively quiet location a mile or so along the beach, where the ladies could sunbathe topless or naked without a lot of people around. I was glad he had warned us to wear trainers, as it took a fair amount of effort to walk on the soft sand.
Eventually, the crowds thinned out and we noticed the further we went the less clothing was being worn by the sun seekers. Although not completely naked, very little was left to the imagination. I spotted one woman lying on her beach towel, legs akimbo, with nothing but a narrow strip of white cloth protecting the inner parts of her vagina from the sun. She was undoubtedly an exhibitionist who got her kicks from exposing herself to the masses as they passed by. To anyone glancing in her direction her body silently screamed back, "Look at me and my amazing cunt!" I tried not to stare, but I noticed Donnie took a good long look at her. He decided we had gone far enough and had reached an area where minimal clothing was the norm, so we turned away from the sea and headed towards the dunes in search of a place to set up our base camp.
Soon enough we found a hollow between two small sand dunes and spread ourselves out to enjoy the sunshine. There was hardly any wind, but we set up the windbreaks to avoid any little zephyrs blowing sand onto oiled and basted bodies, which also ensured our sunbathers would be out of sight of any passers-by. The women set out their beach towels behind the windbreaks. Sheltered from prying eyes, all of them, including Kirsty, were very quickly lying topless in the warm sunshine.
Kirsty's skimpy white bikini was slightly more modest than the little triangular scraps of material the three Aberdonian women were wearing. I guessed they had shopped for beachwear together, because they sported the same draw-string style thongs, although each of them was a different primary colour. Marie had a red bikini, with a little red triangle barely covering her pubic mound, while her friends, Betty and Carol, wore a blue one and a yellow one respectively. All three looked delightful, but their presence also served to draw attention to Kirsty's curvier figure and her slightly more generous and juicy-looking tits.
I set up a couple of sun umbrellas and sat beneath one, chatting to Donnie and his Norwegian pals, who were basking in the sun nearby. After a while we decided it would be nice to go for a swim. Donnie suggested we take it in turns, because he said it wouldn't do to go off and leave four attractive women on their own in the dunes. He wasn't too worried about their safety, but he explained that if you're in amongst the sand dunes, you might be asked to join in some form of sexual activity - dogging, gang-bangs, one on ones, gay or straight. If we walked another hundred yards inland, it seems we would find all sorts of things going on. There were plenty of men roaming around who wouldn't hesitate for a moment to ask if they could fuck random strangers they found sunbathing in the sand dunes.
We all agreed it would spoil the day if our womenfolk were pestered by dickheads, so the two Norwegians headed down the beach for a swim in the sea, while Donnie and I chatted like two old pals. As the women lay snoozing in the sun, we sat and discussed the parlous state of our nation, the self-centred nature of our politicians and the worrying downturn in the economy. Eventually, the Norwegians returned and it was our turn to go for a swim.
We walked almost to the water's edge, but Donnie then turned left and led me further east along the beach. We rounded a headland and suddenly there were hundreds of men and women, all completely naked, walking around, sunbathing, swimming in the sea or just paddling at the water's edge. Donnie was clearly familiar with the local geography and this was obviously the nudist bathing area. He had ambushed me.
"Come on, Kenny, get your kit off and get in the water, man!" He grinned at me as he took off his trainers and added, "You'll love it!"
