I was sitting somewhat gloomily under the beach umbrella idly listening to the ocean rollers pounding on the shore. It was a beautiful day with the bright sunlight heat tempered by the gentle breeze coming in from the sea.
Further along the beach I could see two stick like figures of children throwing something into the sea for an equally stick like dog to fetch.
Behind me where the beach ended there began the fringe of low trees and bushes that extended back some two hundred metres. On the edge of this fringe I could see another beach umbrella and sitting under it was someone who seemed to be painting. The artist was too distant for me to determine whether they were male or female.
Given the beauty and tranquility of the scene I suppose I should have been at peace myself, but I wasn't. I was suffering what might sound like a contradictory mixture of boredom and frustration.
My boredom arose from the fact that ever since Grant's retirement from work we had come to spend more and more time at our beach shack. That would have been fine if the location of the shack had not been so remote from others, and if Grant had taken the trouble to keep me company. Instead Grant went off in his boat almost everyday fishing with his mate from the other side of the bay.
My frustration was possibly the experience of many women my age. Despite all the information now readily available on the subject, there still seems to be a general view that once a woman enters her fifties, she loses all sexual interest.
If that idea makes you feel comfortable, then let me discomfort you by announcing that this woman when she was sixty-one was as hot for a man as ever she had been. My problem was that my man, Grant, wasn't hot for a female.
Of course, it was not Grant's fault that he developed prostate cancer and had to have the operation, but it was frustrating for me when he was no longer able to perform in bed.
I know there are many women who find themselves in this situation, and feel that they can do nothing about it. Matters of sexual morality, especially for women of my generation, tend to prevail, and so, no sex outside marriage.
The impotent husband also has his problem with this. Facing the truth of the situation he could say, "Darling, I can't do it any more, but if you need sexual satisfaction, why not take a lover."
That however, rarely happens I believe. There is the husband's ego that demands that although he can no longer sexually perform, he still expects the sexual fidelity of his wife. No doubt there is the fear that if his wife did take a lover she might leave him, the husband, for the lover, and I admit that there is always that possibility.
And as I was in misery mode, I can add that there was a frustration to add to my frustration. My mother had counselled, "Take care of your teeth and they'll take care of you." I had followed her advice and having no clacking false teeth and no hollow cheeks, I'd kept my face in fairly good condition.
Another dictum I had followed came from my own observation. "Take care of your breasts and they'll keep your man interested."
Add to these things the fact that I had produced no children, eaten a good diet and engaged in moderate exercise, and I considered that I was in pretty good shape for a sixty one year old.
On the beach that day among my other moans was the thought that I'd gone to all the trouble to keep myself looking good, and now Grant, even if he was interested, could do little to feast at the honey pot I had preserved for him.
So there I was, like a juicy plumb, ripe for plucking, and no one to pluck and taste me.
Talking of "juicy," that was just how I was as I lay there; apropos of no particular stimulation other than my own psycho-physical self. I was thoroughly wet between the legs and my nipples were standing out to announce my state of sexual arousal as they pressed against my bikini top.
The two stick children with the dog had left the beach, but the artist was still there, otherwise I would have relieved myself with a little masturbation. I had the choice of going back to the shack in order to unburden myself of my libidinous condition, or taking to the water for a little body surfing and hopefully, a little lust cooling.
I chose the latter and made my way down to the water and entered gasping as it crept up my body. I caught a few waves and rode in with them, but then was taken by surprise. I was standing with my back to the incoming rollers and therefore knew nothing about the particularly large one that suddenly picked me up and tumbled and turned me towards the beach. Completely in the power of the wave the last thing I remember is a sudden jolt, and the world went black.
How long I was out for I've never been really sure, but the first thing I became conscious of was a voice asking, "How are you feeling?"
At that stage as I struggled up out of the gloom, I wasn't sure how I was feeling so I made no effort to answer, but tried to gather my disordered wits. As my eyes came into focus I saw a face peering down at me and heard the voice ask again, "How do you feel?"
Instead of answering the question I managed to ask, "What...happened?"
"You were riding the waves in and a big one caught you and threw you up onto the beach," the voice said. "I saw you tumbling over and then the undertow began to drag you out. I ran down and pulled you up here. I've done a bit of first aid so I had a feel around. I don't think anything's broken."
I was beginning to be aware of the world around me and in particular the face hovering over me. It seemed to be a young male face.
Nothing was said for a while, and then the face asked, "Do you think you can sit up?"
"I'll try," I murmured.
"I'll help you," the voice said, and I felt an arm under my shoulder.
With the aid of the arm I got into a sitting position, and apart from still feeling a bit fuzzy, I seemed to be okay.
I now saw that the face did indeed belong to a young man who was kneeling beside me.
"Look," he said, "I'm afraid you've lost the top of your bikini. It must have been dragged off while you were getting thrown about. I did take a quick look for it, but it must have been taken right out by the undertow."
I glanced down and saw that my breasts were indeed exposed. I raised my hands to cup them and the young man went on, "I've got a beach robe over there with my gear, I'll get it."
"Beach robe!" I thought, and then said aloud, "I've got one under my umbrella."
"I'll get it."
Striving for independence I said, "It's all right, I think I can stand."
Playing the heroine I strove to get to my feet, and having got to a standing position the world suddenly began to spin. I felt myself caught, held and then lifted off my feet. The young man had swept up all sixty kilos of me as if I was feather and began to carry me up the beach.
Independence was flung to the four corners. "This is nice I thought; I haven't been picked up like this since the first night with Grant when he carried me to the bed. Even so I only weighed fifty five kilos in those days and he hadn't needed to plod through sand.
I was lowered on to the blanket under the beach umbrella and the robe was draped round my shoulders. I pulled it round me and at least partially was able to conceal my breasts, although why I should have bothered I don't know, since the young man had seen plenty of them already.
I was now able to take in my rescuer. He was kneeling beside me so I couldn't determine whether he was short of tall. He wasn't exactly handsome, but had a pleasant round face with one of those cleft chins that have always set my heart pounding. His shoulders were broad and he was well muscled.
"Lay back for a while," he said, smiling at me. "By the way, my name's Hartley. People call me Hart."
"Hannah," I responded, "and thank you very much Hart for my rescue from a watery grave."
