Young holiday maker has fun with Professor.
A special thanks to RF-Fast for helping to proofread and ensuring the story is in good shape.
Red tartan shorts
It started on the ferry to my home island. Eager summer tourists crowded the rail as they craned to see our destination. I knew from experience it would be at least 10 more minutes before we docked, even with the excellent visibility.
A brief parting of the bodies on deck revealed red tartan shorts wrapped around a nicely curved feminine backside. They weren't super short or skin tight, but the tartan caught my eye, and I took the time to enjoy them before the view was blocked.
After the view was gone, I recalled the rest of what I'd seen. High-top sneakers, or a knock off brand, in powder blue with pink ankle socks just visible. Slim & smooth bare legs that showed only the beginning of a summer's tan. She wore a white t-shirt, but I never saw her head as she was bent over the rail, so I couldn't even guess at the colour of her hair.
The shorts dragged out a memory of photos from my childhood when my mum was wearing jeans with giant tartan darts from hem to knee. Causing massive tartan flares with a tartan scarf. She'd been a huge fan of the Bay City Rollers, originally from Edinburgh, who were big in the 1970s. It's amazing how your memory works to pick up minutia from over 30 years before.
My dad would tease her about the outfits, but she would turn it around on him by saying at least she could still fit into the jeans. Where my dad's waist size ballooned before his sudden death at 42 convinced me to keep fit and active. Even if I didn't exercise as much as I should when I returned home.
Home! It was a strange thing to say when I thought about it. Yes, I'd been born on the island and spent my early years there. But university and my first decade of work kept me on the mainland and I only came home about 10 years ago. And even then, it was only part time.
I worked at the university teaching advanced physics and mathematics for about half my time. The rest of my time I spend on computers, working in my true profession of aerospace engineering. I was literally a rocket scientist and took my share of jokes about that.
Looking at the sky, I hoped the tourists this weekend wouldn't be bothered by the weather. I noticed a speeding little cloud in the nearly empty sky. It was more smoky than white, and I knew what that meant. Any moment, the gawking tourists would make a dash for the lounge. The speed of the ferry and the direction of the cloud brought the brief summer shower over the deck, and everyone fled.
Leaving me smugly dry sitting on the bench under the slight overhang. However, after everyone else fled, the red tartan shorts and their occupant remained standing at the rail. Her head tilted back, her eyes closed and her mouth open, tasting the rain drops. Her hair was black and in some sort of pageboy bob. Bangs (a fringe to non-Americans), and covering her ears, but cut shorter around the back.
From the variety of young women I saw at university, I gauged her to be about 20, but perhaps a little younger. Or maybe I only thought that from her childlike glee at playing in the rain. But it was warm, and the shower was just that. A few minutes at most and then the decks would steam slightly as the sun dried them off.
As she turned to face me, she had a big grin on her face. It was a struggle to keep my face neutral, because I saw she was braless under her shirt. The rain combined with the thin white t-shirt made for pleasant viewing, if you're a heterosexual male. Provided you don't get caught. And given how many female students seemed to push boundaries, I thought I'd effectively developed that particular skill.
I gave her a smile and a nod as she approached, then looked through the windows into the lounge. Glancing around, I saw what I expected. The lounge was packed, and as usual, people had claimed excess seats with strategically placed bags. When the ferry was extra full, they made announcements over the Tannoy, but people rarely listened.
As I turned back, I was greeted with a relatively close up view of the braless breasts through her damp shirt. Despite my exposure to female students, this caught me by surprise, and she noticed. Looked down, she quickly slapped her hands over her breasts and sat down a few feet away from me. Blushing furiously.
"I didn't mean to stare. But it's not really that bad." I said.
"You're bound to say that." She replied but didn't sound too upset.
"Sorry, and I don't want to appear a dirty old man, but you have just made my week." I smiled, trying to project that I was harmless.
She looked at me hard, and then a smirk crossed her face.
"I suppose, after all I was planning on sunbathing in a skimpy bikini. But I thought I'd get to the island before showing off the girls."
She moved her hands off her breasts to inspect them and quickly covered up again. This time I didn't get caught.
"In this weather, you'll dry off in 15 minutes." I offered as the shower stopped like someone had turned a switch.
I didn't point out that the ferry would dock in half that, and she'd have to figure out how to get off the boat without flashing everyone. Her friends came out, and I tried to ignore the teasing they gave her. But one of her friends brought out a backpack, and they stood around while she put it on and adjusted the straps to hide her nipples. To me, it was obvious, but I saw a few other tourists emerging from the lounge do a double take, unsure of what they'd seen.
The ferry docked, and I waited until everyone else had departed, then watched the crew prepare for the return trip.
"Hello Tom, aren't you getting off?" William asked me.
He was close to 60 and had worked on the ferry for over 40 years.
"Just waiting for the crowd to disperse. You know what it's like, everyone stops at the end of the gangplank, blocking everyone else from getting off." Grabbing my coat and laptop case, I headed off the boat and towards my house.
The history of the island was like many small, isolated communities. When small family run fishing boats were viable, the island prospered to some extent. Small families would frequently collect, dry and burn seaweed for soda and potash. But as everything progresses, easier alternatives were found, and larger deep water fishing boats threatened the livelihood of the remaining small ones.
In the late 19th century, someone started a tin mine, but that went out of business after 20 years. A respite to the island's economic collapse was the telegraph cable laid in the 1890s. Given the location of the island we were ideal as a naval observation post in both world wars. After the war, the island's mild climate assisted in our current holiday-makers destination.
As I mentally ran through the history, I walked through the small village to the outskirts of town, where the posh houses were. That was an in-joke on the island. The mine owners had built a terrace of houses, only slightly larger than the traditional fishermen's cottages, for the senior men at the mine. My house was the last on the terrace, and had the largest garden and had been the house I was born in.
Recently my mother told me she was planning on selling up, buying a RV with her sister, and becoming snowbirds. I was shocked but understood the appeal. With them both being widows and with grown-up children, it made sense. But the thought of losing my childhood home was too much. So, I bought it at a fair market price, for a local. I.e. not inflated for some come-over, as a 2nd or 3rd holiday home. The idea of renting it out never crossed my mind. It was mine and mine alone.
At my front door, I fished out my keys and entered. The house might have been bigger than the old fishermen's cottages, but it was still small. In the kitchen I saw a note on the fridge from Edith, my neighbour.
'Bread, milk, and cheese in the fridge. Plants watered and the garden doing well. Remember lecture 4c!"
I chuckled, as an unmarried man, who usually only visited for 48 hours at a time. Stocking up on fresh vegetables seemed a waste, as most would be composted after she found them mouldering in a cupboard.
In return for keeping an eye on my place and sorting my post. I gave her free rein to use my garden to grow whatever fruits or vegetables she wanted. The 4c lecture said that I must help myself and eat healthy foods.
The island was renowned for its mild climate and long growing seasons. Hence the long 20th century tradition of holiday makers camping and enjoying several lovely sandy beaches.
Taking my laptop upstairs, I plugged it in and checked my email. A few student queries, where I replied with chapter and book references. A pair of requests for extensions on projects. I'd let them sweat until Sunday, but I'd cut them some slack as they were making an effort. And then two from my other job.
The first was a link to a data dump from a supercomputer simulation I'd requested. No use to me here, but it confirmed it had worked. The second was a payload change to confirm it did not affect the launch profile. The payload was the same weight and dimensions, but the centre of mass had moved 12 centimetres from the centre. I didn't have to run the numbers to know it was a problem.
A quick lesson on the basics of rocket science. Place the rubber end of a pencil on your fingertip, then hold it upright until you can balance it. Most people, with a little practice, can balance it for a few seconds. Others can manage it for 5 or 10 seconds.
Now reverse the pencil and repeat the process using just the tip. If you can manage that for 10 seconds, try glueing a grain of rice to the side at the top. Now you aren't just talking about left/right and backwards and forwards. The slightly unbalanced weight causes a yaw, or a spin of the pencil. The weight of the rice means you have to tilt the pencil, but that side is heavier, so it rotates.
If that wasn't tricky enough, imagine doing it with a rocket 500 times longer than a pencil and needing to balance for 10 minutes and not 10 seconds. So, it's more complicated than finding a long stick and a giant milk bottle to launch from.
I reached for my pipe and swore. I don't actually smoke one anymore, but I grew up with my father and grandfather, always smoking a pipe. But when both men died before 50, I quit smoking, but the tactile feel of it in my hand or mouth was harder to quit. Sometimes, I'd ponder a problem and clean the pipe despite it not having tobacco in it for over 5 years.
After making some notes, I noticed it was almost 9 pm, and I had no desire to cook. And a cheese sandwich just would not do. So, I called the pub.
"Tina, is your mum still serving food?" I asked.
"Sort of. Not a lot left. But I think she's got some of that extra hot beef curry you like. But she'll be closing the kitchen any minute."
"Ask her for the curry and pour me a pint. I'll be there in 5 minutes."
The pint was waiting for me on the bar, and she pointed to the small table under the dart board. Luckily pad locked up for the summer to avoid accidents. I'd barely sat down when Trisha appeared with my food.
"Evening Tom. You only just got me. Beef curry, extra hot, just like you like." She said, putting down the curry and rice with a stack of fresh poppadoms.
"Hot like you?" I joked back.
"Maybe, back in the day." She gave me a wistful smile and headed to the bar. Gesturing to her daughter for a G&T.
I managed to catch Tina's attention to tell her to add the drink to my bill.
The curry was hot, and I was running out of beer and poppadoms towards the end. Tina appeared with a second pint without asking, and I smiled at her. She gave me a flirty wink and said something like 'special service for my best customers.'
