I have always been drawn to the ocean, the distant horizon, the long beach, seven miles long, with its high dunes and wide sands.
For some men it's the lakes, placid and smooth; for others slow moving rivers driving irresistibly down to the sea. Some men return to high tumbling streams, cold and swift; and for others it's waterfalls, long falling and spumes of spray, white threading foam against black, wet rock.
For all men, it's irresistible. The pull of water on their soul, always pulling them back every year, once a year at the same time, the same day, to the same place.
For me, it's the base of a high dune, where two curving lines of high piled sand, held firm by succulent roots and delicate, red-tipped flowers, split; opening wide to the beach. From the sheltered place between the clefted dunes I can see the breaking waves of the ocean. Sometimes the surf thumps high up on the beach, pushing runs of water nearly to the foot of the dunes. Other times, if the winter storms have moved massive sands onto the beach, and the tide is low, the shore can be distant a hundred yards, maybe more.
When I was small my father would carry me there, tiny in his arms at first, then riding on his shoulders, then the next years running along beside his long stride. As I grew older and became a tall boy, my father would wave me away from the house, pointing the way but by then I knew it, and I would stay longer there. Never the night, but sometimes late into it, sitting by a fire made up of drift from the ocean and branch from the low trees further back on the land. I would drop my clothes in the summer heat and run naked to the beach, and later anoint the sand with my juice.
Now, as an older youth, a young man I suppose, the expectation of my annual return would grow upon me, even when I lived in a distant place and made my way there over the years in a succession of different cars. Such a long distance, driving for hours, leaving early and arriving late. For the whole month before, my waking dreams would be marked by a rigid cock tight against my gut in the morning, long in my hand at night. On the long drives, the exhilaration of wind against my face and the rush of speed on sweeping downhill curves would be too much, and I'd thicken and stop; arching my back from the seat and spattering come against the dashboard, against the leather rim of the steering wheel.
I've spoken to many men, and we're all the same. Wherever we go, whatever is the water of our dreams, there's always a primal, comforting place. All of us were first taken there by our fathers, and when we all tell of our first spill of seed, our first teenage heat, it's always there in our safest place by our water. The water surrounds us, and its restless motion always pulls up our pulsing jets, our furthest spurts, our thickest, aching cocks.
This year is no different. I'm a year older, becoming established and set in my ways. Perhaps the annual trips to the beach might end soon, but not this year. My father is getting older, and it might be as much him I come to see as it is to lie on my back in the dunes.
My age doesn't concern me. I suppose it should, as some of my childhood friends have already gone, and before they went some of them called me on the phone, saying they had seen a Watcher. Both John and Jeremiah saw a Watcher the previous year, a year before they went. But I don't know what to make of that, so I don't let it concern me. There's nothing can be done if a Watcher comes, anyway, but wait.
To give myself more time at the base of the dune and in the ocean, I'd bought myself a second-hand bicycle, and kept it in the shed at my father's house. My father would get it out when I called him to say, "Dad, it's me, I'm arriving on Monday," and pump the tyres, oil the chain. It had an old three-speed hub - the ride along the beach to my dune was flat and only a couple of miles - but I could put food and drink in the panniers, and a big towel to lie on, and the speed put wind in my face. I'd arrive fast and breathless, pull clothes from my body, run naked to the sea.
I cycle along the track running parallel to the line of the beach, and there they are still, the three rows of dunes, the highest furthest away from the beach. The familiar track climbs up over the high dune, and winds through to the sand. As always, there's no sign of any human presence, only animal trails criss-crossing, and once I saw the slither of a snake. Today there's a low thrum of wind, and the bare sand has blown into clean ripples. Nobody has been here for days, the only footprints are my own. I make two runs, leaving the bike back by the parallel track. I turn the bike, so it faces back down the way I've come.
Down where the dune splits, by my sheltered spot with its blackened circle of last year's fire, the wind drops and the air is still and warm. I lay another small fire ready for the evening, and spread my wide towel on the ground, angled so I can see the breakers. Out beyond the break line, some three or four hundred yards, I see the shimmering heat of the small granite islands, there off the shore. I've never swum out to them, even though I easily could. I've stayed near the land, all these years.
The glorious ocean! That first splashing run, ah fuck that's cold! and the first sideways shoulder to the wave, diving under the break and learning the shuddering, shrinking cold. Swimming out further with a steady stroke, my cock loose against the water in a constant float and drag of sensation, firming now and pulling more, glorious hard, my balls tightening up to the base of my body. That first deep sensation between my balls and the hot tightness of my asshole, caressed by cold water. I've craved it all year, and here it is.
Beyond the break with its shattering white foam and tumbling sand, the water is warmer and I lie on my back, pushing my body up to the sun, my cock rigid against my gut, my nipples tight and firm. I pull on them, lying there floating, my breath deep in my lungs to float myself in the warmer water. I'm all body, all sensation, my whole flesh tightening in the salty crust of the waves and the heat of the sun. My cock remains hard, the constant caress of the moving water far better than any hand, any thrusting rub. It's a wet place, alive all around me, better than dreams, better than life itself.
I lie on my back in the sea, lulled by the rocking water and the sound of my heart in my ears, beating with my pulse and the occasional stop start of my heart I know so well. My cock remains rigid, aching tight against my gut, but I don't touch it, not out here. The lull of the waves is enough, gliding my flesh back and forth with a liquid sensation.
I roll onto my front and look around, and I've drifted a long way down the beach on a slow current, and a little out to sea. I swim towards the shore, a steady stroke, enjoying the pull of the water on my prick. I swim for several minutes until I'm nearer the beach, where the surf rises up and breaks. I ride in on a tumultuous wave, speeding down its front, my body held tight and straight, pushed on by the force of the water. My shaft is rigid and hard, the sensation of the sliding water fast and sweet; and at the end of the ride my body tumbles and I stagger to my feet, knocked about by the force of the water.
I've a huge grin on my face as I stride tall and magnificent from the surf, my cock thick in front of me. I'm so hard and tight, the head of my cock is plum red against my gut, I'm long and proud. I arch my back and thrust my arms above my head, and fuck the sky. So alive!
I hurry back to the nest between the dunes, to my place, and I'm stroking my prick now. I can't wait, I'm already into that first thickening thrill, where my whole body feels like an extension of my cock. I'm all shaft, my palms against my chest, my nipples, it's the same sensation as my palm running over the head of my cock. I'm all one long throb of sensation as I lie on my back and stroke myself faster, one hand rubbing up and down my shaft, the other cupping my high balls.
