Chapter 2

If my story so far seems odd, or unlikely, well – unlikely perhaps, but let’s think about the development of relationships. Firstly, any relationship is dependent on a person’s ability and willingness to progress it. In my mid thirties, I’d always been reserved. My few relationships had been short lived and far between. My parents, old-fashioned and religious, instilled, despite my resistance, a feeling that sex was a part of a permanent commitment, if not actually marriage. Quitting my nursing career had given my confidence a knock, too, so until June appeared on the scene I’d largely avoided the opposite gender. Add to that a significant – twelve years, more or less – difference in age, and I had no difficulty in convincing myself that June’s only interest was, as she said, in a couple of week’s adventure, sailing a bit further afield than usual.

“But,” you might say, “you were cooped up with her for days in a small boat, sleeping in the same bed...”

Yes, but remember, we were sailing. We only slept together that first night before catching the tide north. Apart from brief spells, one of us had to be at the wheel at all times and when Tranquillity was steering herself, someone had to be alert for any problems. But there was no doubt that the kiss before she left made me wonder.

All that aside, I had plenty to do; not just exploring the town and entertaining myself, but restocking supplies and checking over the condition of my boat. By Sunday morning, though, I was ready to move on. High water ... eleven-thirty. I was up and about by seven, fed and coffee’d satisfactorily, and trotted along to get a shower. On the way back, I passed a girl, maybe late teens, ear-buds in and an audible tinny beat perceptible. I paused and listened – not to her Ipod, but to the raucous cries of the gulls, a robin, not visible but not too far away, the wind in the trees and the sound of the sea against the outer walls of the harbour. I shook my head and carried on. Before anything else I checked the weather. A depression was going to give us a head wind for the start of our passage and probably a wetting, too. It didn’t look too bad, though, and there was no point in putting off leaving. I made a start on getting the cover off the main-sail, packing away the boom-crutch, preparing warps for departure.

June hove into sight mid-morning, accompanied by a plump-looking woman; the resemblance was clear. She hopped down, and held out a hand to the woman. I glanced down at her feet; trainers, good.

“Hey, Skipper. Everything okay?” June asked.

“We’re all set,” I told her.

“My Aunt May wanted to meet you,” June said. She turned to the woman, “Auntie, meet Rick Bennett, owner and Skipper of Yacht Tranquillity. Skipper, my aunt, May Anderson.”

I extended a hand and, after a slight pause, she took it. “Pleased to meet you, Missus Anderson.”

“Likewise,” she responded, releasing my hand. I wasn’t sure how sincere she was about that.

“If you’d like the ten-pence tour, June could show you round...” She nodded. I turned to June. “Do you need to eat before we leave? There’s time...”

“No, I’m fine, thanks. Big breakfast.” She turned to her aunt. “Come and look, Auntie.”

They were below for several minutes and I could hear the muttering of conversation, but I couldn’t make any of it out until as June was emerging from the cabin, she said, “It’s called ‘hot-bunking’, Auntie. One of us has to be up and awake all the time, so there’s no point in wasting space on separate bunks.” Her aunt’s response to that was a grunt.

The older woman did shake my hand again before leaving, her only further comment, “Don’t ye go and drown my niece, now.”

“No, Ma’am. I’m a great believer in staying on top of the water, both my crew and myself.”

We watched as she walked away. “My aunt is a bit of a prude,” June commented with a smile. “She’s not happy that I’m alone here with you – any man, actually.”

Nearly everything being ‘in all respects ready for sea’, we stopped for coffee and Scotch pancakes – I know them as ‘drop scones’ and they’re easy to make, but those I bought in the shop where I bought fresh bread that morning – and we chatted. In Britain the topic is often the weather, and that’s even more pressing when you’re sailing or preparing to sail.

“Approaching depression,” I told June. “Onshore wind as we leave, so I’ll run the Yanmar until we make an offing. We’ll be butting into a head-wind pretty soon after leaving, and we can expect a wetting, too.”

She smiled and shrugged. “That’s the way the cookie crumbles, huh?”

“Might be a little late getting home if we have to beat all the way.”

“I’ve got nothing spoiling,” she said. “Let’s just take it as it comes.”

At high water, June managed the lines, casting off all but the bow line and holding fenders as I used the motor and rudder to push the stern away from the quay. Once I was confident the wind wouldn’t push us back against the wall, I called forward and June cast off the last remaining line and began to coil it, then once that was done began stowing fenders and coiling the other mooring lines. We weren’t the only ones taking the opportunity to leave, but it wasn’t congested and we didn’t meet anyone coming in. An hour of motoring directly into the teeth of the east-south-easterly wind, we were three miles offshore and hoisting sail. I made our course north of east under sail in order to get well off the coast. Close-hauled, we were making about four knots – pretty good, really – but it was two full days before we were making significant progress towards our intended destination. The wind continued to strengthen and veer, and we were in waterproofs whilst on watch against the frequent showers and salt spray.

Wednesday, the weather system had shifted north-west far enough that we were in south-westerlies, force five to six, and able to shake out all but one of the main-sail reefs. Our course was east of south, so, close-reaching we were able to make good a course almost directly to where we wanted to be. It was Thursday night before the sea calmed sufficiently that we could do without over-trousers and jackets, and we could enjoy drinks without worrying about the necessity of undressing to empty bladders. If you’re puzzled, think about going four hours, awake, knowing that using the toilet was a major matter.

Saturday night saw us among the shoals off the East Anglian coast once more. We carried on, and were back in the Blackwater Sunday morning, a little after seven, as the ebb began to run. There was no point in fighting the current – particularly as with the wind still in the south-west, it would be largely a beat up to Maldon – so we dropped the hook just downstream of the old Bradwell nuclear power station barrier. With about nine hours before we could expect to get up to Maldon, as I’d had the last night watch, I took the opportunity to head for bed for a couple of hours.

It was sunny – well, we do have ‘hot’ days – and the forecastle was getting warm, even with the fore-hatch propped open. I stripped down to boxers and t-shirt, and threw the sleeping bag open so I could sprawl on top. I was out like a light.

I’d intended only a couple of hours, but didn’t set an alarm. It was more like four hours later I woke and, once I was conscious enough to register my surroundings, looked straight into a pair of midnight blue eyes at a distance of about six inches.

You may have gathered I was not experienced. In fact, despite my thirty-some years I’d never gone further than kissing my date. And the older I got, the harder it was to take the next step. June short-circuited my indecisive, timid, approach to the opposite sex. The ensuing kiss short-circuited more than that. I don’t remember the contortions necessary, laid as we were on our side, to wrap my arms round her, only the sudden awareness of bare skin; silky, smooth, bare skin. Her hands, sliding under my t-shirt, behind my back. The pressure of her breasts against me. The discomfort of my burgeoning erection, caught in the fabric of my boxers and against her pelvis, relieved by her hand.