The Beach

Amelia Stephanie Powers was dozing, laying naked in her favorite place in the world – a half-mile stretch of sandy beach along the southern shore of her family’s ancestral summer home and island, roughly in the center of Delaware Bay. It was a shallow island – a series of undulating sand dunes, formed by countless millennia of winter storms rolling in off the Atlantic.

A stranger would be hard-pressed to guess Amy’s age, lying here in the sand; her breasts no longer those of a teenager, but still firm and classically sculpted in shape. The flesh of her limbs and buttocks was firm and muscular – her stomach flat and hard. There was an occasional strand of gray in the thick honey-blond hair, falling to her shoulders. Shallow crows’ feet at the corners of her eyes now appeared when she laughed or frowned. Depending on the light, she might be mistaken for her mid to late 30s. In fact, she was 46 and in remarkable physical health for a woman her age.

Her whole life, Amy had preferred laying directly in the sand, rather than on a towel or beach blanket. After swimming, she liked the feel of the hot sand between her buttocks and grinding into her belly, breasts, and nipples, when she lay on her stomach.

Now in the mid-afternoon sun, she rolled onto her back and squirmed, her shapely buttocks and shoulder blades molding into the sand. She could feel the heat of it, radiating up into flesh and joints. The overwhelming worries and stress of her life and career seemed to melt away as she teetered in that delicious zone between wakefulness and sleep, barely aware of her surroundings. A naval ship slowly steamed westward, a half mile or so offshore. She could hear an aircraft circling the island – a fast-moving military jet of some kind.

Many years ago, her family had developed a trick of stretching a large square of white gossamer-like material between four corner posts driven into the sand. Then they would lay under it – the material reflecting the sun’s hottest and most damaging rays. Enough sunlight still penetrated the material that a pale-skinned visitor might still burn, but it would take longer. It also helped hide naked sunbathers from low-flying aircraft, which had become a minor problem over the past couple of decades, and a much more serious issue recently. Even satellites were a concern now.

Amy and her husband Liam had been laying here for a couple of hours now – napping most of that time. She glanced at him beside her, smiling at the clumps of sand clinging to his muscular tanned buttocks. Liam was a big man, his torso, arms, and legs well developed, and thick with ropy muscle – a man who obviously spent a lot of time in the gym keeping himself in top-notch condition. He and Amy were pretty close to the same age.

Being utterly naked under a hot August sun felt perfectly lascivious – the warmth spreading deep in her loins made her squirm even more as her thoughts wandered. They had this section of the beach entirely to themselves, so Amy was confident they wouldn’t be disturbed. There were still a couple of hours of wonderful loafing remaining before returning to the real world. With the temperature in the low 90s, she could feel the skin of her thighs, her flat muscular stomach, and her breasts cooling slightly as a gentle breeze off the bay evaporated the light sheen of sweat covering her body. The breeze also caused the white reflecting cover above them to gently undulate.

Nudity here on the southern beach of Powers Island had been a way of life for the past seven generations of her family. Family legend suggested that distant ancestors on her father’s side had skinny-dipped the very first day they’d visited the island while having a picnic lunch right on this very beach. Amy hoped the story was true. There was no question that each generation since, had spent many hundreds of hours socializing, swimming in the cold waters of the bay, and laying naked in the white sand. There were decks and a pool up at the compound, where the more prudish could spend their time.

Over the years, Amy had grown up on the beach in full sight of friends and family. She had advanced through childhood, blossoming into a truly lovely young woman while swimming, sunbathing, and beachcombing the full length of the island, exactly as her maker had brought her into the world. She had her first kiss here, her first awkward fumblings with a series of boyfriends, and lost her virginity not a hundred feet from this spot, just after midnight, wrapped in a beach blanket. The memories of that night made her smile.

On this long strip of sand and scrubby saw grass, she had grieved the loss of her grandparents, then several years later, her parents. She had convalesced here from her injuries sustained in Iraq. She had suffered through the failure of her first marriage and celebrated the utter success of her second.

Her movements were enough to awaken Liam, and he glanced at her, shading his eyes from the sun.

“You were snoring,” he said, grinning.

“Oh bullshit, I don’t snore”, she replied also grinning, knowing full well that she snored like thunder.

“I’ll bet I can prove it; they probably heard you up at the house.”

She ignored him; a few minutes went by.

“I was dreaming about this place, Liam – how all the past generations of our family learned to depend on their time here. It seems we’ve all needed it at some time or other during our lives.”

“It has been an amazing tonic for you baby, that’s for sure. I don’t think I’ve ever heard how they found the island and what prompted them to buy it?”

“It’s all quite fascinating. In the early 1800s, my great-great-great-great-grandfather won it in a poker game – that’s four ‘greats’ by the way, so pay attention – there’s a quiz at the end.”

“You’re shitting me – he won this entire island?”

“I shit you not. We’ve carefully researched the story and I’m convinced it’s true. Alexander Basil Powers was born into money and was the first generation of our family in the US, an Oxford University-educated barrister. Late one night in early 1827, he was playing high-stakes poker in Philadelphia with a group of very wealthy men. Another player at the table was a French aristocrat whose family had been granted the island for their support during the revolutionary war. When it was his turn, the Frenchman raised the betting $500 by tossing the deed for the island into the pot, causing all the other players except Alexander to fold. He threw in his 500 bucks and called. The Frenchman then failed to draw the last card he needed to complete his flush, so Alexander won around 1,000 bucks and the island.”

“The Frenchman had never set foot on the island and considered himself lucky to avoid paying the $500 dollars that he owed the pot. He told people later that he doubted the island was worth $100 dollars, much less $500, and he was delighted to be rid of it.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Liam.

“The story goes that Alexander Powers and his pretty young wife first visited the island on a hot summer day later that year, in a sailboat they’d chartered in Cape May at the southernmost tip of New Jersey. It was breezy that day, so the captain stayed aboard at anchor in the northern lee, while the couple rowed ashore in the lifeboat. They were not impressed at first; there was no harvestable land or permanent water supply – just a small brackish pond near the western end that dried up during the heat of the summer. There was no protected harbor to moor boats. He estimated it to be a mile long and a half mile wide.”

“While he couldn’t see any immediate opportunities for the island, he was smart enough to see future potential. He wrote that there was also something about it that they liked – a special ambiance. They felt invigorated, just being there.”

“It still has plenty of that,” said Liam, screwing the top of a bottle of water and taking a deep drink. He offered another to Amy, who took it and did the same.

“But the next part of the story is my favorite. According to Alexander’s journal, right about where we are now, out of sight of the charter vessel, he and his wife for the first time in their lives removed all their clothing and swam naked in the bay. After their swim and still naked, they sat on a blanket and enjoyed a picnic lunch she’d prepared. Before the picnic was finished, they made love and enjoyed a short nap. Then still naked, they walked the southern shore in both directions, until late afternoon. It was almost dinnertime when they packed up, walked back across the island, and rowed out to their chartered sloop.”

“That’s amazing,” said Liam. “He definitely started a trend in your family. So y’all have been skinny-dipping here for almost 200 years.”

She nodded.

“Old Alexander was getting a bit ‘long in the tooth’ when the Civil War broke out in 1861, but he was sharp enough to lease the island to the Union for a small garrison and gun emplacement to guard the entrance to the Delaware River. It was largely ineffective – Delaware Bay is so large that the southern navy simply sailed by Powers Island to the north or south, well out of range of its battery. The lease required that all traces of the garrison with all its associated guns, bunkers, and living quarters, be removed at the end of the war and the island be left as pristine as the day they arrived. The Yankees agreed. They’d considered expropriating the island and likely would have, except for the lack of fresh water and a protected harbor.”

“No doubt you’re glad they didn’t.”

“Yes, all past generations of Powers were thankful that they didn’t. Alexander II was born in 1836, exactly nine months after his parents spent a week camped on the island – they believed he was conceived here. Alexander III was born in 1860 and lived on the island for years after the civil war ended. He built a cabin on the little hill in the center of the island. The story goes that his first son was conceived on this same beach after he and his wife spent a day swimming and sunning. The Powers’ all prospered; they and their descendants spent most of their free time vacationing here.”

“It was my great grandfather Alexander IV, born in 1885, who eventually put our family on ‘easy street’ for subsequent generations.”

“Okay, I’ve heard about this guy and his exploits during the first world war,” said Liam. He’d been laying on his side and moved to a sitting position, his arms stretched behind supporting him.

“That’s right,” said Amy. “In his mid-twenties, he enlisted in the US Navy, attending an officer training school of the day. When we entered the war in 1917, he was assigned to convoy duty in the North Sea as the Commander of a 200’ ocean-going tugboat. While towing a damaged freighter, he was attacked and badly damaged by a torpedo fired by a German U-boat. A second torpedo struck his tow, which was now taking on water and slowly sinking behind him. While laying slack in the water, much of his afterdeck ablaze from spilled bunker fuel, a lookout spotted the U-boat surface a half mile away. It began stalking Alexander’s floundering ship, apparently to administer the coupe de grace”.

“Great granddad really should have ordered ‘Abandon Ship’, but instead, knowing that he still had steerage and steam in his boilers, he decided to play dead. When the U-boat was approximately 100 yards away, it turned broadside to finish them with its deck cannon. Alexander ordered his engines full ahead and a simultaneous 90-degree turn, ramming the U-boat amidships as it frantically tried to dive. He cut the bloody thing in two and then hauled a dozen prisoners out of the North Sea. With the assistance of their German prisoners who were given the choice of fighting fires or jumping overboard, a couple of days later, he limped back to a dockyard in Aberdeen, Scotland.

Some men under pressure are brilliant tacticians and leaders. The Navy realized right away that Great granddad was such a man. Within weeks, he was decorated and given another much larger command, this one a 10,000-ton Dreadnought. For the remainder of the war, he waged a campaign of terror against enemy U-boats and shipping throughout the North Sea.”

Liam was impressed. “I’m beginning to sense why you enlisted in the Navy.”

“That was part of it, but you haven’t heard the best yet. So, while Great Granddad was on leave in Scotland, he looked up some family and was welcomed like the long-lost prodigal son. They still remembered stories of the original Alexander who’d immigrated to the US almost a hundred years earlier. They all stayed in touch after the war – many of the Scottish Powers traveled to the US to visit Great Granddad’s family.”

“Do you still have family there?”

“Oh sure, all kinds. They were quite wealthy thanks to their numerous whisky distilleries. Can you see what’s coming here?” she asked, grinning.

“Oh, good Christ,” said Liam. “Don’t tell me...”

“You’re jumping ahead, my oh-so-clever-and-hunky-husband. The Powers family has never admitted it, but the genesis of our family fortune was associated with Scotch whisky. After the war when ‘Uncle Sam’ so foolishly snatched away our beloved spirits, millions of thirsty citizens immediately began searching for new sources. Many public-minded entrepreneurs leaped into the breach to keep the tipple flowing.”

“For Christ’s sake, your ancestors were rum-runners...” said Liam, laughing heartily. He decided he wanted to sit in a chair and fetched a couple of folding beach chairs. They each sat in one – there was just enough room under the white sheet.

Amy laughed with him. “Please ... scotch runners; not rum. I know you’ll keep this part between us – it’s not widely known. Anyway, during that first month of prohibition, Alexander received a telegram suggesting that at his earliest convenience, he should visit Scotland for a business proposal. Six months later, Great Granddad was at the helm of a huge deep-water trawler he’d just purchased in Rotterdam. It was financed by a Scottish bank owned by one of his cousins who’d made a fortune from his distillery. In Alexander’s holds were a thousand cases of high quality, single-malt scotch whisky – around 20 tons of it.”

“A few days later, the entire cargo was hidden in a concrete bunker that Alexander had commissioned, right on top of the little hill in the center of Powers’ Island. From there, he arranged for deliveries in the dead of night, to various secret landing sites along the Delaware River. He had spies stationed at strategic points who lit signal fires if Government boats were sighted. In the 12 years that Great Granddad quenched the thirst of countless wealthy whisky connoisseurs, he was never caught. He and our overseas Scottish family became stinking rich. By carefully investing his profits, Alexander’s net worth was over ten million dollars in 1933, when Prohibition was repealed.

Liam let out a long slow whistle. “Unbelievable – that’d be like a hundred million in today’s dollars?”

“Closer to a quarter-billion,” said Amy. “With his new fortune, he had a cove dredged on the northern shore of the island. During the previous decade, all of their illegal cargo had been brought ashore in long, shallow-draft speed boats. After the dredging was complete, Alexander’s new 120-foot yacht could slip into the protected cove, and tie up at his new deep-water wharf.”

“Then he began construction of an 8,000 square foot mansion, built partially atop the old concrete bunker that had hidden and protected many thousands of cases of whisky. The bunker was waterproofed and turned into a cistern to store water from the estate’s complex rainwater catchment system. Thanks to wild Atlantic storms, the cistern was full in two years. Since the late 30s, we’ve never run out of water, even during blistering hot summer months. He even had the swimming pool installed, although the family didn’t use it much, preferring the beach and ocean.”

“Well, I’ll be Goddamned,” said Liam. “I thought the cistern had been designed and built, specifically to store water. That’s amazing.”

“Yep,” said Amy. “And Great Granddad wasn’t the last of the Powers warriors. My grandfather, Alexander V, was born in 1905 – also having been conceived on Powers’ Island, by the way. In 1937 with war imminent in Europe, he followed in his father’s footsteps and enlisted in the US Navy officer training program. Over the next four years, he rose to the rank of Lieutenant Commander and was commissioned to a 1,400-ton Tacoma class Frigate called the Isle of Skye, serving in the Pacific theater. Being his father’s son may have influenced the promotions board somewhat.”

“Ya think?” asked Liam.

Amy smiled. “He was second in command. On the evening of December 6, 1941, his CO was on shore leave, pissed to the gills at a fancy party hosted by the Territorial Governor at his mansion in Honolulu. Granddad spoke to the CO by phone that evening, strongly advising that they sail – there was something happening that didn’t smell right. His CO had forbidden it, suggesting that he would have Granddad’s ass thrown in the brig if he heard another word of this bullshit.”

“Granddad had been sitting for hours in the communications room that day and evening, listening to Allied reports from all over the Pacific, the radio operator continuously scanning hundreds of radio frequencies. What he was hearing and some sixth sense, told Grandad something was seriously fucked up. He felt that being moored there in Pearl with the rest of the fleet – like sitting ducks – was an error of incalculable magnitude.”

“So just before midnight on December 6, 1941, Granddad risked his entire career when he ordered their mooring lines cast off, and piloted the Isle of Skye through Pearl Harbor and out to sea. Early the following morning, his badly hungover CO was getting orders cut for another ship to chase the Skye and have Granddad clapped in irons. At that moment, the first wave of Japanese aircraft appeared on the horizon. His CO was among the first to die, the victim of a bomb crashing through the roof of the headquarters building he was standing in.”

“Holy shit, I can’t even imagine what it would have been like that morning,” said Liam.

“Me either,” said Amy. “Granddad was now the temporary CO of his ship. As the first reports of the raid were broadcast, he sounded ‘General Quarters’ and set a reverse course for Honolulu, now eighty nautical miles south-southwest of their position. Cruising at maximum speed, thirty minutes later they spotted stragglers from the last wave of Japanese bombers flying in formation back to their carriers. The enemy’s bomb racks were empty of course, but most of them had machine gun rounds left in their magazines. Several of them peeled away from the formation, apparently to strafe his ship. Granddad ordered his anti-aircraft gun crews to open fire and they shot down four of them, even rescuing one pilot, and taking him prisoner. The Spirit of Skye took several hundred 50mm rounds along her superstructure and decks, but none of his crew were killed or even seriously injured.”

“Instead of being charged with mutiny, Granddad was decorated for his initiative and valor under fire. If his CO had survived, Granddad likely would have been court marshaled. He served the rest of the war with distinction, commanding his ship through many historical Pacific sea battles, and earning numerous decorations and commendations. He was quite a guy and he was my hero when I was a little girl.”

Amy was a little misty-eyed as she finished this part of the story, wiping away tears with her fingers. Liam moved his chair closer and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“I think you know the rest, Liam. Before enlisting, Granddad had graduated from the Yale school of law. When the war was over, he returned to a Washington DC firm where he’d articled before enlisting. Five years later he started his own small firm. Over the next twenty years, Powers and Associates grew to be the largest, most influential law firm in the city. He’d used some of the family fortune to finance his start-up, and by his fortieth birthday, he’d doubled it. And doubled it again by his fiftieth. Our family was now into some serious dough.”

“I didn’t know most of that,” said Liam. “The story of Alexander Powers bugging out of Pearl is legendary, of course...”

“Yeah, he was quite a guy. But there’s one last chapter to the story. My dad was born in ‘41. He was the first Powers born right here on the island in the family compound. Right in our master bedroom. He was a bright young man and like many previous generations of Powers, loved his time here on the island.”

“Yes, I recall hearing that before. Your grandmother was very brave, giving birth that far from a hospital. Thank God nothing went wrong...”

“Yep. She had a midwife she trusted and was examined at Walter Reed a week before.”

“In his late twenties, Dad was paying a lot of attention to a war developing in Southeast Asia. As the USA became more and more involved, Dad knew he was going to be drafted. He’d graduated with honors from the Yale school of law in his early 20’s and now practiced with the family firm.”

“Dad could easily have found a way to avoid service, or enlisted as a JAG lawyer, but instead, he entered officers training school and two years later, was flying an F4 Phantom II. He was shot down twice over Vietnam, each time ejecting and parachuting to safety. Once in friendly territory; the second behind enemy lines, with a dislocated shoulder and concussion. He managed to dig in with his good arm, and hide for two days until help arrived.”

“Then the Navy decided that the war was over for him. He was awarded the Distinguished Service Medal and a Purple Heart. He and Mom spent a month on Powers Island as he rested and recuperated before returning to the family law firm. Mom eventually told me that one hot sunny afternoon, after lazing and swimming naked most of the day, like many previous Powers’ generations, they made love on this very beach.”

Liam was amazed. “Your mom told you that?”

“Well in her own way, she did. She kind of let me figure it out for myself. But the funny thing is, nine months later, the great-great-great-great-granddaughter of the original Alexander Powers was born in the Providence General Hospital. And guess whom that little girl turned out to be?”

“Well let me see...” said Liam, as though deep in thought.

Amy laughed. “I was the first female oldest child in a Powers’ household for the past 180 or so years.”

Liam was spellbound listening to this last part. He’d heard snippets of this story before, but never completely pieced all together as Amy had just told it.

“Baby, it seems you’re going to leave the biggest mark on your family history of all the Powers before you,” he said. “That is quite a story. Have any Smithsonian historians been in touch with you, to get this all carefully recorded?”

“They have ... and of course, you’re going to be an important part of it, too.”

“Oh bullshit ... I was just along for the ride,” said Liam.

“And a steaming pile of bullshit right back at you, baby ... I was there too, and that’s not my recollection. Hey, it’s been over a decade now; just exactly how do you remember that night?”

“Well, I recall you telling me that your ‘ex’ was likely the reason for it. Maybe I owe him a debt of gratitude. If it wasn’t for my team’s assignment that night, you and I might never have met.”

Liam was smiling at the memory of their first meeting. Few couples are introduced the way they had been – under fire in an enemy POW camp. “Do you ever hear from Greg?”

“It’s been a couple of years now, but we’re okay. We reconnected and patched things up to avoid uncomfortable press coverage. As you know, my current job makes it pretty much impossible to socialize with old friends.”

“Yeah, I get that...” he said. “That’s one of my many jobs, to keep you amused with my lively conversational skills.”

Amy laughed out loud. “Those are not the skills that I like the most. You have some other talents I enjoy considerably more.”

In the back of Amy’s mind, she was thinking about her ex – she and Greg had been married for six years. She’d gained access to her trust fund the year she turned 30; overnight worth a half-billion dollars. Family lawyers had insisted that Greg sign an ironclad ‘prenup’ when they’d married. While attending ivy-league schools in the east, Amy had earned two degrees; a Bachelor of Political Science, then a Bachelor of Law, while he’d struggled with his Bachelor of Arts. He’d been a good husband and friend but had become overwhelmed with her successes and wealth,

They had a common love of flying. Amy’s first name was in honor of Amelia Earhart, an old friend of her great-grandfather. Amy bought and sold several light aircraft in her teens, and became a highly competent pilot before joining the Navel reserves in her mid-20s. Her father had served in the navy in Vietnam, her grandfather in WW2, and her great-grandfather in WW1 – she felt it was her duty to carry on the line of Powers’ warriors. After graduating with her second degree and working for a couple of years at the family’s DC law firm, she entered Officer Candidate School, and two years later became one of the country’s first woman fighter pilots, promoted to the rank of Lieutenant.

The year she graduated from the Navel Officer Training School, Lieutenant Amelia Powers spent most of her summer on Powers Island with Greg, before shipping out to the middle east on her first assignment. That had been her final summer of youthful carefree innocence.

Liam had been mulling all of this over. “I recall that you were deployed to a carrier, the USS Enterprise, patrolling in the Persian Gulf. And right about then, you learned through your company’s private cops that Greg had taken a mistress. That must have sucked the life out of you.”

They both took long drinks from their water bottles.

“Yeah, it sure did. I’ve used it as an excuse for what happened but that’s bullshit – it was all me – I fucked up. About a week later, I was flying a F/A-18C Hornet on what should have been an uneventful patrol over northern Iraq. The flight was so routine, I got obsessing about that cheating, no-good bastard Greg, and didn’t react as quickly as I should have when alarms started going off. It was a SAM bearing in and I was seconds late dumping chafe and evading. It exploded a hundred or so feet behind me and shrapnel damaged my airframe so badly, I had to descend. At 5,000 feet my wingman could see leaking fuel and hydraulic oil and informed me that this bird wasn’t going to make it home. So just as I ran out of fuel, I pulled the fucking handle. When the ejection seat exploded out of the cockpit, a piece of the canopy fouled my parachute cords so I fell faster than optimal.”

Liam looked pained. “Jesus Christ Amy, that must have been terrifying...”

“It was. I hit the ground hard and knew instantly that my back was injured – maybe seriously. My left arm was fractured just below the elbow. A half-hour later, before a rescue mission could be launched, a small band of ragged-ass Iraqi soldiers, waving and shooting their assault rifles into the sky like a gang of Keystone cops, came roaring up in a battered Toyota Tundra. With my broken arm and possibly back, I couldn’t pull my handgun out of its holster; I didn’t even try to resist.”

“When they discovered that the pilot was a young woman, the Iraqi bastards immediately ripped away all my uniform and underwear, and were working themselves up to gang rape me right there on the spot.”

Amy was having difficulty telling the story now. Liam was fuzzy on this part and was getting angry, just hearing it again.

“I recall you saying that their officer; an older guy, stopped them. Maybe he had a daughter around your age.”

Amy shook her head. “I think he understood the repercussions of sexually abusing a woman pilot. The American vengeance would be cataclysmic, possibly escalating the war to a new level. He apparently didn’t want that on his head, but he did allow them to beat the living shit out of me. They smashed my nose and blackened my eyes until they were swollen shut. Three of my front teeth were knocked out; my lips split open where a rifle butt connected.”

Liam was nodding. “I remember the first time I saw you; your nose was still as crooked as a snake and there was a big gap in your front teeth. I still thought you were the most gorgeous woman I’d ever laid eyes on.”

“Ahhh Liam, you are such a wonderful liar. One of these days, I might actually believe that line.”

“As you know, I bullshit you all the time darlin’, but that particular factoid is the Gospel truth.”

She smiled at him, then frowned as she carried on with her story. “They took me to a compound on the outskirts of Duhok and threw me into a filthy rat-infested cell with a cement floor and an equally filthy tin bucket for a toilet. There was straw for bedding. The fuckers ignored my injuries and let them heal on their own with no examination by a doctor. I was humiliated on a daily basis; often paraded in front of the guards and officers, and occasionally in irons, marched through an adjacent village and market, dressed in a filthy prison uniform. Some days they stripped me naked in my cell and all the guards took turns leering through the barred opening in the door. I didn’t mind the nakedness – I’ve been seen naked throughout my life. It was the fact that they forced me to do it that made me fucking crazy with rage, although I was careful to never let them know that.”