Aurora - Way of the Goddess Pt. 02

Beck was out of sorts for the next few days and retreated to her cabin, before gradually migrating back to Watson’s bed. The brush with the knife-wielding youth had cast a pall over her joie de vivre and the trauma was taking time to ebb away. Watson sat back patiently while Beck licked her spiritual wounds, steering Aurora far offshore to put the experience behind them.

With the sun out and the Bimini down, Watson was lounging in the open-air cockpit, five days into the passage and miles out to sea. When Beck emerged out into the sunshine, stark naked, Watson knew she was back on an even keel. She was freshly showered and smelt like a candy shop. Settling onto his lap, she leant back into him, then took his hand and put it between her legs. From the feel of her easily-parted, hot, slippery flesh, she’d been playing with herself, limbering up with either fingers or toy. Watson dipped his finger into her and she arched her back. “Someone’s feeling better.” the old man intoned.

Beck nodded. When Watson slid his finger up to her clit, she grabbed hold of it and jammed it in, right up to the knuckle. “Want to see something Tanya taught me?”

“Can’t wait.” Watson nodded, his shorts showing signs of a stirring cock.

Head back, eyes closed, Beck channelled every ounce of concentration into her vagina. Watson’s eyebrows elevated. Her insides began squeezing and relaxing, pulsating around his finger from tip to knuckle. It felt like a tiny fist inside her was jacking his digit. “Wow!” he said, and Beck smiled.

Bracing her thighs against Watson’s, she elevated off his finger and stood up in front of him. “Feel like a fuck?” she asked, holding out her hand.

Watson nodded at the swelling in his lap. “Does this answer your question?”

Beck arched her eyebrows and shot him a sly grin. “Come on then, let’s have some fun. Last one in bed’s a rotten egg.”

* * *

The monsoon arrived on an early flight, taking much of far North Queensland by storm. Caught short on the wrong side of Capricorn, Watson headed for the nearest safe-haven to lay-up for the next few months. Aurora was coming due for her yearly slipping anyway- anti-foul and repaint, repairs to the rigging. A whole list of renos, long postponed, involving hours of tedium and great big buckets of blood, sweat and elbow grease. The lot of the full-time yachtie.

There were writing deadlines as well, new scripts for a pilot programme, another common or garden six o’clock hack. As belaboured as they might be, these TV pulps paid the bills, and supported their fringe-dweller lifestyle.

Other domestic necessities were jostling for priority. Beck’s scant wardrobe was so threadbare much of it was see-through, which was awesome in the right circumstances but caused a stir when they turned up on land. Watson’s own tatty clothing, some of which was pre-divorce, was less haute-couture than nouveau-destitute. As much as it pained him to waste money on such fripperies, their wardrobes were in need of replacing.

There was more to the getting of land legs than simple adaptation to rocky stability. The longer he spent at sea, the more averse Watson was becoming to life on Terra Firma. This, after all, was where most humans dwelled and if there was one thing the ocean instilled, it was a deep and abiding love of solitude. The knots of strolling tourists and odd hi viz-clad worker, felt like a veritable swarm to the unshaven, grey-haired, weather-beaten seafarer fresh off the boat. And try as he did to dismiss the threats of a fat, stupid redneck, paranoia gnawed at his gut like a parasite.

He looked at the girl as they walked hand-in-hand, Beck happily swinging his arm, her curiosity at maximum volume as she tried to take in everything she saw. Watson, meanwhile, kept his head down. This was where they were at their most vulnerable. It would take one person to recognise Beck, one lowlife crim, or a fabled mate of the young rapist’s father, and word would get back to their tormentors. The ramifications of a showdown didn’t bear thinking about.

Air conditioning sent a chill up Watson’s spine as they stepped into the plush marina office. A well-dressed, staid, bottle-blonde looked up from her workspace as they entered, then went back to what she was doing, pointedly ignoring them. Beck wandered off to browse some upmarket merchandise- swimwear, souvenirs, books, assorted affectations for the nautically inclined, while Watson stood at the counter waiting to be served. When it finally became obvious he wasn’t about to just fuck off, the woman looked up and said, “Are you right?”

Watson briefly considered several alternative replies. ‘Most of the time’ was the first that sprang to mind, followed by, ‘if I was right, I wouldn’t be standing here, waiting for you to get off your ass to serve me’. In the end he decided to just play along. “We’ve just pulled in.” he said and thumbed over his shoulder. “I was wondering if I could get a berth for a forty-five foot sloop and arrange to have her slipped?”

“Oh,” the woman blinked, getting to her feet and straightening her skirt, “you’re a yachtie?”

“Uh huh.” Watson nodded. “Though most people just think I’m homeless.”

The woman instantly thawed. “Spoken like a true boat owner.”

A presence arrived at Watson’s elbow and Beck hove-to. She looked up at the woman with her big blue eyes. “Hi,” she said, “love your shop.”

“Why thank you, Sweetie. See anything you like?”

“Pretty much everything!”

The woman leant over the counter and in a theatrical whisper said, “I’ll keep your dad distracted while you go for his wallet.”

Beck’s tanned cheeks bunched with a grin as Watson shot the woman a rueful glance. “Watch out for moths.”

The woman laughed. “Right. You’re a yachtie. I forgot. Now then, a berth. How long you looking at?”

Watson shrugged. “How long is the cyclone season this year? I don’t know. Three months should do it.”

“Four would be safer. It’s meant to be a bad one.”

“Oh, goody. Can’t wait.”

The woman shrugged. “That’s life in the tropics.”

“I guess. though if things quieten down we might make a run for it south. Tassie maybe. It’s supposed to be nice this time of year.”

“Thrill seeker, huh?”

“No. I just don’t like being on land.”

“Man after my own heart.” the woman smiled.

“Oh well,” Watson replied, “you can’t be all bad.”

“Tell you what,” she said, peering at a computer screen, tapping her chin with the end of a biro, “there’s a thirteen meter berth that’s up for sale. The market’s pretty slow this time of year. I’ll give the owner a quick ring. He might want to make some cash while he’s waiting for a buyer.”

At first slightly taken aback by this show of kindness, on second thoughts Watson realised it was just the Beck Effect at work, the transformative power of the little blonde’s aura. The woman clip-clopped in her smart high-heels back to her desk and picked up the phone, then after a few minutes’ conversation returned. “Hundred a week sound fair?” she asked, “Plus shore power?”

Fair? It was an absolute steal. “That would be awesome.” Watson replied. “What if he gets a buyer?”

“That’s no problem, we can always shuffle her around. What do you say?”

“I say that’s extremely kind of you. Thank you.”

“No worries,” the woman waved his gratitude away, “that’s what yachties do.”

“Are you a yachtie?” Beck asked.

“Used to be.” the woman replied matter-of-factly. “I’ve done three circumnavigations, two of them solo. Broke my back on the last one, and that was the end of my sailing.”

“Like..” Beck mimed the act of breaking a stick in two.

The woman laughed. “Not quite. I broke the neural spines on three of the lumbar vertebrae. Got clobbered by a wave and fell backwards onto a winch. Couldn’t even climb down the companionway after it happened. Spent two weeks in the cockpit, steering my boat by autopilot, living on rainwater and the raft’s emergency rations.”

“Why didn’t you call someone?” Beck asked.

“Couldn’t reach the radio,” the woman replied, “it was downstairs. It was all I could do to just pull myself round in the cockpit.”

“EPIRB?”

“I would have lost my yacht.” the woman smiled.

As Watson looked at her, the staid-looking woman turned gradually transparent until all he could see was the brave, broken, indomitable young adventuress inside her, all alone in agony on an vast, empty sea.

“Wow,” Beck breathed, “so what happened?”

“I managed to make it into the Strait of Gibraltar. Let her run aground on a beach. It’s funny,” she mused, staring into space, “I used to think of places like that as being a bit of a backwater, but the locals couldn’t do enough for me. And the surgeon who did my back. My god, he was a saint.”

“Where can I buy the book?” Watson asked.

“Bah!” the woman said dismissively, “who’d read it?”

“We would!” Beck replied flatly. “You’re amazing.”

“Oh, go on.” the woman blushed. “It’s no big deal.”

“No,” Watson persisted, “she’s right. You are amazing. People like you will be the salvation of humanity.”

The woman screwed up her face and looked at Beck. “Is he always like this?”

“I agree with him.” Beck replied earnestly, “Totally.”

“Okay,” the woman said, abruptly done with the past, “what’s the name of your boat?”

“Aurora.”

“Aurora?” the woman frowned. “Are you Captain Watson by any chance?”

Watson blinked in shock as his knees went weak and sweat sprang from his brow. Looking sideways without turning his head, he searched desperately for the nearest escape route. They’d have to abandon the boat, of course, but if they could hide out till nightfall, there was always a chance they might make it through the cordon and disappear into the hills.

“Aurora...” the woman said under her breath, rummaging around under the counter.

“She’s the goddess of the dawn.” Beck blithely explained, blissfully unaware of the old man’s alarm.

“Really?” the woman replied, still head-down, “Did they name her after you?”

Watson craned his neck trying to see what was coming. Arrest warrant? Wanted poster? Another gun?

“AH!” the woman exclaimed, “Here it is.” Straightening, she handed Watson a plain white envelope. He took it in his shaking hands and turned it over. The hand-written address read, ‘Captain D Watson, SV ‘Aurora’, C/O Mackay Marina.’

Watson had the urge to swab the sweat from his brow but didn’t want to betray his terror. Who the hell could have known he would turn up at this place? Turning away, he ripped off the end the envelope and shook out the perfumed contents. It was a colour photocopy, of a letter, handwritten in purple ink. Watson’s eyes raced over the document trying to fathom its author, and as its identity emerged he almost swooned.

Rendered in flowing cursive, the letter read;

‘Captain, my Captain,

You never ring, you never write, and you don’t reply to your emails. Not surprising I suppose, there can’t be too many towers out there, but it would still be nice to hear from you once in a while. Even just a quick g’day would be welcome.

First of all I want to thank you and that gorgeous girl of yours for a life-changing few days. And I really do mean life-changing, though just how much our lives have changed is probably best discussed over a bottle of Veuve.

The fact that I’m even handwriting this is proof of that change. I have rediscovered so many little treasures in life, like hand-written letters, and other things that seem to have been swept into oblivion by the rush, rush, rush of ‘modern’ life. I’ll have you know I have sent copies of this letter to every marina from Brisbane to the top of Cape York, and it was no mean feat, let me tell you. Still, I figure at least one of them will find you some day, somewhere, so I look at it as my own personal quest.

So if you’re reading this you’re back on land. I’m pretty sure you will be in a hurry to get back on the water where you belong, but if you can spare us even a few days we would love to have you come visit. There’s no obligation either way, but it would be lovely to catch up and talk over (or maybe even relive, hint, hint) old times. As added incentive I have a little surprise for you, but you will have to come down to find out what it is. Yes, this is blackmail, written in purple ink on white paper. Just ring me when you get this and I’ll look after the rest. I know you wouldn’t offend me by arguing about who pays for what, because after the gift you two gave us money is completely irrelevant.

But please come, my Dear Damon. Our adventure seems so long ago, sometimes it hardly feels real, and I would give anything to relive even a minute.

With gushes of love and hugs and other steamy bits.

To both of you.

My home and mobile numbers below.

Waiting with baited breath for your call.

Love and kisses,

Tan.’

The woman and Beck wandered over to a rack of merchandise while Watson was reading. Selecting a colourful, floral-pattered bikini, the woman pulled it off the rack and turned it over. “Well would you look at that!” she tutted, tugging at a microscopic thread, “This thing is damaged.”

Beck stared at the bikini, almost salivating. She shook her head. “No it’s not.”

“No, it is. Look. I can’t be selling this at full price, not if it’s damaged. What do you reckon it’s worth? Ten dollars?”

“Ten dollars?” Beck scampered back to Watson and rounded on him, hands clasped. “Damon can I? It’s only ten bucks and it’s sooooo beautiful.”

Watson looked sideways at the smiling woman. Ten dollars, down from one hundred. It would be churlish to decline. “That really is very kind of you,” he said, pulling a bill from his battered wallet, “really it is.”

“It’s my pleasure. Honestly. Why don’t you get your boat sorted and we’ll work out a time for getting her slipped. And you might want to take your little Dawn Goddess into town. There’s a community swimming pool next to the river. It’s free. She can test-drive her new bikini.”

Watson held out his hand on impulse and they shook. While the confrontation with Fowler had left him badly rattled, Watson was reminded, yet again, that there were far more good people in the world than bad.

The reason he hadn’t answered his mobile phone was because it never rang. The reason it never rang was because he hadn’t paid a bill in almost a year. Inconvenient at first, he was starting to enjoy the silence, but the downside of this ubiquitous mobile technology was that public payphones were almost extinct. It wasn’t until he deduced the most likely location and made for the nearest pub that he eventually found one. While Beck waited outside, minutely examining her new bikini, he swiped his credit card and punched in Tanya’s number.

Nobody makes a call expecting it not to be answered. As the dial tone cycles, they rehearse their opening lines, undertaking a virtual conversation with the intended respondent. Watson’s hopes crashed as the mobile finally rang out and went to voice mail. Hanging up, he turned to leave then on second thoughts ripped his card again and tried her landline. It seemed such a quaint idea- he had never bothered with a landline himself- but if there was even a tiny chance of hooking up with Tanya, it was worth a shot. Fully prepared for another fruitless attempt, he was startled when the phone was answered almost immediately.

“Hello?”

“Tanya?”

“Oh my god! Damon? Is that you?”

“Hi, Gorgeous.”

“Damon,” Tanya squealed in girlish delight, “you rang!”

“Didn’t want you sending the boys after me.”

“I don’t believe it,” she cried breathlessly, “I’ve been waiting forever. How are you, you beautiful man?”

“Well apart from the heart attack you just gave me, I’m fine.”

“Heart attack? What do you mean?”

“I’ll explain later. Listen, you didn’t send one of those letters to Cape Encounter by any chance?”

“Hang on,” Tanya replied, “I can check if you like. What’s up?”

“Bit of trouble with the natives. How are you, anyway?”

“Bloody fantastic, Damo. Sorry about the letter, it was the only way I could think of getting in touch.”

“Yeah, my bad. My phone’s out of credit.”

Watson could hear her busily tapping away at a keyboard. “You really use credit?”

“Naah, I just haven’t paid the bill.”

“Here we are,” Tanya said, heavy breathing down the line, “now just let me look at my list. Cape Endeavour, you say?”

“Encounter.”

“Encounter, sorry... N... no, I must have missed that one.”

“Outstanding, thanks.”

“How come?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.”

“Where are you?”

“Right now? We’re in Mackay. Literally just lobbed in. The lady at the marina just gave me your letter.”

“How’s my little angel?”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

“Idiot. I mean Beck.”

“Beck? Beck? Beck...? Oh, you mean Beck! Ran low on provisions, I’m afraid. Had to eat her.”

“I bet you did!” Tanya said dryly. “How is she? Is she happy? Has she had any cool adventures?”

“A couple, now you mention it. Though I wouldn’t exactly call them cool.”

“What happened?”

“Girl overboard, attempted rape.”

Tanya drew a sharp breath. “Seriously?”

“ ‘Fraid so.”

“Oh, no, Damo. Is she okay?”

“The woman at the marina just gave her a ninety dollar discount on a brand new bikini. She’s not okay, she’s flippin’ excellent.”

“But the rape? Do you mean ‘rape’ literally, or figuratively?”

“The first one.”

“What happened?”

“Not over the phone, Tan. I’ll tell you later.”

“Of course,” Tanya replied, “you’re right. How long are you guys going to be there?”

“Mackay? Three or four months, probably.”

“Months? Did you say months?”

“Cyclone season, I have no choice. If we get too bored we might make a run for it, but Aurora needs some work and I need to make some dough.”

“Well, gee, if you’re going to be stranded for that long... really, you should come visit.”

“We-ell,” Watson hedged, “I’ve got a fair bit on my plate at the moment, getting her slipped, doing repairs. It might be a bit of a squeeze.”

“Now then, Damo,” Tanya warned, “don’t go getting all Greta Garbo on my ass.”

“Greta who?”

“Garbo. You know, the actress. ‘I vant to be alone’. Come on, come for a visit. You have to.”

“Well I’ll certainly do my best.” Watson hedged. “How’s Rodge by the way?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you.” Tanya replied, and alarm bells rang in Watson’s head. The thought crossed his mind that she might have gone and gotten herself a divorce, and was about to offer herself up as a new shipmate. As much as he enjoyed fucking her, loved it in fact, a forty-five footer was no place for a rich, wilful woman with no understanding of sailing’s harsh realities- the cold, the wet, the confinement, stormy seas, the night time watch, lousy food and two minute showers. A female of formidable extrasensory means, Tanya picked up on his vibes and clicked her tongue. “Tsk! It’s nothing bad, you drama queen. And no, I’m not trying to hijack you. It’s just that I would so love to see you again. And just to make it worth your while I’ve got you a little surprise.”

“Surprise? What sort of surprise? I love surprises. Pleasant ones, anyway.”

“Well, there’s a couple, actually. No, three, and I bet you a week of rampant sex you’ll find them all exceptionally pleasant.”

“Three?”

“Well, it is almost Christmas.”

“What are they?”

“Well that’s the catch. You have to come down to find out.”

“There’s always a catch.” Watson sighed.

“It’ll be worth it, I promise. When can you come? Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? Geez.”

“No, no,” Tanya hastened, “you’re right, I’m being too pushy.”

“It’s not that,” Watson hedged, glancing outside to make sure Beck was still where he’d parked her, “It’s gonna take a couple of days to square everything away.”

“The boat?”

“Flippin’ admin. The stuff that’s always waiting when you get back on shore.”

“What day is it?”