Orca

A week with our college friends Brian and Joyce was always fun, no matter where, a time to catch up on our doings and compare notes on classmates. Our annual double date, as Joyce called it. Our half-price date, according to the guys, as we'd split a rental.

In Bermuda, we'd set off for a restored mansion and ended up downing free rum at a sales pitch. Todd and Joyce would take off at the crack of dawn to find shells, and Brian and I, still in our PJs, would meet in the kitchen at a more reasonable hour and sip coffee until the beachcombers returned.

I'd at first felt a little awkward that at night, we'd hear the other two, and probably them, us, but it wasn't like we mentioned it.

This year: Orcas Island. I'd thought it being in the San Juans, Strait of Juan de Fuca, we'd chosen another place in the West Indies or maybe the Caribbean, but they'd said that this would be just as great, the State of Washington just being a bit cooler.

Todd and Joyce wanted to stand at the ferry prow to look for whales. Brian and I headed for the galley, Washington being the home of Starbucks. In a galley, you sit where you find space, and for us, it was across from a couple from Salt Lake. Friendly folks who apparently missed that our wedding bands didn't match, as "The San Juans are for lovers," they told us, big smiles, quoting a poster next to the ferry schedule. "Too cold to swim. Got to stay warm, though." Mormons have lots of kids.

That was fine with me -- not swimming, I mean -- as I needed to lose a few pounds. As for the "for lovers," I thought that was Virginia, but I smiled to be social.

Brian's knee was against mine as we chatted, galley tables being small, memories of Bermuda, actually. The four of us had gone dancing, a double date, so to speak. Todd and Joyce were into reggae; Brian and myself, more into watching, and he'd scooted my direction to hear.

Chatting with the Salt Lakers, I'd twisted against him to get my guidebook and he'd not batted an eye at my arm on his. It's fun to let other vacationers think you're an item.

When the others joined us-- they'd seen seals, no whales -- I introduced our spouses by their first names and got us away before the Salt Lakers noticed whose rings matched whose.

Our rental was perfect! Rustic with all the conveniences. We flipped for the rooms; they got the ocean view and we got the closet. Joyce sat on her bed and it creaked. Ours squeaked. On the wall was a wood-burned plaque saying what the couple on the ferry told us.

Joyce and I changed into sweaters -- she'd shed her bra, so same for me.-- and checked out the kitchen. The guys parked our bags by the doorway and worked on which remote remoted what. Boys and their toys. Girls and our is-there-large-skillet?

We'd finish settling in later,, there still being time before dark for a walk down to the beach.

We were in a line, Todd, Joyce, me, then Brian, but for the steep part, we took the closest arm, paired as the Salt Lake couple would have expected to find us. Were the footing shurer, I'd not have held on so tightly.

At the water's edge, it was Todd, me, Brian and Joyce, four holding hands against Juan de Fuca.

Joyce warned us about the killer whales. Just because they'd seen none from the ferry didn't mean they're not out there. I didn't correct her that they're Orca -- dolphins, actually -- but they do kill seals, maybe why their name, but didn't want to sound like a science teacher.

Joyce pointed seaward. "Those chirps! Probably their mating season."

it sounded to me more like gulls. Orca mate all year long with multiple partners.

Joyce moved herself to Todd's other side to see better, and his letting go of my hand left me just holding Brian's.

Then the other two disappeared. To put on something warmer?

When Brian pulled me his way, it was also to stay warm. That or there might be a sneaker wave. When a gust caught me off+guard, he moved behind to steady my shoulders.

"Not like Bermuda," he reflected. "Nobody else here," his hold dropping to my waist and then under my sweater and up to my ribs.

In Bermuda, Joyce and I had once sunbathed topless on our balcony,the guys aware, just not seeing. To be safe, though, we didn't stand up. Todd said we'd be arrested, but was just kidding. Brian said they'd come out to bring us margaritas, which I thought to be kidding, until Joyce said great. and I had to say, thanks, but no thanks, we had our water bottles.

The others joked about going skinny-dipping that night until I reminded them of the police.

But this was the San Juans. "Just us and the hungry whales," I agreed.

"The mating ones," he added, his hands going around.

"They're just seagulls," adjusting my headband, my nipples hard.

I mentioned seeing a shelf of CDs in our place. "Maybe one's reggae," backing against him as massaged.

"Like that double date," taking his time.

A passerby might have thought that we shouldn't stand as we were in public, but were it the Salt Lakers, they'd think us married and smile at each other that they'd told us so.

Beginning to feel somewhat visceral about our situation, myself, -- a girl's body can react in a way her mind would prefer not -- I suggested heading back and the guys test out the fireplace.

He'd touched my breasts twice in Bermuda, actually, once through my PJs, and once through my blouse.

The PJ time was when we'd been waiting the return of the beach. We'd been laughing about something and ended up with me on his lap. He had to have known that I was letting him hold me like he was, his hands around my front. He'd had to have known that I could feel his erection under me. I'd remained there until we heard the others.

The other time, the four of us had gone out to dance and when the music slowed -- no reggae for Brian and me, thank you -- he'd gotten me on the floor, and we danced like the locals -- though maybe they were mostly tourists -- our handhold tipped back against my blouse, his Bermudas -- that being where they invented them, I suppose -- interlocking my capris, his erection against my thigh. Maybe we shouldn't have danced like that, but so were the other two, all of us having fun.

Joyce and Brian had been so noisy later that night.

Here on the beach, his steadying me from behind, myn jeans backed into the front of his Having a little fun, nothing more. Maybe both of us having a little fun. We shouldn't, however, do it that often.

Had we this year again co-vacationed at a place like Bermuda, though, a moonlit night, reggae wafting from up the beach, might have found Brian and me lying on soft sand under a palm. Or maybe in the back of a carriage, our driver knowing to not look backward, the stuff of novels How many children are conceived on West Indies co-vacations not by couples who jointly cleared customs?

Not here on Orcas Island, though. Too windy and too rocky. The moss may look soft, but it's wet. You can't slip away at a dance because there are no dances. As.rental occupancy is 100 percent, those wishing afternoon accommodations wouldn't find a free room. You can't do much on a whale-watch except look for whales.

Orcas is about as non-risky for spontaneity as a place can be, probably why folks from Salt Lake City come here. As long as the four of us don't make a habit of vacationing in places like Bermuda, Todd and Joyce have no need to worry about Buian's and my little silliness, even to know about it. The San Juans may be for lovers, but married ones, not the sort of islands where things can get ahead of you.

But back to the immediate. "They might come back."

"They can see the water from where they are," Brian assisted mr.

Why I'd allowed him under my sweater I wasn't sure, but his being there made me feel warmer.

This is so crazy, though. Maybe we'd fooled around a little on Bermuda, but that place asked for it. This place is more rustic.

Were the Salt Lakers to pass by, though, they'd smile at each other and hurry past.

When we return to our rental, just Brian's and my bags are by the doorway. And when we'd entered further, There must be a nest of raccoons or something -- I hoped not packrats -- under this place, those squeaking sounds.

In my room there are no bags whatsoever, and the squeaking seems to be as if it's coming through the wall.

Only when Brian follows me, both bags in hand, do I understand.

It's only after our squeaking vs. their creaking do I remember what the Salt Lakers told us.

We don't see the Salt Lakers until the ferry back to the mainland, the two of them boarding with another couple, but they don't see us. The husbands sport BYU sweatshirts.

Brian and I and in the galley sipping coffee when in comes Mr. Salt Lake holding the other woman's hand, but spotting us, he drops it and tries to turn as though he's forgotten something. But as she's already through the entrance, he's trapped and introduces her as half of the couple they meet up with every year.

Brian and I, we're as he'd expect to see us, nothing suspicious. But them?. Like I'm fooled in the slightest? How was their stay, I ask

"Great," he answers, looking to escape.

His companion looks at our rings and smiles at me, girl to girl. "The four of you, all classmates, too?"