The Heart of the Sea

"Um, why not?"

"The filthy Italianos," he buttoned his fly, "Too much bunga bunga," he mimed groping his chest like they were bobbling boobies, "And not enough takin' care of their environment."

She laughed and cupped her own breasts, "What's bunga bunga?"

His tongue was tripped momentarily by her jiggling boobs, "I, er, guess European politics don't make your news much. You'll have to look it up on your smart phone thingy."

It took them until late afternoon to dispel their lethargic hangovers but Betsy was feeling bright and sprightly when they stepped down on to the jetty in the colourful, busy marina. She was amazed that every town was just as pretty as the last, "Everywhere here is like a postcard or a movie scene!"

He nodded, "It's one of my favouritest places on Earth," he pulled out a wad of notes and gave her some, "Maybe look for a nice dress for tonight? Somethin' conservative. The place we're goin' is old-fashioned, up in the hills. I wanted you to get a real taste of Corsica before we left."

"Wasn't the dress last night conservative?"

"Last night's was a firecracker! I'm gunna speak to a marine mechanic about the throttle."

"That's the push-me-pull-you dooflip in the cockpit, right?"

He rolled his eyes and walked away. She laughed. When they met up again he was leaning on a dock pillar chatting with a grubby looking man. Twilight had bathed the ancient town in orange. As she approached, the stranger barked out a joke and her grandfather punched his arm, laughing. The man walked off, chortling out cigarette smoke.

She asked, "Was he making fun of me?"

"Nah, girl, he was makin' fun of me! You look fantastic by the way, very pretty."

She swished the hem of her new, floral patterned, ankle- length dress, "It is lovely, isn't it? But what was he saying?"

"He asked why would a beautiful young lady have any interest in an ugly, broken-down wretch like me."

"You're not ugly. You're a very handsome broken-down wretch."

He laughed, "Thanks!"

"Did you tell him I'm your granddaughter?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"'Cause it's none of his business."

A small truck puttered and coughed to a halt and two men got out and embraced her grandfather. They set about retrieving the boxes stored in the boat's hold and tying them down in the back of the truck. She had helped carry a box of cigarette cartons, "I guess this makes me an accomplice, huh?"

"I'll make a sea-rover out of you yet, girl."

One of the men climbed in the back to look after the load while Betsy and her grandfather got in the cab with the driver. They trundled uphill, past the ruins of an aged castle and then out into the country. The sun-ruptured roads were extremely bumpy and Betsy regretted not wearing a bra; the dress was a little large and didn't quite restrain her bosom so every jarring rut almost had her popping out over the top. Her grandfather carefully walked a tightrope between pretending not to notice while secretly wishing for a tantalising full exposure, 'God, make the next bump a big one!'

Night had descended when the truck pulled into the courtyard of a rustic inn. They jumped down from the cab just as a large elderly man strode out and there was much back-slapping and cheek-kissing. Her grandfather introduced this friend as Salvadore and the old man still had strength enough to crush Betsy in a suffocating bear-hug. They were led through the inn to an open-air restaurant. Families were sat around eating copious amounts at candle-lit wooden tables.

Once again, Betsy marvelled at how much in love she could fall with a place. They were settled and plates of bread rolls with leafy salad were placed before them. A jug of olive oil and a jug of red wine were placed on the table by Salvadore. He yelled some words mentioning Julien and the kitchen door swung open to reveal a tiny bustling dynamo, a grey-haired rotund woman in a jet-black dress. She came rushing over then stopped dead. She put her hands on her hips, screwed up her face in a snarl of distaste then began aggressively haranguing what was obviously her husband.

Salvedore responded with some choice words of his own then they escalated into a vicious screaming match. Betsy was stunned. Her grandfather was chuckling. He burst out laughing when the woman took their plates and smashed them on the floor.

"What the hell?" Betsy asked, astonished.

Her grandfather was laughing too hard to answer. She kicked him under the table, "What the fuck is happening?"

He wiped his eyes, "She called me a disgraceful old pervert, that I must have kidnapped and drugged you. She is callin' me a sex trafficker and a child abductor. Salvadore told her to keep her nose out of what's not her concern. Then she said, of course that's what he'd say because he's as big a pervert as I am, that he ogles every young woman that comes in. Given the chance, he's sayin', he'd rather be-"

"Tell her, Grandpa. Tell them!"

"I can't, I'm enjoyin' it too much."

Betsy's face was red and etched with genuine worry. She kicked him again, "Tell them!"

He rubbed his shin and saw how upset she was. He stood up, grappled the frantic grandma in his arms and shushed her, talking to her and kissing her cheek. Betsy watched her small, wrinkled face mutate from murderous anger to dawning realisation. Her grandfather's Corsican was creaky and slow compared to theirs but he evidently got the point across because the mad woman flung him away from her and clasped Betsy to her ample bosom, "Scusa, scusa scusa! Scusate, ragazza mia, scusate! Scusa!"

The restaurant owners continued slinging insults at each other all the way back into the kitchen. Smashes and crashes could be heard above the yelling. The diners all shared a mutual laugh then returned to their meals.

"Why are they still arguing?"

Her grandfather hadn't stopped chuckling, "Now she's blamin' him for not tellin' her and he's yellin' that how could he have known!"

"Is this normal? For them?"

"For the last forty years, yeah. You know? When two people are fated to be together, the whole universe can disagree but it won't fuckin' matter. S'just gunna happen. Ain't no way around it."

Betsy lowered her voice, "But why did you all keep mentioning nipples?"

He frowned for a moment then laughed, "Nipote, granddaughter. Nipote," he pointed to her, "Babbone," he pointed to himself.

"Babbone," she repeated, "Ya big baboon, you!"

They laughed together. It was three in the morning by the time they left the inn, strolling arm-in-arm down the road towards a taxi driver's house around the corner.

"I loved the food," she said, "But I hated the conflict."

"She wouldn't let me pay," he laughed at the memory, "I'll get free meals there for a while. She was so sorry for what she called us."

"Us? What did she call me?"

"I don't think I should say."

"I want to know."

He coughed, "Well, before she accused me of abductin' you, she said I must've lied and told you I had lots of money and that you were a gold-diggin' donkey-suckin' whore."

She was amused but also mortally insulted, "All the places we've been going to... you haven't told them you're my babbone, have you?"

He shrugged.

She asked, "Why not? What must they think of me? They all think I'm a fucking donkey-sucker!"

He laughed but her seriousness surprised him, "Why didn't you tell them?"

He shrugged again, "A thousand reasons."

She stopped walking, "Such as?"

"Come on, or Pasquale the cab-driver will go to bed and we'll have to walk back."

Her hands were on her hips, imitating the stance of the little, old, mad lady, "Such as??"

He relented, "To protect you."

"From?"

"You've seen the lounge lotharios lurkin' about the bars we go to. If they thought that you weren't, you know, attached to me they'd be all over you like a fuckin' rash."

"Okay. I have seen them, that sounds valid."

He took her arm and they resumed walking, "Plus, I like the kudos of bein' associated with an attractive, charismatic young woman."

"You mean you want to impress your friends?"

"It's more the ladies I want to impress."

"How?"

"I thought it might get me some dates. They see me with you and think, well, he must be one hell of a guy! If his roguish charm can ensnare such a wondrous creature-"

"I didn't think you wanted a relationship."

"I didn't. I was quite happy, just me and my boat. But... havin' you here, has shown me how it could be."

He stopped and touched her face gently, "I'm goin' to miss you terribly when you go."

"Wait, what's the date?"

"Eighteenth."

Her eyes were downcast, "Three more days."

He nodded. She looked up, tears were almost forming, "I don't want to go!"

"Then stay," he took her hand and pushed up the sleeve of her dress, displaying her comically bad tattoo of a flaming skull, "See this?"

"I was sixteen," she protested, "I thought it looked cool."

"The sixteen year-old you was right, it is cool. But do you know what it is?"

"It's a skull?"

"It's a memento mori. A reminder. You only have one path to the grave. You get one ride. You can't double-back and try again. This is it, now, this is your life, right now. And you only get one. There is no other time."

She took back her arm and pulled down her sleeve, "I can't just abandon everything and leave to bask in the sunshine with my feet up!"

"Why not? I did."

"But I'm not you."

He put his arms around her, "You and I, we are one. Can't you feel it?"

She couldn't sleep again that night. The powerful caffeine punch of Corsican coffee and her troubled mental state refused to let her switch off. An idea dawned and she pulled on a tee-shirt and crept out of her room to listen at the other bedroom door. The boat hardly moved in the still waters of the marina. She could hear the occasional slap of tide against the hull. Through the door, there was a rhythmical slapping and, again, her grandfather's low voice, "You fuckin' horny slut, fuckin' take it, take it hard in your tight dirty cunt, Betsy, you sexy little bitch-"

Her name made her gasp and her world dropped away from under her feet. When her spirit returned to the physical plane, she discovered some unknown reflex had pushed two of her fingers up inside herself and were circling to the rhythms of her grandfather's strokes. She eavesdropped on his... 'Wrong, wrong, wrong, it's all so wrong! This is so depraved. This is, this is so good! Why does it feel so fucking good!?'

A ten tonne weight had fallen through her then wedged at her crotch; the only way to dislodge the feeling, to relieve the pressure, was to increase her fingering. She added a third finger and sloshed and frigged her soaked slit in time with her grandfather's despicable wanking. Through the thin wood panels of the door that divided them, they were joined by an ethereal bond of manic, forbidden lust. They built up simultaneously to a growing climax and when he peaked with animalistic grunts, the untameable forces of her own searing orgasms shook through her entire frame and her thighs became jelly and she bit on her tongue to keep from crying out. Her nipples hardened to points of excruciating pleasure. Her juices drooled warm and gooey down her legs.

She was back on her bed, her grandfather's bed really, but she didn't know how she'd got there. Thoughts were blanking. There were butterflies in her stomach. She was boiling. She removed her tee-shirt and lay back. She opened her thighs wide and danced two fingers in her deliciously wet, messy pussy, enjoying the ripples of post-orgasmic pleasure. She frigged, fantasising. Her grandfather was on top of her. His thick heavy cock was probing, seeking, screwing. Her hands on her breasts were his hands, his rough touch. Her lips were kissing his as he thrust in and out in strong, powerful, muscular moves; unrelenting, merciless, driving on and on until more thrilling climaxes threatened to overwhelm her. She found it hard to catch her breath.

She wanted to stop, she wanted never to stop. She was disgusted, she was inflamed. She wanted to come and she wanted to feel this way forever. Her internal music built until it became unbearable. Her fingers flashed and dove and screwed down. Her thighs trembled. Her toes curled, her muscles tensed. She cried out and thrashed around in the sweaty sheets as orgasm claimed her once again.

*******

Betsy was freaked. No other word could describe how messed up she felt. She was falling for her grandfather, the father of her mother, of her aunts and uncles, the husband of Gran. One moment she was telling herself that it was merely a fleeting crush but then another part of her unconscious argued that the feelings ran deep and true. All morning, debates had rung through her head like a courtroom drama but the incontrovertible evidence remained that imaginary sex with the ancient mariner was ten times better than sex had ever been with a real, physical man. She was ashamed and felt betrayed by her own body, a slave to twisted emotions, and further twisting the knife of hellish torment was the knowledge that her phantom lover wanted her too.

Julien had rationalised his sordid sex dreams by telling himself that it was utterly harmless. She would never know. He'd never do or say anything or act in any way different just because he had these persistent perverted visions of penetration. Not only would he never give a moment's thought to acting upon his desires, he knew that even if there wasn't the familial taboo barrier between them, a voluptuous woman in the prime of her sensual youth would never in a month of sundays be attracted to a sun-wrinkled relic such as he.

This was the nub of Betsy's problem. It would only take the opening of that door to make it all real, to make it all happen. She was certain if she gave the green light, that Julien would leap at the chance. Wouldn't he?

She chose to dress in what was hopefully an unprovocative pair of baggy jeans and one of her grandfather's shirts, knotted at the waist. She cursed the way she'd been sauntering around the lonely old bloke, virtually naked, displaying all her god-given curves to drive him wild. Had she known? Had she always known the effect it would have on a lonesome sailor? She wasn't so vain as to believe that just any red-blooded male would automatically have the hots for her but she had a thousand interrogations for her self-esteem. She shoved them to the back of her mind and tried to get through the day without remembering the violently pleasurable pulsing in her pussy and her desperate desire to stay in bed, fingering to thoughts of the charming old bastard's thick cock sliding inside her, 'Stop it! Stop-it-Stop-it-Stop-it!!!'

Her grandfather tasked her to take the wheel, freeing him to trim the sails to take best advantage of the strong winds and she distracted herself by getting a feel for the union of the wheel and the rudder. The boat sailed swiftly and she was pleased with how she could control its curving progress across the ocean's surface.

She couldn't look her grandfather in the eye, though, and she seemed sulkily unresponsive to his good-natured quips. He interpreted this morose mood to mean that she had been offended by his behaviour. During their lunch-break of doorstep sandwiches and beer, he decided to address the weird atmosphere. He sat across from her while she picked at the poorly made sandwich, wondering how best to repair the damage he'd caused. She noticed his serious expression and she wondered how soft his pouting lips would feel if she were to kiss him, 'Stop it! Christonabike, Stop it!'

"You're upset with me," he said, "For bein' deceptive, for not tellin' people you're my granddaughter. I think you've lost some trust for me."

"Oh, I don't mind if all your friends think I'm a donkey-sucking whore."

"You're never gunna let that go, are you?"

"Never."

'Get your shit together, Elizabeth! Don't let your manky mood ruin what's left of your time together. It's been so lovely here, don't ruin it now. He looks so sad, it's not his fault!'

She got up and sat down next to him on the gunwale, resting her head upon his shoulder, "I just have the end-of-holiday blues."

He nodded.

She said, "Tell me about the people whose party we're going to."

"Giuditta and Tommaso?"

She laughed, "They sound like a pasta dish!"

He was glad she had cheered up, "When we first vacationed in Italy, we met them one night and Guiditta and your grandma really hit it off. Guidi and Caity were inseparable. Me and Tommaso would go off carousin'. All our kids were of the same age and all played together. They invited us to stay at their holiday home in Termoli. You wait till you see it, it's somethin' else."

After their break they were soon being blown along at an incredible speed. He returned to the helm occasionally to check the readings on the navigation panel. He patted her shoulder, assuring her she was an able seaman, "We came back to Termoli quite a few times over the years. Your mother had a bit of a holiday romance with their eldest boy, Livio."

"Really!?"

"They must have been twelve, thirteen. He's always askin' about her still. I see 'em about four or five times a year. This is their sixty-sixth anniversary, can you believe it?"

"I believe it. I believe in true love."

He pulled her hands away from the wheel and danced with her, his arms around her, while crooning one of the Corsican lady's more peppy tunes, "Amore veru, l'amore veru durerà, durerà per sempre."

She giggled. He sang, "L'amore mi pare, ùn morerà mai, l'amore più veru. Mai, mai mori, amore meiu!"

"My love will never die?"

"That's right, kid. I'm a believer too."

He let her return to steering duties and she hummed the tune happily. From the stern end of the boat, he took the sly opportunity to be an audience for her jiggling bottom as she waggled to the rhythm of the song. Mentally he undressed her out of today's outfit and her tanned shapeliness was once more exhibited freely. He watched her, imagining the nakedness, relishing the inviting jiggle and he sighed at his own weakness. Then a darkening on the horizon caught his attention. He stood, looking out to sea in the direction of the growing grey gloom. He returned to the helm and began rootling around in a cupboard under the wheel. Betsy had to step out of his way as he emerged with a long black box that had a small window at one end.

"Grandpa?"

"We're well into September. I was hopin' but..."

He hunted out a power cable and connected the black box to a socket. The window warmed into life. He began carefully turning various knobs on the black box. The window showed green concentric circles. More knob-twiddling brought small green blinking dots to the screen.

She said, "Are you going to tell me what's happening?"

The small green dots turned into larger green splodges with yellow at their centres. Then the screen filled with colours.

"Shit," he said.

"Grandpa! What's going on?"

"Storm."

"Storm like a storm storm or..."

He watched the splodges of colours move across the small window. He said, "Storm like a hurricane."

"Oh shit oh-shit-oh-shit. Should I be scared?"

He picked up a small radio and switched on its crackle, "Worried maybe, not scared."

"Are you worried?"

He twisted a dial until the electric noise fuzzed into a voice speaking super-fast Italian, "Normally I'd just be excited. It's all part of the fun. But you know, normally it's just me. It wouldn't matter if it was just me."

"What fucking stupid thing to say! Of course it would matter."

"Calm down, girl, I'm tryin' to listen."

He extended the radio's aerial and the distorted voice became clearer. He stepped away, holding the radio to his ear while looking out at the beclouded horizon. Betsy chewed on her lip but before sheer panic could set up home in her mind he was standing behind her, his hands upon hers on the wheel.