The Heart of the Sea

"I need you to keep steerin' so I can pack her away tight. Okay?"

"Yes."

The solidity of his body behind her lent her some reassurance, "If you can turn ever so slightly so that every couple of minutes that needle," he tapped one of the round, glass dials, "Moves one degree forward. You see? Like that?"

"I see."

"I see, skipper."

"Don't fuck around now, Julien, this is not the fucking time!"

"Hey."

She looked up, her large eyes displaying acute apprehension. He leaned close, their noses nuzzled softly then he kissed her forehead.

"We're gunna skirt around the worst of it. It's goin' to get choppy, so keep a tight hold."

He gunned the engine and the rumbling power of the motor was also reassuring. He pushed the throttle up high and the boat accelerated with a loud purr.

She shouted, "You told me never to push it up that far!"

"S'okay, shipmate," he tapped a dial next to the wheel, "She can take it. We have the fuel and we gotta outrun the bastard. Full speed ahead, Chief Helmsman Betsy!"

"Fuck off."

"Aye aye is the traditional response but that'll do!"

He laughed and, despite the boat's now heaving, bouncing state, he strode around as sure-footed as ever, drawing down the sails and securing the masts and all loose objects. It began to rain and Betsy was finding it difficult to keep her wet hands on the wheel. The sea seemed to tear the steering away from her and her muscles were aching from having to constantly wrestle back control. Thankfully, her grandfather appeared, soaking wet and wind-swept, and prised her clamped fingers from the wheel.

He stepped into her position, "I think it's time you went below," he yelled above the sounds of the engine, the winds and the tumbling waves, "Confined to quarters, okay? Until I come get you. Safer for you there."

A spume of salt foam washed over the prow and they both spat out and wiped their eyes. Her grandfather whooped with joy but that was all the persuading she needed. She tottered down the slippery steps, closing the door behind her. In the bedroom she stripped, washed, slipped into a tee-shirt and sweatpants then sat on the bed trying not to feel queasy as her world tipped and tilted at alarming angles. Things were crashing out of cupboards. She could hear chaotic clangs and clinks coming from the kitchen.

After a couple of hours of this, concern had become fear which had become a frenzy of imagined disaster. She had to see what was happening. The steps leading out of the hold were still wet, the weather-proof door failing to hold back the deluge, 'But I have to see! He could be in trouble! Anything could be happening out there!'

She walked up the steps and pushed open the door. She was drenched instantly, as though under a power-shower set to stun. She gasped, spluttered, took a breath and then climbed out enough to see her grandfather still at the wheel. Above the noise of the storm her ears caught snatches of his whooping, hollering and swearing. Her bare foot slipped and she crunched back down the steps like a slinky, each bump viciously connecting with her spine and the back of her head.

In the bedroom, she stripped again and dried then put on another tee-shirt. The fall had dazed her but at least she confirmed that Julien was still alive and heartily, gleefully battling the elements. Lying on the bed, feeling bruised and shaken, she eventually surrendered to sleep's calming oblivion.

She awoke to pitch darkness but at least the horizontal plane had stopped spinning. It was eerily quiet. Was she dead? Was the boat sitting at the bottom of the ocean? Was she in nautical heaven or hell? Was she a sea ghost? Who would she haunt? Imaginative confusion crowded her hysterical brain. She cried out, "Grandpa! Grandpa!"

There was a rustle of activity down the short hallway, running steps and then the door was open and her grandfather switched on the light. She suddenly felt very young and silly.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Sorry," she said, "I woke up and... But what did happen!? I take it we didn't sink."

Her grandfather, wearing only a pair of pyjama bottoms, laughed and crossed the room. He opened a cupboard and the jumbled contents tumbled out on to the floor. In the mess he found a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. She watched him light one, "I didn't know you smoked."

"I had to give it up. Doctor's orders, you know? The ol' ticker. But I'm smokin' tonight."

"Let me have one."

He passed her his lit cigarette and sparked up another for himself. He sat down on the bed next to her, "Whew! It was pretty wild. I pushed her hard but she saw us through, safe and sound. I looked in on you, you were sound asleep."

They smoked in silence, watching each other. He walked into the bathroom and threw his cigarette butt down the toilet. She held out hers and he did the same with it.

"Right," he said, "So... goodnight, kid."

"Stay with me."

"Huh?"

"I know, you must think I'm pretty stupid."

"Not at all. You must've been scared."

"Terrified."

He considered the young woman hugging herself to keep from trembling.

"Which side do you sleep?"

She smiled and lay down on her side with her back to him. He switched off the light and got on the bed, lying behind her. He draped his arm over her. A passivity engulfed her. She felt protected. He leaned closer, his bare chest against her back.

"Your heart is racing," she said.

"Yeah I was tryin' to relax in my room when I heard you callin'."

"Sorry I disturbed you."

He cuddled her, "Not at all."

His hand was lying just next to her face. She knew exactly how he liked to relax at night. She could visualise him pumping his thick cock. Tempted by a weird compulsion, she took his hand and drew it closer to her face. The smell of the cigarette smoke was fresh on his fingers. She nuzzled into his palm and there, at its centre, was the unmistakable scent of manhood. She inhaled his intimate fragrance. Warm sensations of comfort suffused her, she bathed in his affectionate cuddle and battled the urge to suck on his fingers or even to turn around and open up the door that must always remain closed. She stretched and smiled and relaxed into a deep sleep.

Later, a pressure at her bladder made her dreams evaporate and she was again awake. It was still dark. She thought her tee-shirt had rucked up awkwardly but her hand discovered that her grandfather's arm was inside her top. Her left breast rested neatly in his cupped palm.

"Grandpa," she said, "Julien?"

Behind her, his steady, slow breaths on the nape of her neck told her he was sleeping. She wanted to rise and pee but she also wanted to not break the spell of this cherished closeness. It didn't feel pervy or unwanted, it felt loving. It felt natural. She smiled to herself again, happy to be in the arms of a man she loved and who loved her. There was no doubt, no suspicion of faithlessness, no hesitancy or fear of being hurt. She relaxed into the pillow and closed her eyes again, 'If I wet the bed, I'm blaming you, buster.'

The main bedroom had a small porthole window and when she next awoke, chrome dawnlight was illuminating the room. She was on her back and, above her, resting on one elbow, her grandfather was watching her wake. She checked her tee-shirt, it was pulled down, she was in no way exposed.

"Whatcha doing?"

"Honestly?" he whispered, "Admirin' you."

She blushed. He leaned down and kissed the tip of her nose, "I call dibs on the bathroom."

He pushed himself up off the bed and was across the room before her bladder yelled at her brain.

"No, no, no, no, I really need a whizz!"

She was up and pulling him away from the bathroom doorway. He laughed, "That's tough, kid, but dibs is dibs and I called it."

He allowed her to push him out of her way and she slammed the door shut. He yelled, "That's poor etiquette, sailor! Just for that, you'll be cookin' breakfast for the rest of the trip."

From inside the bathroom he heard, "Whatever! Oooooh, that feels so good."

He stood bemused with a cascade of imagery forcing its way in front of his eyes. Betsy on the toilet. Betsy's legs open. Her chubby thighs so soft. Her feet arching. Her fingers spreading her furry pink lips. The jets of hot, dark piss gushing forth. The look of ecstasy on Betsy's face. Her mouth open, waiting, wanting, 'Jeez, Jules! Every five fuckin' seconds you're thinkin' about her! You're like a love-sick schoolboy.'

*******

Termoli is a tourist resort where bright colours abound, from the houses and hotels to the store-fronts and kiosks to the sun-loungers and parasols on the beach; a huge crooked pier reaches out into the ocean to create a placid bay for boats but Julien steered to the side of this and moored his yacht in a quiet marina, away from the hustlin', bustlin' sun-worshippin' rubes.

He hired a scooter and Betsy insisted on being the driver. He grinned at her developing adventurous spirit, a marked contrast to the air of defeat which hung around her when she first arrived. He climbed on the seat behind her, his weight making the antique suspension sag dramatically, put his arms around her waist and they buzzed off, scattering the holidaymakers. Betsy had been nervous about combining her choice of mini dress in amber sunset hues with her sneakers but Julien had told her that the party would go on for hours and that Italians, despite their reputation for sartorial elegance, were really quite scruffy and casual. The short hemline fluttered up in the breeze and displayed even more of her bronzed legs. She had wondered if the colour theme was too garish and she had asked her grandfather, "Do I look too..."

"Sexy?"

"Orange! I was going to say orange, god, do I look like a slut? Are they going to think I've been sucking off donkeys too!"

"I wish I never fuckin' told you that."

"Yeah, well, you did, so..."

She was used to being pale and her clothes uncoloured and unexceptional, designed to be urban camouflage in a city full of predatory lunatics. This was a different planet. Her grandfather held on to her tightly and leaned in close to call out directions; she blushed as her large boobs were resting on his forearms and joggling around on the bumpy roads that, once out of town, snaked up between low, scrubby hills. Eventually, they turned on to a narrow, gravel road that led to a tall fence and security gate. Her grandfather got off and spoke to a security guard who spoke on a phone and then let them through.

She said, "This is a bit much, isn't it?"

"Tommaso is some kind of hot-shot. He's the head of a large empire. I think that's why he liked me and your grandma, we didn't know who the fuck he was. Everyone else treated 'em, like Lord and Lady Muck but we treated 'em like regular people."

He sat back on the scooter, gripped her waist and she kicked the bike into noisy action. The path curved around and revealed a wide complex of sun-bleached two-storey buildings, stretching out like a hidden, private village. It was late afternoon and the festivities were in full swing. Hordes of people were milling around, drinking, eating and gabbling. The walls were hung with bunting, flags and banners, 'Felice Anniversario! Sessantasei Anni!'

Betsy made sure to park away from the expensive-looking cars in case she scratched one. They both dusted themselves off and straightened their clothes. This was the first time she'd seen her grandfather shaved but he still retained a dangerously handsome piratical mystique. He was wearing a clean, starched shirt and a pair of dark chinos.

She grinned, "I didn't know you owned a pair of trousers."

"I have clothes. I can dress up if I want to, I'm not a complete fuckin' savage."

She looked up the slope at the hundreds of party-goers, "Grandpa, you lied, they all look so sophisticated."

They were an alien species, long-legged and elegant. She felt like a dumpy weirdo, every inch a northern lass sweating into a second-hand dress which suddenly felt too tight and clinging. She spread out her Corsican shawl to cover herself, "And there's so many of them! I'm not ready for this."

Her grandfather touched her cheek tenderly then tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear, "You look perfect, kid. You are, well, spectacular ain't the word. You'll knock 'em dead."

"I don't want to kill anyone, I just don't want to look a fool."

"You've just got cabin fever. Been stuck too long with only me for company."

Suddenly a crowd was upon them. Embracing and kissing and Betsy was inhaled into a cloud of women exclaiming rapida Italiano. She flashed a look over her shoulder at her grandfather who grinned and shrugged as he was adopted into a gang of male welcomers. He was told there was a surprise for him and then a gaggle of children leapt upon him. His son, Betsy's uncle Eddy, was a good friend of Livio, the new head of the family business now that ancient Tommaso had stepped down from the throne, and he'd arrived with his whole brood. Julien was greeted by grandchildren and great-grandchildren while Betsy was reunited with cousins as well as a million Italian strangers.

Julien and Betsy didn't see much of each other that night. He played the dutiful patriarch to Eddy's family while she gravitated to a younger crowd who had cornered off an area for their own music. Her grandfather caught glimpses now and then of her dancing, flirting, laughing, always within a crowd of other attractive, fresh-faced youngsters, often showing each other things on their phones.

Betsy had been introduced to Tommaso and Guiditta; they were in their nineties and frail, their skin paper-thin over painful looking bones. Tommaso had clasped hands with Julien and his iron grip held all the while they talked. Guiditta had pinched Betsy's cheek and rasped whispers about Olivia. As they exited the elderly couple's reception rooms, her grandfather explained, "She's gettin' you mixed up with your aunt. You know? You do look a lot like Olivia, when she was your age."

Betsy frowned, she didn't know how to take this comparison; these days, her aunt was heavily obese and stank of cats. In the early hours of the morning, the party had died down a touch. Families had departed for their beds and the music was playing lower and slower, allowing for less raucous discussions and gentle canoodling. Julien had dragged a table and chair over to a wall along with a jug of wine. He leaned back against the wall, drinking, smoking, watching. Betsy walked across the courtyard, weaving between the trestle-tables laden with half-eaten food and discarded drinks.

"Hey baboon," she said.

"Nipote," he slurred.

"Why're you all alone?"

He shrugged, "I'm always alone, in the end."

"You're sloshed. You feeling blue?"

He shrugged.

She said, "I thought you might want to dance with me?"

"Look, just head on back to your friends."

Her cheeks darkened, "They're not my friends, I barely know them. And I can't understand a word they say. Why're you being grumpy and weird?"

"Hah, there you are! Hiding!" Livio, a gaseous, balding man in his forties who'd been lording over the anniversary celebrations, pulled over a chair and sat down next to her grandfather. He carried a bottle of wine, "Now this, this is the good stuff, from our own vines in Tuscany. But first, have one of these," he handed Julien a long, chubby cigar, "They compliment each other assolutamente."

Betsy watched the two drunk men puff their glowing cigars into life. Livio splashed the wine into two glasses and they saluted each other before drinking. Julien conceded that the combination was indeed molto molto bene, "Better'n that cheap aceto you've been servin' us."

Livio scowled but ignored the insult and turned in his chair, "Elizabeth, you are a picture of health. Your mother, she is well?"

Her grandfather rolled his eyes and she nodded.

"Perhaps you have her phone number? I would dearly love to speak with her again."

Although this man was the C.E.O. of an international corporation earning multi-millions, to Julien he would always be the punk kid sniffing around his daughter's skirts.

"She rejected you once, bozo," Julien said, "What makes you think she won't reject you again?"

Livio laughed and slapped his thigh, "We love your grandfather because he is always so blunt, always no cazzate. He shoots from the hip, huh? I merely wanted to reminisce about old times, good times."

He scooted his chair closer to Betsy, "It is true, I once held a torch for your mother but life sometimes goes this way, sometimes that way. Who knows? One turn of fate and I could have been your father, huh? You would have grown up here. Would you have liked that, Elizabeth?"

He waved his hand to take in the whole sprawling estate. She looked around at the glamorous surroundings, "It certainly would've been different."

"Now, do you see this boy?" he indicated a teenager hanging about by the designated dance area, "He is a fine, fine boy. All night, he has been, er, desideroso to dance with the beautiful, exotic lady from across the seas."

It took a moment for Betsy to realise that she was the exotic lady. Livio continued, "All night he wants this. Since he very first saw you. But he is too shy. I promise him."

"You shouldn't have made promises on my behalf," she said.

Livio again laughed and slapped his thigh, "Hah! She has some fire, this one! Spirito fiero! No, no, I merely promise to talk to you, that is all. Look at him, so forlorn. Such longing. Does he revolt you? Is he ugly to you? Why else would you refuse him one dance? Will this be the night you spit in his face and stamp on his balls? Will this be the night a man's soul is crushed forever by the woman of his dreams?"

"Jeez-louise, you must be one hell of a salesman!"

Betsy stomped off and Julien and Livio watched her converse with the young boy then he took her arm and led her off amongst the dancers.

"You must be proud, Jules," Livio said, waggling his cigar, "Your, er, bellissima figlia created such a beautiful woman. Family! Family is what it all means. Nothing means nothing without family."

They saluted the notion with a drink. Julien poured out more wine. The music was traditional plinky-plonky strumming distorted slightly from four speakers at each corner. The young man held Betsy gingerly.

She asked the boy, "Do you like this music?"

"La musica? Molto bello e rappresenta la nostra cultura bene."

Betsy didn't couldn't catch his gist so just replied, "Viva Italia."

The boy frowned but pulled her closer and focussed on not stepping on her toes or bumping into the other dancers.

Livio puffed a smoke ring, "Some people were worried about you sailing through the storm. But not Papa. And not me. I tell them, Jules, he knows what he's doing."

"Fuckin' desta."

"You will come again tomorrow? To see Papa? The morning is best, before his memoria... His wheels they slip off the rails, you know?"

'Do I, though? Do I know what I'm doing? Why've I allowed myself to become obsessed with her? How could I be so careless? Family!? What does that say about me? Is that who I am? Is that what you've become now? Some pathetic mangled version of a man? Where's your moral centre? Where's your dignity?'

He watched Betsy dance with the boy. He grew surly and unresponsive to Livio's garlicky chat and so the host bid him buonanotte and wandered away. As Betsy was led graciously and with much care around the dancefloor she stole glances at her grandfather and saw that he was alone again. He chugged back a glass of wine. He wiped a stream of vampiric red drool then poured another.

'I never harboured any depravities about Olivia. And she does look just like her. But what does this say about me? That I'm so isolated and deprived of human fuckin' contact that I've become this traitorous, disgusting lech? Just a mad old loon, wanking like a monkey to any ripe, plump, delectable babe no matter who she is. I'm despicable.'