She continued to do this, maintaining a steady pace, for several minutes.
I felt every nerve in my body firing simultaneously, building with an incredible blinding intensity. Her body remained still - totally silent - yet her inner muscles kept their steady gripping impulses streaming upward, ever locked to my cock. I could feel every molecule, every atom inside my cock blazing with unexpected sensitivity. There was no motion to interfere with the pure form of sensation; the gripping motion started at the base of my cock and slowly moved up to the tip, then released, and started again. Relentlessly.
I could feel the burning intensity of orgasm start in my balls, the muscles in my anus contracting in almost painful spasm, the boiling eruption ran up the vein in the bottom of my cock and exploded into her vagina, and then my cock began pulsing with a will of its own. I could feel my semen coating the walls of her vagina, coalescing with her juices, forming a new matrix that could only stand to define our love for one another. Stand together for all time, I think you could safely say.
I was so lost in the world she had just created for me, for us, that I was almost completely unaware of the shuddering ripples that coursed through Elise. Her outstretched arms rested on my chest, and I could feel her trembling in my heart. I fought to remain still, not to breech the sanctity of this moment, willed it to become my eternity.
I felt her tears on my chest, then on my face as she lowered her face to mine.
Oh, thank you my love. Thank you for the eternity you gave me . . .
She seemed to flow onto me, melt into the very essence of reality. I held her closely to my heart, but in truth I could not tell where her body separated from mine . . . I swear to God we had fused in those precious moments, fused in some aboriginal coalescence of being.
+
By late afternoon word had filtered through the marina. Our little depression was only a few knots away from hurricane force, and the barometer was falling, rapidly. Ron and the Amigos were huddled with me in Sabrina's salon; we were going over weather fax charts and listening to single side band weather broadcasts out of Norfolk and Miami. Winds tonight were forecast at 90 to 100 miles per hour, wave heights of up to 25 feet.
I just shook my head.
"No way, Ron. Everyone will die out there if we go."
"Well, odds are, Sport, that everyone will be caught here and killed or imprisoned if we stay. We drilled a couple of their security people in order to get these girls. I'm afraid the trail will lead them here before too long."
"The only way to do anything like what you've got in mind would be to get outside and run down the coast. Run to the west. Watch the storm, and cut north or south after we clear western Cuba."
"Won't work, Sport. They could keep us on radar all the way, then hit us when the weather calmed down. We won't have indefinite air support, and we wouldn't have the carrier group to hide in. Like I said, we just need to get about 15 to 20 miles offshore. Then we're home free."
"Well, then, it'll depend on the axis of rotation, where the eye is," Buzz said.
I nodded my head in agreement. "If the northern radius of the eye wall is over the Straits, I'd say we won't make it five miles out before we're swamped. Not going beam to the seas."
Ron nodded his head in agreement with our analysis. "Jim, I can't force you to go, I won't. But if you stay, Elise will be dead before the week's out, and you probably will be, too."
I nodded my head in understanding. "Between the rock and the fucked place, I'd say. We can't use radar, right?"
"No, that'll cue them in on us immediately. Navy pukes only want to go active jamming if the MIGs come up. Once that happens, the bad guys won't be able to see shit on their radar. Besides, with these wave heights I doubt radar will do any good anyway."
"So how do we find the Battle Group?"
"Jim, all you need to do is get out there. Those guys have got enough juice to get to you and get people on board."
"You mean, abandon ship, right? I can't do that, Ron."
"After you drop people, if you drop people off and decide to make for Key West, that's your choice. It's your vessel, Captain. Once your mission is accomplished you can take off or join your group on a navy boat, your choice. Clear enough?"
"Yeah, clear enough, Ron."
+
After a light dinner, Elise and I made up storm berths for our elderly guests, and we got the wounded Seal strapped into the aft berth. He was pale and clammy, but his vitals were good. The Seal Doc was going to stay on Sabrina now, as well.
It was going to get crowded.
I got Buzz and the doc briefed on how to set the storm sails, how to strap into the safety harnesses and attach the harness to the jack lines. These would keep people attached to the boat if a wave washed them overboard, and hopefully someone would be able to get them back on board.
As darkness fell an elderly couple appeared out of nowhere with Ron at their side; he took them below and with Elise got them strapped in. He came back up a few minutes later, and pulled me aside.
"It's a worse case deal now, Jim. Winds are 65 here, but 104 in the Strait. The eye wall will transit the Strait, as well, westbound."
"O.K., Ron. When do you want me to start off?"
"I'd like you to head out in about 30 minutes; I'll be last out, in about an hour. You'll have the best shot at it . . . you might beat the worst of it."
I held out my hand again to Ron. He took it and pulled himself into me and gave me a quick hug, then said good bye and was gone.
That was the last time I ever saw Ron Fuller.
+
The wind gauge in Sabrina's instrument pedestal showed a steady 90 knots - with frequent gusts over 100 - as we motored out of the marina. We had the storm trysail and storm staysail set as we cleared the breakwater. I had a sea anchor and storm drogue set and ready to deploy as well.
As we cleared the breakwater the full force of the wind slammed into Sabrina's right side, her starboard beam, and drove her port beam down into the water. I fell away from the wind a bit and she stood back up. The little storm sails bit into the wind and began to pull us back up to a due north heading.
Buzz pulled out a portable GPS receiver and we began a plot. That was an act of will. The waves were getting vicious after only a couple of hundred yards out. I hoped they would settle down as we made deeper water.
But they didn't. The full force of the winds and the waves ran smack into the Gulfstream, which was headed directly into them. In that perfectly dreadful set of circumstances, the waves instantly built to pyramid shaped rolling mountains that I guesstimated were at least 30 feet high. That was about half of Sabrina's mast height. I'd never done anything like this before, anywhere, in any type of vessel, and my confidence level dropped like a rock.
I had to fight the wheel with all of my strength just to keep Sabrina on course; as we came to the top of a mountain the full force of the wind would hit us like a freight train, then Sabrina would slice down the backside of the rolling wall in a hissing barely controlled fall. The bow would dive into the next wave, and Sabrina would claw her way up the face of the next mountain. On the tops the wind shrieked and howled through the rigging, in the troughs Sabrina was awash in a momentary silence.
At the end of 15 minutes we'd clawed our way across two miles.
That's when I heard a different kind of roaring sound.
That's when I heard the MIGs.
+
I turned in time to see a fireball erupt on the surface of the sea several hundred yards behind us. Something had been hit, and was burning. I felt the roar of the jets as they thundered overhead, but they were lost in the storm, I couldn't see them, but I guessed they were turning to the west, to our left, and getting ready to come in again.
I never thought I'd live to be happy to see a Queer, but when that great gray whale of a jet thundered across Sabrina's bow I was yelling like crazy. So was Buzz. The doc was below, and all the hatches were sealed shut. Which was a good thing . . .
. . . Because as I'd watched the Queer streak past I lost my concentration, and Sabrina wandered up the face of a rolling mountain, and began to stall. This would lead to an interesting maneuver called 'pitch-poling' . . . kinda of like running down your front yard and doing a somersault. Only a lot worse. Forty ton sailboats aren't real graceful when the pitch-pole. Point of fact, few people have lived to describe the phenomenon.
The only way out was to surf down the front of the mountain and hope to get out of it's way before it turned into a breaker, and swamped the boat. This I did, and I even managed to find the groove I had been in.
I felt a concussive boom, and seconds later was aware that a MIG had just gone thundering by right behind us, billowing flares out its belly. It had gone super-sonic, in a hurricane, just meters off the surface of the sea.
That guy had brass balls.
Then a double boom, and I was knocked off my feet. So was Buzz.
Two Navy F14s had just flown directly over our mast, also super-sonic, and had disappeared into the rain. Those were the last airplanes we saw that night. Then I noticed something odd . . . I couldn't hear . . . not a thing. I saw blood running out of Buzz's ear canal, and reached up to feel the same coming out of mine.
Almost an hour gone, and approaching nine miles from shore. And I'm deaf as a post.
What the hell. I flipped on the radar. About three to four miles ahead there was an armada, and I felt this rush of joy like you wouldn't believe. I steered what looked to me like an intercept course to the biggest thing out there, surely the carrier, and pointed to Buzz. I pantomimed radio and pointed at the radar. He nodded his head and went to the companionway hatch. I guess the doc figured out we were deaf pretty quick.
+
We were driving well across the rolling mountains, and I sensed they were diminishing, slightly but noticeably. I could feel the wind falling, and saw it drop into the seventies, then the fifties, and then there were stars overhead. We had hit the eye, and strung out in front of us was the United States Navy. Well, at least some of it.
+
The waves had softened their impact a bit as well. I could steer with little effort now.
The hulking carrier was oriented north south, beam to the wind, and the doc indicated that they wanted me to maneuver into the dead spot in the wind and waves created by the mass of the huge ship. She was only a few hundred yards away; piece of cake.
But as we got closer I saw that the waves there were still a good twenty plus feet high. Not a piece of cake, at all. The doc indicated a platform on the side of the ship, one of the huge elevators used to take aircraft to and from the hanger deck to the fight deck, and pointed to the mass of people there waving at us. There were hoists rigged, and men in rescue-diving gear were waiting to be lowered onto Sabrina's deck.
We slipped behind the carrier and fell into a windless island of near sane sea conditions. Lines were thrown, men were lowered. Medics dropped down, then lowered a litter to hoist up their wounded comrade. The elderly Cubans were hoisted up. Then the doc. And Buzz. Elsie was there, standing next to me, pushing me to the hoists, pointing up.
I shook my head, and pointed at Sabrina, and shook my head again.
Elise nodded, kissed me lightly on the lips, then was gone. I watched as she lifted off Sabrina's deck, was carried aloft into the arms of waiting men. The last Navy man was there before me.
"What about the rest?"
He shook his head.
"Anyone?"
He shook his head again.
I felt cold inside. I pulled up my chart, told the man I was going to head for Key West.
He shook his head, pointed up to the carrier.
I shook my head, said Good Bye. He hooked himself into the hoist, then the wildest thing. He saluted me.
So, what the heck, I saluted him right back.
Sabrina was free of the ship, and I engaged the motor and we headed off to the north. The big carrier silently slipped away to the south, and in an instant Sabrina and I were back in the belly of the beast. I turned one last time to look at the ship, hoping to see Elise.
But she was gone.
The wind slammed home, the waves rose up in earnest anger, perhaps mad at having been cheated out of more victims from Sabrina. Buzz had left his little GPS, and it was giving a heading to Key West. I put Sabrina's nose on 12 degrees magnetic, and we took off, heading slightly into the wind. We had about seventy five miles to go.
I kept the radar on, thinking there was no need to run around blind out here with all those navy ships running steaming through.
It was peaceful in an odd kind of way, not hearing the wind, relying on sight and touch to feel my way through the storm. I'd never had any real idea just how much hearing played a role in sailing, or anything else, for that matter. You take things for granted until they're gone.
Had I taken Elise for granted?
I could just make out the carrier on radar - they was already more than ten miles between us. I could see her in my mind's eye lifting up toward that huge elevator, disappearing over the edge, then standing there looking down at me, waving her - what? Good byes?
Had we said Good Bye.
No. She had asked me to go with her, abandon Sabrina, just go with her.
Where?
Sabrina was not just a boat. Not to me, anyway. She was my home, and in an odd way, she was my life. I took care of her, and in her way she took care of me.
What had we just done together? Crossed on of the most foul storm-tossed bodies of water under the most horrid circumstances imaginable? Then it hit me like a body-blow. Ron and the Amigos.
Gone?
All of them gone? What? The Storm, the MIGs, what had claimed those poor souls? Were they looking for survivors?
And then, softly, I could hear the wind. It was very distant and hollow sounding, but the sounds of the sea and the ship were returning to my consciousness.
Then I could make out the mass of Key West on the radar, adjusted my heading to keep far to the west. The wind remained constant now, in the mid-forties, and I could make out the looming gray of dawn to the east. Sabrina was like a horse headed for the barn; hungry, thirsty, and wanting very badly to be done with this ride. I reached down and rubbed her teak coaming, thanking her for the sheltering grasp she kept on her passengers through this wildly malicious night.
The Sun was rising, winds were abating, and soon the island resolved through the mist and waves. I sailed through XXX and anchored on the north side of the town, sheltered Sabrina from the remnants of the winds as best I could. I set as many anchors as I dared, shut down the engine, and reeling with exhaustion, made my way forward and curled up on the forepeak berth.
+
In my dream, I heard Ron's voice calling out to me.
"Hey Sport, c'mon Puddknocker, wake up!"
I hate dreams like that, you know . . . the ones that feel like real life, almost cinematic in their vibrant intensity. But there was Ron, shaking my shoulders, imploring me to get my ass outta the sack.
It wouldn't stop. I wanted it to go away. I opened my eyes, knew that would make the dream go away, but there he was, shaking me.
"You're dead. Go away." I shut my eyes again.
"PUDDKNOCKER! GET UP! NOW!"
I shot bolt upright.
"You're dead. What are you doing here."
"Man, Sport, they told me you was deaf now, but I didn't believe 'em."
"What are you doing here." I was deep in the fogs of not enough sleep, and desperately wanted to get back there. "Go away."
"Puddknocker, can you hear me?"
Whatever it was, it wasn't going away. Oh, what the hell, I needed to take a leak anyway.
"Jim, can you hear me?"
"Yeah, Ron, I hear you. You're dead. Go away."
"Get some clothes on, man, You've been asleep for about thirty hours!"
"No shit, Ron. You're dead. Some Navy guy told me so."
I was sitting on the edge of the berth, Ron just shook his head in apparent disgust and walked into the salon. He left the door open, and I could see several men standing around in the salon and in the galley. Some wore uniforms, some were in suits.
This was going to turn into one of those really shitty hyper-realistic nightmares. But I smelled coffee. And cheeseburgers. My idea of the nightmare from hell! I was still in my foul-weather gear, and I became acutely aware that I smelled like a goat, that my skin was covered in greasy sweat, and that I was in dire need of the head. I slipped out of my clothes and hopped in the shower. I knew the hot-water system was shut down, but turned on the sump pump and flipped the water on.
Hot water streamed out of the showerhead. I looked out the portlight in the shower compartment and saw that I was tied up to a pier. I started to blink my eyes really rapidly then, trying to clear away the foggy remnants of my dreams. All of a sudden I realized that Ron was alive, and there were a bunch of official looking types in the salon.
I soaped up, rinsed, brushed my teeth, shaved, and cut loose with a really big fart.
Ah, now I was awake!
It's always amazed me that I can't truly wake up until I float an air muffin. So shoot me!
I pulled on some shorts and a t-shirt over my still damp frame, ran a brush through the hairs that hadn't jumped ship yet - all eight of them - and stepped out into the salon.
Some navy type shoved some coffee my way, and Ron asked me to take a seat
They had all sorts of questions. The operation had been a success, but one boat, one of the Amigo's, had been hit by the MIG and sunk. Ron had fished them out of the water, the Amigo was hurt but hurt but O.K. The MIG had been shot down by Navy F14s, and there was a very serious clusterfuck in progress between Washington and Havana, but the Navy had picked up the downed airman, and some ruffled feathers had been smoothed.
All of the refuges had been spirited away to somewhere in Virginia and would be out of touch for a long, long time. The Cubans could never learn what had happened, who had been smuggled out, or lives here and in Cuba would be put at risk.
A suit from the Justice Department slid a document to me across the salon table. Sign this, he said, indicating that I had been informed about ultra-top-secret information and I had to sign a non-disclosure agreement, or else.
I signed the paper and slid it back to him.
"Will I ever see Elise again?"
"Jim, I can say with total certainty that you will never see or speak to Elise Flores again," Ron said. But here's the problem. Bunch of reporters were down here covering the storm, saw your boat come in, and a couple of others, like mine and Jeff's, then Cuba started screaming about a bunch of boats leaving the country illegally, then the MIG crap came out, and the press boys are screaming to anyone involved. Get the picture?"
"Yeah. What do you want me to do?"
All of the men in the salon save Ron relaxed visibly. I guess they had been afraid I'd try to capitalize on the situation, maybe go for a movie of the week deal, hell, I don't know. But Ron knew.
"Well, Mr Madison," an Admiral I assumed by the number of stars visible on his white jacket, "I just wanted to thank you. Your country thanks you. On that, sir, you have my word. Oh, by the way, there's a rumor you are related to President James Madison. Would that be true, sir?"
"I've heard that rumor, too, sir."
The admiral shook my hand then left. Ron and a casually dressed man remained.
"Well, Puddknocker, I will be dipped in cowshit! You a famous mother fucker?!"
I just sat there, deflated at the news that I would never see Elise again.
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