The Marital Corporation Ch. 01

Gordon looked at Peter and frowned. His arching eyebrows asked a silent question. Peter smiled helplessly and shrugged. As usual, Marge was going too far, too fast. He was concerned that she might offend their guests. He was searching for a tactful way of changing the subject, when a sudden catspaw solved the problem. It came across their weather quarter, causing the boat to dip suddenly into a deeper heel. Peter automatically compensated by allowing the sheet to run through his fingers, and the spell was broken.

"I'd better pay a little less attention to tan lines and more attention to sailing the boat," he said ruefully.

Peter was rewarded by a chuckle from the group. Everyone seemed relieved that the tension had been relaxed for the moment. Although the Schaefers didn't realize it, Peter knew that Marge was temporarily paralyzed with fear. Sex was the least of her concerns at the moment. Anne must have sensed something of what Marge was feeling, because she said, "Marge, dear, I wonder if you would show me how to work the toilet?"

The ladies again disappeared down the companionway hatch. Gordon and Peter looked at each other. "Well, what do you think?" Peter asked.

"I think this is just great," he said. "I mean all of it," he added with a little smile. "What a wonderful way to live!"

"We think so," Peter said, adding, "I hope Marge didn't come on too strong . . ."

"Oh, hell," Gordon said, "don't be ridiculous. We're not what you would call swingers, but we've been around enough so we're comfortable with almost any point of view. We're naturists, after all. We know all about the birds and bees. Live and let live."

Peter nodded. "That sounds very sensible."

The boat was well out into the Sound by that time. The docks at Point Wells had begun to blend into the dark green haze on the shore behind them, although the taller buildings in downtown Seattle were still prominent on the skyline. The Olympic Peninsula lay ahead, and the buildings at Kingston were beginning to take shape. A double-ended ferry serenely steamed past, and Peter automatically swung Love Boat's bow toward the approaching swell caused by the ferry's wake.

"Hang on!" he yelled, as the little boat's bow fell into the approaching trough, then rose on the swell's crest only to fall again into the following trough. Water surged over the bow. A small amount, sparkling with foam in the bright sunshine, washed down the lee side deck and splashed into the cockpit.

Gordon's eyes widened at first, but he seemed at ease when he realized nothing bad had happened. "I had no idea those ferries could kick up such a fuss," he said.

Peter nodded. "There's nothing graceful about them. They're designed for stability and speed. They have very powerful engines and are always in a hurry. That heavy wake is the result. Compare that with our wake. We slide through the water with a minimum of fuss, and you can barely see a ripple behind us.

Anne climbed up the ladder to the cockpit. This time, her sweat pants remained below, and Peter tried hard not to stare at the dark curls beneath her soft stomach. "I see what you mean about `bouncy'" she said.

Marge's head appeared next. "What'd you do that for?" she demanded.

Peter shook his head. "I warned you; I didn't do anything except try to minimize our sleigh ride." Knowing how frightened she was, Peter couldn't resist adding, "Having a good time?"

She rewarded him with an instantaneous venomous glare. He glanced around the cockpit. He was beginning to feel uncomfortably overdressed, "Who'd like to take the helm?"

Anne raised her hand. "Could I try?"

Peter smiled, and stood, motioning her to take his place. While she moved into the helmsman's seat, he bent over, pulling his tight and constricting swim trunks down to his ankles. He quickly regretted it, however, when he sat and discovered how hot the vinyl boat cushion cover was against his bare rump.

When she was seated with the tiller tucked firmly under her left arm, he showed her how to jerk the mainsheet out of the jam cleat.

"Let me show you what Gordon did," he said. She nodded. Peter gave her the same rudimentary sailing lesson he had given Gordon.

"You see how easy it is?" Peter asked.

"It's magic, that's what it is," she said softly. Then to her husband, she said, "Gordon, we've got to get a sailboat; that's all there is to it."

Gordon nodded thoughtfully. "What did you say these things cost, again?" he asked.

Peter laughed. "That's like asking what a car costs," he said. "They come in all sizes and conditions. We paid $17,500 for Love Boat three years ago. She's probably worth $20,000 today."

Gordon was surprised. "You mean boats increase in value as they age?"

"Not necessarily," Peter replied, noticing as he spoke, Gordon's covert appraisal of his equipment. "It depends. This boat has been well cared for, the price we paid was reasonable, and the demand for boats in this size is strong."

While Peter was talking to Gordon, he couldn't help but notice Anne's open stare at his genitals. She smiled, approvingly Peter hoped. He felt a bit self-conscious after seeing how well endowed Gordon was.

Peter was so busy thinking about their guests and speculating about the immediate future that he scarcely noticed when they entered the harbor at Kingston. However, he became acutely aware of their immediate surroundings when a ski boat roared past, its occupants whistling and cheering the topless ladies in the cockpit. While Love Boat bounced in their careless wake, he realized that they shared the small harbor with other sailboats, water skiers, and even a couple of moving motor yachts.

Although their guests seemed not at all concerned about the ogling neighbors, Peter had a sudden sick conviction that dozens of binoculars were trained on the topless women in his cockpit. He turned to Marge. "Maybe we wouldn't attract so much attention if you'd slip your top back on."

Marge looked at Anne, who laughed and glancing meaningfully at Marge, said, "If those boys can get off on seeing a tiny pair of tits like mine, they're welcome to it!"

Marge turned to Peter, her jaw stubbornly set. "If Anne doesn't think it's necessary to cover up, then neither do I."

Peter looked in vain to Gordon, who merely shrugged and said, "Hell, Pete, I told you we were naturists. We're used to it. I can't tell you how many times small planes and helicopters have circled over the MHS grounds in Maryland until we were sure they would run out of gas. I'm not ashamed of my body and I see no reason to hide it. Anne feels the same."

Peter looked at Marge again. "I hadn't thought of it that way before," he said. "Hey, maybe these folks are on to something."

The ski boat had circled and was now coming back for a closer look. As it approached, Peter estimated its course and the skier's probable skid path as the boat swerved to avoid crashing into them. "Look out!" he screamed. "Those idiots are going to kill that skier!"

Fortunately, the skier saw his danger in time, and released the towbar. Meanwhile, the swerving boat threw up a blinding sheet of water on Peter and his crew that nearly filled the cockpit.

As Peter ducked to retrieve the bailer, out of the corner of his eye he saw Marge dive cleanly over the side. He dropped the bailer and reached for the binoculars, partly to see where she was going, and partly to try to identify that dangerous boat or its occupants.

"Where's Marge?" Peter asked.

Gordon pointed off the port quarter. "She's back there, helping that skier," he said. "If I could swim better, I'd be back there, too."

Peter looked carefully through the glasses, and saw two dots in the water seemingly a quarter mile behind them. He handed the binoculars to Gordon, and pulled the tiller violently toward him. The bow began a rapid turn into the wind. Peter didn't bother to haul the mainsheet; instead, he forced the boat to its reciprocal course and pressed the engine's starter button.

The engine caught immediately. Peter jammed the clutch lever ahead and advanced the throttle. The boat immediately picked up speed, the mainsail luffing slightly, as she headed toward the people in the water.

Peter was surprised that the ski boat skipper had not already recovered their skier and his wife. He swiftly scanned the harbor, and noticed a cluster of boats about a mile away. Oh, oh.

Love Boat was swiftly approaching Marge and the skier. Peter shut the throttle, and handed the tiller to Gordon. "Hold her straight into the wind," he said. "I'm going to douse the sails and rig the ladder."

He rushed forward and dropped the sails. Then he hurried back, opened the gate in the lifelines and flopped the swim ladder over the side. The boat came to a dead stop about 20 feet from Marge and the skier. She was swimming toward the boat, supporting the unconscious skier in a Red Cross carry.

Peter threw a heaving line to her. "Hang on to this!" he shouted.

He quickly pulled the two people to the boat. Then as she clung to the ladder, Peter handed her a heavier line. "Pass this around his body and tie a bowline," he said.

She quickly secured the skier. Gordon and Peter, with Anne's help, dragged him out of the water, and rolled him on his stomach on the side deck. Soon he began to cough and sputter. Peter checked his pulse. Satisfied he was breathing without the need for artifical respiration, they carefully lowered his limp body into the cockpit, and sat him on the cockpit sole, half leaning against the cabin. Soon, he began to stir.

"Wha. . .wha . . ." was interrupted by an explosive fit of coughing. Then he opened his eyes. At first, Peter was puzzled by his apparent bewilderment. Then he realized the skier might have assumed he had died and gone to heaven, surrounded as he was by naked angels.

While Marge fussed over him, Peter studied their guest. The first thing he noticed, apart from the boy's apparent youth, was his bright yellow hair. At first, Peter thought he might be in his early 20s; later, he learned the boy was just over 18. Peter couldn't judge his height, but he was a slender young man, apparently in good physical condition except for the swelling bruise on his forehead. The women assured him he was still on a temporal plane; a fact that was becoming painfully obvious as he tenderly probed the sore spot on his head.

Peter went below to get the ship's medicine chest, and overheard Marge explaining to the others that she had seen the log in the water before the boy hit it, and she knew he might drown unless she could get to him quickly enough to keep his face out of the water.

Peter opened the bottle of aspirin and shook a couple of tablets into his hand. After pumping a glass of water, he returned to the cockpit. The others had dressed.

Although he had a raging headache, and was still groggy and seemed stunned, when Peter handed him the tablets and the glass of water, their castaway seemed well on his way to recovery.

"What's your name?" Peter asked.

"Kenny . . .er, Kenny Boren," the boy said.

"Well, Kenny Boren," Peter said, "we'll get you ashore so you can see a doctor and get your head looked at. Your friends must be worried as hell about you, although I'm surprised they didn't come back to pick you up."

"I probably should see a doctor, all right," Kenny slowly said, "but as far as those pricks are concerned," his voice rising, "I hope I never see them again."

Peter was startled by the obvious anger in the boy's voice. He was standing now, and Peter looked more closely at him. He wasn't very tall, just slightly taller than Peter. His nose obviously had been broken previously, but rather than being disfiguring, the bulge gave his face, especially when he smiled, a raffish air.

"I can't say I blame you, Kenny, but I'm sure there's a good reason," Peter said.

"No, you don't understand, Mister . . ."

"I'm sorry," Peter said. "I'm Pete Baylis. This lady, your rescuer," he gestured toward Marge, "is my wife, and these folks are Gordon and Anne Schaefer."

"OK. I don't know how to tell you this. I sure hope you guys aren't cops -- but the problem, you see, is that the boat didn't belong to us."

(to be continued)