Chapter 40, Rescued by Sail Boat Skipper

After the mental convulsion of accepting Mom’s past, clutching the steering wheel at an emergency parking refuge on an Alameda Avenue bus stop, my mind retching turned into dry heaves then sighs. Recomposed, I started the car and drove back on the Alameda just as a bus arrived in my rear-view mirror to claim its space I’d trespassed on.

As I drove, the purpose of coming down to San Jose, to attend Santa Clara University's Parent's Day, put me back into functional mode.

At the University, I first attended Mass at its Mission, one of the twenty-one established by Father Junípero Serra. It wasn’t the original 1771 Mission. Two previously built on the banks of the Guadalupe River were washed away in floods. The charmed third, built on higher ground, became permanent and the pueblo of Santa Clara developed around it and the University was added in 1851. The Mission and its grounds became a holdout of serene tranquility in a sea of tumultuous change that developed into Silicone Valley.

When attending Saint Clare’s grade school nearby, nuns trooped us over to the Mission occasionally for a California Mission history lesson. Attending Mass there provided a personal historical reconnection.

Before Mass started, kneeling in a pew, I recited the rosary to give me peace after Mom’s revelations. After hypocritically reciting opening Apostles Creed, I sincerely dedicated alternate Our Father beads to unknown Burmese and Mexican women of Mom’s past and the Hail Mary beads to thanksgiving for Mom’s Chinatown brothel escape.\

After Mass, I met with other parents in a lecture hall to start September’s 1990 Parent’s Day. There, a Jesuit priest droned on about our good fortune to have selected the University for our offspring. Like during the Mass sermon, I didn't listen. In deep retrospection, I sat with a blank stare and reviewed my revised family foundation and what it meant. I concluded what I’d assumed is not what was, including me.

After the introduction, we were marched out, segregated into groups, and assigned to student guides for our campus tour. Our group’s guide, most likely earning school credits or a tuition discount was uncomfortable with what I’m sure he considered old people while our sons and daughters kept out of sight, not wanting to acknowledge having parents except for tuition payments and allowance checks. The ten o'clock sun awoke me from my introspective stupor.

Unlike most parents, I was familiar with the campus due to my attendance at Saint Clare’s grade school. As we strolled about, my reconnection included the beautiful grounds, the little astronomy observatory, the cactus garden all of which reconnected me to my proper remembered past, a past when Mom was my real mother. With the sun's warmth and campus scenery, I drifted from introspection to interaction, even joked with our nervous guide.

At noon the groups re-assembled for a cafeteria lunch, one better than expected. During lunch, my mother-in-law’s and Mom’s revelations began to switch from shock to acceptance, an acceptance which eased my adultery guilt. It was similar to Mom’s housekeeper tale of the priest who brought a married woman to the Saint Clare Hotel, a tale which eased the shame of my soapy showers during puberty.

After lunch, the campus tour resumed but with all the parents as one group to inspect sports fields. I relaxed and dismissed the painful revelations of Mom and Mother-in-law and twisted them into excuses for more adultery and perked up. Everything looked brighter in the California sun. At 40-years old, the second half of my life was ready to begin, a second half knowing the truth of who parents and myself were.

Most of the parents were couples or moms like me but there was a lone attractive man. I displayed my enhanced breasts asset. Cobra, never one to dwell on the past, awoke and coiled up. My heart thumped and my mind said he was a suitable distraction. I walked next to him and provocatively smiled. He noticed, smiled back and changed his pace to my slower gait.

He wore a blue blazer over a white shirt, tan polished cotton pants and Sebago sailing shoes. A pipe protruded from his vest coat pocket. He was six feet plus in height, had a trim mustache, a full head of hair with gray sidewalls and was of ruddy complexion. Soon, chit-chatting, he divulged it was his son who was attending the university, he was from the Puget Sound area, he was divorced and he’d just turned forty-five.

As we crossed the El Camino Real to the sports fields, he added he owned a sailboat, and although still working, was trying to live a rouge’ life, a bravado tidbit which skewed the conversation to the risqué.

He didn't ask about my marital status but could see my too big to miss wedding ring. I was wearing a sleeveless summer dress and two-inch pumps. The dress accented my enlarged asset. This blue-eyed guppy had a hard time keeping his eyes off them, documentation of male breast fetish.

When Parent’s Day ended, he invited me to dinner, only to be disappointed to learn I was soon flying out. He cheered up when I asked for his business card. It identified him as William, an Allstate Insurance Agent with a Gig Harbor office. I only told him my first name and I lived near Olympia, Washington.

Instead of keeping his card, I wrote my office number on the back, kissed it to leave a lipstick imprint and told him to tell the receptionist there was an insurance issue when he called, pleased he'd diverted my thoughts away from family secrets.

The next Monday he called.

“Hello Elizabeth, William here. Do you remember me from our university tour?”

“Hi, yes, of course. I’m glad you called, was just thinking about you. I’ll call you right back. There is a Mini office crisis that needs attention. Give me your number please.”

“This is my private phone number, not the office’s.”

“Thanks, I’ll call back, give me a minute.”

I closed my office door and checked the Gig Harbor phone book. He was an insurance agent, and he had a Gig Harbor home address. Checking the Thomas Brothers map book indicated it fronted Puget Sound.

When I phoned back, he was direct and bold, bypassed typical introductory chit chat and asked me to go sailing on his boat. I too wanted to cut to the chase but explained I’d never sailed and asked if we shouldn’t have dinner instead which implied, I was ready to skip preliminaries. His answer was we’d have dinner after the boat ride on next Saturday.

I had no excuse to get away on Saturday and menstruation was due the weekend. Sex, on a boat, intrigued me. Hubby was scheduled to go out of town on Tuesday and return late Wednesday. Cobra would be ready Tuesday.

“Saturday’s difficult, how about Tuesday?”

“Tuesday works. I’ll bring the boat to Olympia and berth at its floating dock. The dock’s just past the seafood market, you can’t miss it. Let’s meet at ten AM and I’ll show you the basics of sailing.”

"Okay, I'll bring lunch and wine, hopefully, I won't get seasick."

“Don’t worry, it’s a mini house on water. You won’t get seasick. If you do there’s a bed to lay on.”

The inclusion of a bed perked Cobra up. She was a tad worried a morning boat date precluded sex. Monday, I went shopping, shopping for a possible overnighter on a sailboat. Looking at sea clothes, family secrets recessed to repressed, then to forgotten. My enhancement qualified me as a sweater girl. I purchased a white turtleneck sweater, a blue ersatz navy pea coat, tight-fitting jeans, and blue sneakers to complete my appearance as an experienced deckhand.

Tuesday morn, hubby left early for the Sea-Tac Airport. I got up with him and made his breakfast. After he left, I made the boat lunch with sourdough bread, cheese, meat cuts, lettuce, tomato, olives, and mayonnaise, all kept separate in plastic containers to be assembled on board. I put everything in a picnic basket with a bottle of wine, two wine glasses, silverware and layered dry ice and napkins atop. Dressed in my sea togs, I took a Dramamine pill.

In my night bag, I inserted toiletries, makeup, and the Dramamine bottle. I added a violet, nylon, baby doll nightie, a change of underwear and my pillbox in which I stuffed three condoms, purchased during my shopping spree. I was ready for below deck action without reservations from family secrets revealed. I was Dad’s and Mom’s daughter, wanton strain. Dad’s philandering, Mom’s brothel experience, and mother-in-law’s abortion exonerated meeting William. A lack of guilt possessed me. With no reservations I intended first date sex. My only reservation was to ensure stealth for exculpated adultery.

I left the house and locked the front door. It was a beautiful, late September day in 1990, calm with an occasional gentle breeze as if the air twirled a bit in delight with itself. I wondered if there was enough wind to sail when the cab picked me up. Dropped off at the boat dock at 10:15 AM, one hand toting my lunch basket and the other my overnight bag, I saw him. He was waiting at the front of the dock scanning the horizon for my arrival.

After a Platonic greeting, he guided my step onto the floating dock, Panic set in as we trod forward. The big floating timbers splayed about on the water and moved with our steps. I was already woozy by the time we reached his boat's slip. I was afraid to get on, the risk of seasickness swept aside by the sudden comprehension of danger. I was sailing with a man unknown. I’d be under his control once we left the dock. I knew nothing about sailing or if the boat was seaworthy.

He stood in the boat and noticed my sudden anxiety.

“We don’t need to sail today. We’ll sit in the stern, talk to know one another, then enjoy your picnic lunch.”

Assured, I climbed aboard, hunched down, and peeked in the cabin. Things were compact but bigger than expected. He explained it was a thirty-foot boat, had an outboard motor and had all the safety equipment. I stepped down the little hatchway and explored the cabin. It, like he said over the phone, was a miniature house setting. There was a bathroom with a stainless-steel toilet and sink, a galley kitchen with sink, cabinets, refrigerator, and dinette all Lilliputian in size. At the end, in the bow, was a wide but low bulk bed, the place of action.

I turned back and looked again at the little bathroom and wondered.

Where does it go when you flush?

I placed my lunch perishables in the little frig and went back up to the open stern. He asked again if I was okay. I was getting sea legs and felt safer due to his concern. After sitting in the stern, he asked if we should stay tied to the dock or did, I want to explore Budd Inlet which fronts Olympia.

Sitting comfortably on a port side cushion, I told him to explore the inlet. He tilted the little motor’s propeller down into the water and started its engine by pulling a cord. The whinny engine started and spewed a wimpy stream of water out its back, reducing my confidence so recently gained. Untied from the dock he steered past the tangle of other boats to the open area, not looking at me as he steered. I thought he was probably thinking he made a big mistake taking a chicken like me to sea as I watched the Olympia dock recede.

Once clear of other boats, he cut the sputtering motor and tilted its little propeller back out of the water, looked at me and asked if it was okay to set sail. In the inlet, there was a gentle breeze to the north urging us forward. With the morning sun, a gentle breeze, his concern, I nodded assent. He had me hold the wheel while he busied himself setting up the sails. With the sails set, he guided the boom to catch the wind, took a hold of the wheel and we skimmed the placid water soundlessly.

Clear of the inlet, on the choppy waters of the Sound, he steered the boat into Case Inlet instead of returning. While beyond our agreed sailing scope area it didn’t matter. The fresh air, blue water, the shoreline, enhanced my bravado. We veered back and forth tacking with the wind, him doing all the work, his attention on sailing and showing me a good time. I let the water; wind and sun relax me while watching his nimble arms and trim body guide the boat.

Case is less developed and wider than Budd Inlet. The sun warmed us. I took off my pea coat and sat on it. After a couple of hours of sailing, it was past noon. He asked if we could eat. I was hungry, not having eaten breakfast, and nodded agreement. While sailing, we’d hardly talked other than his giving me directions or explaining what he was doing regarding sailing. He cut the sail and guided the boat near shore using the little motor.

We were no more than fifty yards offshore. Despite its proximity, the water and a tidal mudflat ensured privacy. He checked to ensure the water was deep enough for the keel, tossed over a little anchor, its chain rattle down, the anchor took hold and the bow swung to face the breeze. Anchorage secured he turned to me.

“Let’s see what’s in the box you brought.”

Smiling at the 'box" innuendo, now relaxed, Cobra out of control, I went below to the galley, pulled the pillbox out of the night bag, came back up and handed it to him, careful not to touch him.

"Here, this is for my box.”

Without waiting for his answer, I went back below, sat on the bow bed, and was naked when he came down.

He was taken aback by my boldness, his penis already pushed hard against a pant leg, he was going to say something but I put a finger to my lips for him to hush and spread my legs.

"Undress but don't touch me. I want our first contact to be your entering me."

He quickly stripped, sheathed his penis and made its confronting my vagina our first touch. As he slid in, I reached up and grabbed him to me, pulled him on the boat’s bow bed and entwined our legs.

We trashed about in the confine between the bed’s mattress and the ceiling which created the deck above. Our heads at the bow end, there was not enough headroom for kissing as he thrust in and out. I closed my eyes and finished as he went into a confined frenzy mode and ejaculated. Spent we inched back to the galley area for space and fresh air. As we redressed, I explained I preferred desert before meals rather than after. We kissed for the first time; the faint odor of ashtray evident from his pipe smoking. He used the little galley garbage bag for the spent condom. I was pleased he didn’t throw it overboard.

We sat in the open stern and ate lunch with my bottle of white Pinot Gris.

After a leisurely lunch, he hauled up the anchor while I tidied the leftovers and the galley area. Soon he had the sail up and again we were skimming along the water. I sat back and intermittently watched him, the shore and the water through my sunglasses. Toward evening we sailed back toward Olympia and the marina, docked and ate dinner at the Budd Bay Café.

Afterward, we went back to the boat and anchored out in the Inlet. It was a warm, cloudy, evening. He set up pads in the stern for us to lie on and brought out heavy wool grey blankets.

After setting me down on his improvised nest, I got up, went to the little sink in the galley, wet a hand towel, took a pubic area wipe down and re-wet the washcloth and washed his. Cleansed, I stimulated him orally until his penis was rigid and quivered in delight to the swirl of my tongue. It was circumcised, about seven inches in length with a bent to the left.

I arose, looked up at the lights of Olympia, the Governor Hotel, and the illuminated Capitol dome, had him lay on his back, pulled a blanket over us, squatted over him and guided his penis in while steadying myself against the boat’s rocking by a gunwall grip with my other hand.

Snuggled together, I looked back at the marina restaurant where we’d just eaten and rode my captain as the boat rocked gently to and fro.

With my enlarged breast in his face, they got their first real alien test run. They passed his close inspection. To the lights in the distance, the rocking boat and the lap, lap of the water on the boat hull, I experienced an intense teased orgasm. Sated I rolled off and let him finish on top.

Once parted, we rolled on our backs under the blanket and stared at the night sky. The clouds, parted; the stars shown but the lights of Olympia twinkled more. The lap, lap, of waves against the boat, now lulled rather than enticed. We talked about ourselves, not about family but he did say his wife left him for another; they had one child who attended Santa Clara University and he was pleased he’d met me.

He knew I didn’t like cigarette smoke but asked if it was okay if he lit his pipe. With my consent, he retrieved a little leather bag. Inside was a pipe, a tobacco pouch, Zippo lighter, and little scraper. I thought of Dad, his dragon Zippo lighter, how he could flip it open and light the wick in one twist of his hand, bring it to his cigarette, light up and close and re-pocket it in another sleight of hand movement.

As William went about preparing his pipe it was evident, he was going through a ritual. With the little scraper, he scoured the pipe’s bowl, tapped out residual ash, opened and pinched out tobacco from its pouch, tamped it in the bowl with his thumb and then admired his handiwork.

With the pipe loaded, he retrieved the chrome Zippo lighter, flicked open its lid and with a thumb twirl of the flint wheel, sparks flashed and viola there was fire. Tilting the lighter on its side, the flame over the pipe bowl, he drew air down the stem, the flame sucked down to meet the tobacco and there was a red glow. Closing the lighter with a click using both hands unlike Dad’s one hand gesture, a wisp of pipe smoke arose as he fussed to put everything back in place.

His actions revealed he was the quintessential fastidious type who wanted everything just so, a man who didn’t tinker afar and would never marry again. I knew his house would be clean but of odd design to fit his peculiarities.

I’d moved to sit upwind but was surprised the smoke gave off a warm pleasant aroma, not the stench of a cigarette. He explained the tobacco was cherry flavored and mixed special for him; another sign of his needing things just the way he wanted which probably included sex. I decided to learn his fastidious sexual ritual and let him, “Have it his way.”, if mutually enjoyable.

Despite my misgivings of tobacco smoke, it all added to the agreeable glow of the evening. Only the faint ashtray odor of his mustache when kissed detracted.

Soon we were sleepy, the second Dramamine’s drowsy influence took effect and we dragged our blankets below and slept on the bow bed but with heads facing the open hatch door of the stern, not the claustrophobic bow. I put on my turtleneck to stay warm and never wore the nightie.

He woke me in the morn, spooned up against my buttocks, a hand fondling my breasts. I don't like to kiss in the morning without first brushing my teeth. He came sheathed from the rear, started slow, let his penis rest then perk up inside. Then he started little thrusts in and out until he became more excited and fell into a modest thumping rhythm.

We took it relaxed with no hurry. It took him ten minutes to bump against me to finally ejaculate in a little spasm as he gripped my breasts. I enjoyed our morning tryst but didn’t have an orgasm. I decided sex on small sailing boats was too complicated to fully enjoy. It was my last time of sex on a boat except on a cruise ship with hubby.

He got up and made coffee in the little galley while I peed in the little commode which he explained had a reservoir waste tank to avoid feeding fish on the flush. This tidbit pleased my environmental bent. We sat sipping a strong black coffee brew and watched Olympia and the Port come alive as the sun rose from the east to bath the Capitol dome and the marina aglow with daylight. He suggested we dock and have breakfast but it was time for me to go. We putted up to the marina dock, I clambered out, glad to be back on terra firma, even if it was a floating dock that swayed.

Author Notes: Accepting her need for admiration of men the wife sets up a date with a man met while visiting her son at college.

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