by Jerry Donaldson
(about 775 words)
My name is Jimmy MacDougall and I’ve lived here on the cay all my life. I make my living doing this and that around the wharves over in Jamestown. Mend nets, mend sails, do a little boat building, a little fishing. And I do salvage.
In this part of the Caribbean there’s plenty of shallow water, plenty of shoals. Plenty of danger for the big square-riggers that can’t point so high to the wind. And in the late summer big nasty storms come out of nowhere. Blow plenty hard. Big rum schooners from Cuba headed for New Orleans might wind up on a lee shore. Then it’s onto the beach and straight to Davy Jones locker. A wooden vessel, she’ll break up pretty quick once she’s in the surf. And then that precious cargo, matey, it’ll be spread all up and down the beach, there for the taking.
Maybe the crew gets off before she comes apart, or maybe not. I don’t care so much, it’s the cargo I’m after. We move fast, you know, me and my gal Karrie. Get the wagon, hitch up the team and get to the beach. Then get into the surf and start dragging out the goods.
Dangerous work, it is, working in the breakers. There’s broken spars, planks, cargo, all sorts of stuff, all mixed up together, swirling and tumbling. And there’s curls of line there, ready to foul your feet and pull you down and away. So you gotta jump, old cock, and jump fast.
And there’s the bodies, the drowned sailors, poor buggers. And them that ain’t yet drowned, you can hear ’em screaming sometimes out beyond the surf line, with the rain coming in flat and the wind howling. You can hear ‘em out there, but there ain’t nothing to be done. It’s too wild. So you just gather your salvage and offer ‘em your prayers.
So, anyhow, one night last summer I’m sitting in my rocker reading, and it’s blowing real hard. The flame in the lamp is guttering, the shingles on the roof are rattling and rain is hitting the windows like stones.
Then Karrie’s coming in through the back door. She’s been out on our wharf securing the boats. I told her don’t worry, I took care of everything an hour ago, but Karrie, she’s a particular gal, and she likes things done right. So she’s been double-checking me.
“Hey, Karrie,” I says. She shucks off her slicker and hangs it on a nail. She’s wearing a rough cotton shirt that’s soaked right though. I see her small breasts through the thin fabric, just as pert and perfect as you please. Her nipples are hard with the cold and, by gum, I feel that familiar feeling coming over me.
“Hey, Jimmy,” she says. “The boats are fine and it’s blowing sixty out there, at least.” Then she comes over and stands in front of me. She puts her right hand on my head and strokes, like you’d pat a dog, you know. She’s always done that, it’s a thing she does, and it gets right to me. So I slips my hand up the front of her shirt and cups her left breast, just cups it you know. It feels just right to me.
“Don’t be starting anything you can’t finish, old man,” she says to me in that special purr she uses sometimes because she knows it drives me wild. Then her right hand slides down to the back of my neck and she leans down and kisses me hard on the lips. Full red lips and wet tongue, and the old feeling’s on me and I know I’ve got to have her right now. I want her so bad my gut hurts, and I’m as hard as a rock.
Then her left hand is sliding down the front of my heavy wool pants, and she is taking hold of my manhood, and stroking, stroking and I’m fit to pop my cork, so I grabs her hand.
“Whoa, slow down sweetheart,” I says to her. “What’s gotten into you all of a sudden?”
Then her lips are nibbling on my ear, and she’s whispering. “Jimmy-boy,” she says, “there’s a schooner on the beach down around the point and the rum casks are coming ashore. Let’s you and me get down there and pick up a few. Then we’ll come home, have a couple of hot rums. And then into bed and you’ll get the ride of your life, old man!”
On The Beach 