Going for a Sail: A Voyage of Love and Lust

This was written a long time ago. It's not without its faults. Some may not like the first person narration. It might be a touch saccharine.

I considered changing things but have decided to just put it out there as it was written. To let it go.

Copyright of the author reserved.

"Would you like to come on an adventure with me?"

We were lying on the bed, your head on my chest, your left leg draped across my thighs and fingers idly caressing my arm. It probably wasn't the first thing you expected me to say in the lingering glow of our lovemaking. During the ten minutes or so after reaching the heights we had simply left our communication to the non-verbal.

"Yes." That one unhesitating word spoke volumes, telling me that so long as it was with me you would do just about anything.

After a long pause, extended by the fact that you were kissing me softly along my collarbone, your curiosity got the better of you. "So, what's the adventure?"

"A sail to France."

"Wow. How long will we need?"

"Five or six days. I know that might be a tough call on the childcare front. It's just something I'd really like to share with you."

"I'd like to share too. I'm sure we can sort something out."

The previous summer I had introduced you to my passion, well, the other passion at any rate. You had taken to sailing like a duck to water if that's not making things too watery. I can't say I was especially surprised given two things I knew about you. First, that you are ever determined to succeed at what you put your mind to and second, you are a good driver. A boat is a very different creature from a car on a road in many respects but it's a vehicle, driven by a person. Aside from the addition of a spaghetti factory of ropes, just like a car. Sort of.

My boat wasn't big, it wasn't fancy or luxurious but it was mine and I loved it. Boats, as every real sailor will tell you, if they're being honest, have personalities. It starts with having a name, Petrel in the case of my old Sadler 25. They acquire animate qualities and demand affection and respect. Oh, and they are always, always female. Of course, in a contest you'd probably come out on top, probably.

Despite your initial uncertainty borne of unfamiliarity you had come out on a couple of day sails with me since the first foray. I had tried to choose warm, gentle days that would make things fun but not too exciting. Whilst I might quite like the thrill of bashing into short, sharp, grey waves on a cold November weekend, getting soaked by spray, I had an intuition that conditions like that would be unlikely to win you over to the joys to be had from messing about in boats, sailing boats.

This trip was a different proposition to any of those days. Sailing is great fun; sailing across the sea to a foreign land is a true adventure. In this age one can board a tube with wings and be transported to anywhere in the world in a matter of hours with no real sense of distance, of truly travelling. A train ride to Europe is a little better but not by much. A road trip can be good if you don't simply join a motorway and keep the right foot down until you arrive. Nothing though can beat the sense of adventure, of achievement in the journey itself, as much as sailing through day and night and finally tying up in a foreign port in time for a well deserved dinner in a dockside restaurant, or breakfast in a pavement cafe. The world looks different when approached from the sea in a small boat. Every arrival feels like a new discovery. I wanted to share these experiences, which had been so important in my life, with you, hoping that you might feel the same thrill.

And so with my enthusiasm imparted to you, you took no persuading to take the plunge and be my First Mate on a trip across the Channel, a jaunt across the sea to 'la belle France'. Not at the narrow end, too busy with ships and too many sand bars for my liking. It might be farther to cross, but from the Isle of Wight to near the Channel Islands is easier on the navigation front and the ships largely form orderly lines of traffic at this point.

We had a week and I thought that was plenty to get over and back with a day or two to potter on the other side.

What had started as a post-coital fantasy sometime in the dark nights of February came around very quickly. Over the preceding weeks I had made sure Petrel was provisioned and ready to go. I had moved her over the course of a couple of day sails from Rye to Lymington, Hampshire. The appointed Friday fell free of court work for both of us, as luck would have it. So, after a morning drive down, we sailed over to Yarmouth on the Isle of Wight in the afternoon and had an early fish and chips supper in The Bugle on Market Square. We gave the ship a last check over and set off in the evening sunshine.

Slipping out through the Needles Channel on the ebb tide, we experienced the strange, slightly eerie, sensation of speeding past the glowing, coloured cliffs of Alum Bay and the white, chalk Needles themselves, whilst only sailing gently through the water; such is the wonder of the tides. In my slightly euphoric state I serenaded you with sea shanties! I had even printed out the lyrics to a few so you could join in. And, if the truth be told, so I wouldn't have to keep repeating the only verses I knew the words to off by heart! I was trying hard to make the experience fun and to distract you from any natural trepidation that might creep in. I think you entered into the spirit and were not just humouring me. No, I knew you did, that infectious smile was plain to see.

As evening advanced, I insisted that we donned waterproofs, lifejackets and harnesses. I didn't want to take any chances even if the weather was set fair. Skipper's rules; no arguments.

Once out of the tidal spate in the Needles channel, the true wind transpired as a steady Force 3, East South East, perfect. Full main and genoa set, more or less on a beam reach, we would be able to average 5 knots without effort. The waves were a reasonable size but benignly rolling rather than foaming white horses and anyway, they would decrease as we crossed into the lee of France and the Cotentin Peninsula in particular.

Once out to the Fairway buoy, we set course for the Alderney Race some 60 nautical miles away. You were to take the first watch. I had the autopilot set so you wouldn't have to steer, just keep a lookout and not fall asleep. You sat at the forward end of the cockpit, under the spray hood and out of the breeze. The standing orders were to step out and scan 360 degrees every 10 minutes, especially checking behind the genoa. I wanted to be up when we approached and crossed the shipping channels in the second half of the crossing. It was a mild night and, wanting to put you at ease, I put one of the long cushions from the saloon and a sleeping bag on the cockpit bench. You had strict instructions to wake me if you were at all concerned, no hesitation for fear of disturbing me. It was a glorious, fiery sunset; the sun appearing to sink into the sea. We half expected a cloud of steam to rise. Then the gradual appearance of fantastic stars with the whole sky just a mass of pinpricks from horizon to horizon. There was no moon initially but it would rise later. Across the sky swept the powerful beams of St Catherine's Head, Needles and Anvil Point lighthouses.

You woke me with a smile in time for the 00:48 shipping forecast, made coffee for me and then I tucked you up. I did offer to get you down below but you wanted to stay up top with me. As I sipped my hot drink I listened to you enthusing about the wonder of sailing through the night, the stars, ships in the distance and the phosphorescence in our wake. I grinned at the success of my seduction. Then you slipped into dream land looking serene.

As we entered the shipping lanes I took the autopilot off to hand steer around potential close encounters. Apart from one small deviation, out of an abundance of caution, it was a quiet night for shipping, no dramas with the behemoth's of the sea. The alien Cap de la Hague glow, thrown far and wide from the intense floodlights at the nuclear reprocessing plant there, dominated the horizon to the south and east of our course. Lighthouses on the French coast and on Alderney swept the sky. With sunrise came the rocky, forbidding countenance of Alderney itself, like a permanently moored battleship. I resolved to take you there some time, maybe on the return trip. Leaving the fortifications of that island to starboard we stepped onto the conveyor belt of the Race. It was on the early ebb, before the full stream had kicked in. Given the smooth water, courtesy of the wind direction, you would hardly believe the fearsome reputation that this patch of water holds. I put out a line with spinner and feathered hooks. A trio of mackerel bit within 30 mins. Fruits de mer for supper.

You woke as the sun gained strength. Kisses were shared. You offered to make breakfast and coffee and I readily acquiesced. Perhaps unsurprisingly you came up looking a bit green but soon settled. Bacon sandwiches, perfect; sea air makes you hungry! Sark appeared in the early morning light, dark and brooding at a distance. As we approached, we could see how it is a plateau raised above the waves. The cliffs all around are cut by indented bays and ravines filled with trees and shrubs. We stood off the coastline skirting the off-lying rocks. The growing warmth of the day caused us to start stripping off the layers, lifejackets and harnesses, oilies. We were down to t-shirts by the time we rounded into Dixcart Bay on the southern side of the island.

Mid-morning found us anchored in the bay, protected from the breeze by the high, steeply sloping land on three sides, the water glassy and sparkling. The engine, which I'd started just in case at the end, went silent. In the peace broken only by the occasional plaintive cry of a seagull I wrapped you in my arms as we stood on the foredeck. With my hand in your hair I tilted your face to mine and we kissed with loving tenderness. The familiar electricity flowed with the enhanced vigour that follows adventure. Suddenly it was hot in the absence of the relentless breeze. I led you back to the cockpit and pulled your t-shirt over your head and did the same with mine. I unclipped your bra and closed my eyes in simple pleasure as your breasts grazed against and then pressed into my chest. The cockpit was facing away from the land, we were hidden behind the spray hood and dodgers, so even if anyone was on the beach 200m away they couldn't see anything. Without speaking we undressed each other completely and then made love, languidly, with you stretched out beneath me on the cockpit bench, this was the consummation of our journey, not with great fireworks just connecting in our own special intimacy. Afterwards, we went down into the cabin to sleep, exhausted and happy. We came to in the mid-afternoon, inflated the dinghy and rowed ashore. A good stretch of the legs was called for so we walked up the gully at the head of the beach, through woodland that could be anywhere in southern England or northern France. Then turned to the left, up onto the isthmus, with dramatic sheer drops either side, linking Sark to Little Sark. Fabulous views stretched out over the rock strewn channels. I knew you could understand the lure of venturing by boat.

After a swift row back to the boat to collect stuff we returned to the pebbly beach. Driftwood made a fire in a stone pit and mackerel was soon grilling, watched with a bottle of Sancerre and washed down with more of the same. Meanwhile the sun was just turning to gold in the early evening.

Back on the boat, we put swimmers on, put the boarding ladder down and swam around, splashing and playing. Once back aboard, shivering slightly in the evening air, we rinsed off with some fresh water and I rubbed you dry, wrapped you up and kissed your sun blushed face. Then, down inside the boat, we made love again, more energetically feeling refreshed. We tasted the sea on each other with hungry mouths, and I made you come with my fingers and tongue; relished your flavour flooding over the tang of the sea. It seemed that we were in our own little world in the forepeak. Your skin flushed again, not from the sun, wind or salt water this time. The rush of hard, urgent rutting took us. I pinned you down before turning you over and driving deeply into you from behind. Then after snoozing a while and a glass of port (always in the ship's stores) we made slow, intense love, almost tantric in the economy of our movements.

We had another big sail tomorrow. I planned to have you in France for dinner, double entendre intended! An early start was called for and we went out to sleep like flicking a switch by 9pm.

As breakfast was cooking, we got the anchor aweigh and we were off in the early morning light. We had to motor initially on a mirror-like sea until the breeze filled in after about an hour. More to the North, maybe we'd pay for this beneficence of the weather gods later in the week!

Good progress was made. Then, dolphins! A pod came racing across the sea, clearly diverting their course to come and check us out. Jumping and diving alongside, playing under our keel and in our wake. So close you could almost touch them. There were gannets, a basking shark and numerous other seabirds. I was glad you had had the chance to see these things.

We left Jersey to port and then France hove into view as we passed the foreboding Roches Douvre lighthouse standing on a rocky reef, awash in the middle of the sea. That was the cue for me to get you to run the little courtesy Tricolore up to the crosstrees as we approached foreign coastal waters.

Then we negotiated the tricky entrance to the Trieux River, passing Ile de Brehat at the entrance. That was one of my favourite anchorages and we'd stop there on the way back out. The wind direction made it simple to ghost up the river. Sailing between wide spread banks, initially rose granite glowing its signature pink in the low sun but then blending to the greens of trees and fields. Through the narrows just before Lezardrieux. A marina here, luxury, showers and everything!

Once tied up, we both headed off to stand under hot showers, bliss. I sat on the quayside watching the world in the evening sunshine until you appeared, glowing, golden, and gorgeous.

"So my love, out to dinner?"

"Yes please hun."

After dropping off the towels and washbags we set off into the little town up a small hill from the river. We came across a small creperie that looked familiar from a jaunt years ago. Good a place as any if memory served. Just basic, rural Breton fare. Delicious seafood crepes. Huge portions, washed down with a bottle of Muscadet. One of those wines that taste wonderful drunk in context. From the estuary of the Loire in Western France it's a white with a slightly salty taste, perfect with seafood. It doesn't travel though, it just never tastes as good in an English dining room!

Stomachs full and feeling warm and slightly fuzzy with the wine we strolled back to the boat in the last of the fading light. We sat with you resting, back against my chest, watching the riverscape fade as we sipped some red wine. My free hand slipped inside your clothing and played almost absent mindedly with your breasts, cupping the soft under curves and gently circling and flicking over your nipples. Your head fell back against my shoulder and I could see your eyes closed, lips slightly parted and your breath coming in little pants accompanied by low, soft moans. My hand drifted down over your tummy and inside the waistband of your shorts. Finding it too restricted, I flicked open the button and pushed down the zip. Now my palm could cup your mons over your knickers, fingers gently caressing the slowly swelling lips through the thin fabric. As your arousal grew I felt your mouth and teeth kissing, sucking and nipping at my ear. Slipping my hand inside the satin, I curled two fingers firmly into your wet sex. I could feel you riding my hand with little movements of your hips. Placing my glass down across the cockpit I resumed the fondling of your breasts. I pinched and lightly twisted your nipple. Within a few minutes your orgasm was obvious, stifled maybe, given our location, but betrayed by the gush of your juices and the stiffening of your body as the wave of pleasure swept through you.

"Is that how a captain is meant to look after his mate?" you asked eventually.

"Definitely, got to keep her contented."

You nuzzled into my neck as I took a mouthful of wine.

"So, how does the mate look after her captain?" You had turned sideways and were unbuttoning my short-sleeved shirt, spreading your hands out across my chest.

"I think you'll find a way", I said, a little lamely, as you straddled my lap and started grinding yourself against the hard ridge of my cock trapped in my shorts.

"Not good enough", you admonished, "I want to know otherwise I might not satisfy you properly." The look on your face was priceless. The sea air seemed to have made you very playful; I wasn't about to complain.

"Ok. Right now you could undo my shorts, then ride me properly."

"Aye aye captain." It was hard for both of us to keep a straight face. Then I felt the heat of your molten cunt swallow my erection whole. Suddenly I didn't feel like laughing.

You seemed to take pride in making me come in as short a time as possible. Despite my efforts to resist, a few minutes was all it took. The stars in my mind mingled with stars overhead. Neither of us was complaining as we melted into a long, passionate kiss.

"Time for bed gorgeous."

The next day, Monday, dawned grey and wet. Disappointing but we had been very fortunate so far. The forecast promised an improvement later. After a walk into town for fresh bread, croissants and some other provisions, we set off down river in the drizzle. Visibility began to improve as we left the land and threaded through the rocky channel of the estuary. Fortunately so because the entrance to Port de la Corderie, the little anchorage on Ile de Brehat, is hard to spot even without peering through the murk. I let you steer knowing you would be apprehensive with all the rocks around but also knowing you'd be fine. We were just puttering under engine and I stood in the bows using my arms to signal which way to turn as we followed the marks. Once into the anchorage it was hard to see how we'd got there, as the stone teeth jutting up out of the water seemed all surrounding. I signaled for you to put the engine in neutral as we glided over the sandy bottom. As the anchor chain rattled out you gently reversed to avoid it landing in a heap on top of the anchor. Then cut and all was silent.

"Good job Jo. Lunchtime."

"Zach, is it just me or is it always meal time when sailing?"

"Nope, you're right. Good huh, and you don't seem to put on weight, must be magic."

Lunch was one of those wonderfully simple but delicious affairs. Fresh baguette, broken open and eaten with crudely cut chucks of Camembert and Roquefort. A bottle of fresh, chilled Chablis helped it all slip down with a satisfying buzz. After lazing in the sunshine for a while, I suggested having a swim.

Back in the cockpit afterwards I offered to give you a massage.

"Mmm... that'd be lovely."

I got you to lie on your front on a towel before unclipping your bikini top. Taking a generous dollop of moisturiser in my hands I smoothed it across the golden skin of your back. No need to warm it first, the sun had seen to that. I worked firmly and methodically from your shoulders and neck. Smoothing my way down the golden path of your back.

Pub: 25 Dec 2020 13:04 UTC
Views: 229