Date: Fri, 8 Oct 2004 08:56:51 +0100
From: Nick Turner <nickturner@breath.org.uk>
Subject: Dancing to the Music of their Hearts; Chapter 2

Dancing to the Music of their Hearts
The Scott Saga

by Nick Turner   (nickturner@breath.org.uk)

Chapter 2

2.1	Still John.

John headed South. After all these years in Lancashire, he wanted sun, and
plenty of it. As he drove, he pondered his future. He gave some thought to
living in London, but that was far too far inland; though he had found city
life exciting for the few days he dwelt there, he didn't fancy it
long-term. His new life would have to be near water; his lonely childhood
had been comforted by the Swallows and Amazons books of Arthur Ransome, and
although it had never been permitted him as a child, he had always longed
with all his heart to sail. So, having spent an uncomfortable night in the
car, parked at a motorway service station, he found himself at the South
Coast of England, almost as far away as he could go from Lancashire without
a passport, and discovered a comfortable family hotel in Chichester, in
West Sussex. He showered, shaved, and slept heavily, going out first thing
in the morning to look around. He liked what he saw; the unprepossessing,
but pretty, little mediaeval town with a nearby small harbour was just what
he wanted. He found an estate agent, and without even inspecting the
building bought outright a small upstairs flat near the mediaeval
Cathedral. Since he had told the solicitor to sell all the furniture from
his parents' home, he had to begin all over again. This was not easy, as he
had no experience of what he would need, but almost unlimited money is a
great solver of problems, and before too long he had a comfortable home
that felt, at last, something like home ought to be, though without anybody
but himself to occupy it. In pride of place, over the fireplace, he put a
photograph of himself with all the Henry family.

When it was all done, his face lost the grim set that it had held for
several days now, and relaxed. It all hit him suddenly; he screamed and
shouted and sobbed and wept, and this time there was no Pat with his strong
arms to comfort him. The deed was done, and he would have to make the best
of it all.


One evening, a few days later, he stood in his bathroom and looked at his
reflection in the large mirror. He pulled off his shirt, and tried to size
himself up. John Scott at 18: `Not a bad face, even quite handsome' he
thought, `though my glasses don't do much for me.' His arms, shoulders and
chest were thin, but his stomach was a little flabby, hanging over the belt
of his polyester trousers which his mother had bought him. His skin was
pale, having rarely seen the sun. `I look like a nerd' he said out loud,
and, not for the first time, `I need a life!'

He knew nobody in Chichester who could give advice on getting a life; in
fact he knew nobody, full stop; those to whom he would have naturally
turned, he had thrust away from him. So he bought himself a
state-of-the-art Apple Macintosh computer--he had learned to love them at
school--and turned to the internet for help. He tried all sorts of grooming
and lifestyle pages without being inspired until finally he came to the
pages of Abercrombie and Fitch models. As he looked at those unbelievably
handsome young men romping happily and rough-housing shirtless together,
his heart beat faster, and something came alive in him. `I want to do
that,' he thought. `That is what I want to be; that's what I want to look
like; that's how I want to live!' And it is undoubtedly true that those
lads reminded him happily of the Henry family, with their athletic fun and
frank physical affection.

The following morning, he went to an optician to enquire about contact
lenses. The same day, he was wearing them, and, though a little
uncomfortable, feeling and looking a whole lot better. He threw out all his
old clothes in a black plastic sack, keeping only one set, the least
objectionable, to go shopping in. He went to all the outdoor, rugged,
clothes shops, and soon had outfitted himself as he thought Messrs
Abercrombie and Fitch would approve. He bought a couple of suits for
Sundays. Then he overcame his initial revulsion, as he remembered the
unpleasant jocks at school, and enrolled himself in a gym. The super-fit
`fitness technician' looked amused at this shapeless young lad who was so
determined to get himself a body to be proud of, but he ran John through
the machines, workouts and techniques, and John determined to spend at
least two hours almost every day in the gym to try and get the body he
longed for. He even enrolled himself in a swimming class; that had been
another thing that had been neglected, and if he was going to sail, he
would need to be able to swim.

`Absolute ruthlessness' he muttered to himself again.

And so, finally, when he was feeling less ashamed of himself, and more
ready to meet the world, in the summer of his eighteenth year he began to
live his dream, enrolling in a sailing course operating out of Chichester
Harbour, working his way up from small dinghies until, a year later, now
nineteen, he joined the crew of a great four-mast sailing ship and sailed
in it most of the way around the world, eventually gaining his
qualifications. Finally, he had found life, and he found it utterly
intoxicating. Sailing gave him everything he needed; a chance to be
outdoors for the first time in his life, a tan, an engrossing interest, a
chance to develop his body physically, and above all, friends.



2.2

For all his strange upbringing, John, once he had recovered his
self-possession, was a gregarious and friendly young man; the new
experience of people, sailing folk for the most part, with whom he could
share interests, brought out the best in him and gave him confidence. He
was also generous with his money, though cautiously, since never would he
let on to his friends just how rich he actually was. And to his surprise,
he found himself genuinely popular. But as his preoccupation with mere
emotional survival began to fade into the background, new issues began to
arise within him, and worry him; above all, the realization that he had
more than a passing interest in the other young men who sailed with him. He
was having to face the fact that his attraction to others of the same sex
was not just a phase, but that he was, to put it simply, gay, and would
have to learn to live with that.

If you are surprised, dear reader, that it took John until he was nineteen
to properly figure this out, especially given all that has gone before,
then it has to be explained by his upbringing. An only child, especially
when kept away from others, is often a slow developer emotionally, and
John's case was particularly difficult. All feelings had to be kept firmly
under wraps lest any crack reveal something that his parents could
manipulate and use as an excuse to violate his privacy yet again. And
besides this, there is the fact that your average devout Catholic boy, like
John, tends to resist the lure of sex much longer than his non-religious
neighbour; any expression of sex is discouraged, and any homosexual
inclinations anxiously thought of and hoped as and prayed for as belonging
to merely a `phase'. John was perfectly well aware that he had only been
attracted to men--Pat Henry especially--for years, but he confidently
expected that all that would change in due course, and he would soon find
himself attracted to women, falling in love, and finally marrying. But now,
despite all these influences, John's feelings could no longer be
denied. Things were simply not going to change, and that was that.

It was in a pub in Ireland that he finally admitted it to himself; the ship
had berthed at Dublin, and the crew had split up to do some shopping. John
was in the large cabin he shared with five other fit and tanned young men,
and, as he lay on his bunk, he watched them change clothes to go ashore. He
began to observe himself observing, and he admitted to himself, as if for
the first time, this overwhelming desire for their bodies; to hold them, to
run his hands all over those smooth muscular chests, to kiss their lips,
even to actually be those other people; he had felt these things before,
and wanked himself off from time to time with the memory of another lad in
the shared showers, but he realized that this was all getting serious, and
needed thinking about, because it was not going to go away. This was for
life.

So refusing the invitations of the others to join them, he waited until
they had left, then eased himself out of his bunk, adjusting his painful
erection in his shorts. He took a quick shower, and took care of the
erection; returning to the cabin, he took off the blue soccer shorts that
were his habitual sole garment on board and pulled on a pair of khaki
docker shorts. No underwear; all his underwear, along with that of all the
other first-time sailors, had been flung overboard the moment the ship left
harbour on his first voyage. It was a tradition on board that everyone went
commando; it took a little getting used to, but now he would have it no
other way. John pulled on a polo shirt, pushed his feet into some deck
shoes, flung another shirt and a pair of shorts into a bag with his washing
things, shoved his wallet into a pocket, then went up the stairway and onto
the deck.

`I'm just off now, Skipper,' he said to the burly bearded captain. `I'll be
back tomorrow or the day after'.

`On your own, John?' was the reply. `That's not like you.'

`Yeah, I've got some things to see to; it's been a while since I was in
Dublin.'

`You know Dublin?'

`Yes; it's where my mother was from, though we have no family here now.'

John fended off further curiosity and managed to make his escape.


He had always liked Dublin; its mixture of the buzz of a capital city, and
the friendly atmosphere of a provincial town made him feel immediately at
home; the open and warm faces around him were unthreatening; even the
teenagers seemed to have none of the sullen hostility so common in England.

`Perhaps one day I'll settle down here,' he thought.

He wandered the busy elegant Georgian streets, walking briskly past the
shops, not being able to resist checking out his own reflection in the
plate glass windows. John Scott at nearly 20 was a much more handsome
creature than he had been a mere eighteen months ago when he had left
Lancashire. Now, his smooth, tanned, chest and shoulders were big and
well-defined, and his six-pack stomach was flat and muscular, tapering down
to a narrow waist, attractive backside and slim but muscular legs. He had
abandoned the contact lenses a few months previously--they were difficult
to maintain on board ship--and had had laser surgery on his eyes, praying
that all would turn out as well as it actually did. And now, all in all, he
was justifiably proud of how he looked.

It was good to be on dry land again, much as he loved sailing, and as he
got used to walking once more on a surface that wasn't rocking around, he
picked up speed, his cock bouncing and rubbing against the seam of his
shorts, a feeling he enjoyed so much that he put a spring in his step and
moved even faster. He saw amusement on the face of a man sitting on a wall,
who could see quite well what was going on; John looked down and saw that
he had begun to spring another erection, and it was only too obvious to any
observer. He went bright red, which made the man smile more broadly. Damn!


He headed into the town centre, to Bus Aras, the bus station at Store
Street, and simply took the first bus that was headed out of
town. `Ceannanus Mor' it said on the front. `Where the fuck's that?' he
thought, but it was all in the spirit of adventure, and so he asked for a
return ticket there. He saw the amusement in the driver's eyes, and knew
that he had got the pronounciation all wrong; `One return to Kells' said
the driver, handing the ticket, and taking John's money.

`Kells!' he thought. `If it's Kells, why not call it Kells? Why do they
have to do all this in bloody Irish?'

`Because you're in bloody Ireland!' he answered himself, and chuckled
aloud.

The journey took a little over an hour and a half, and John was wishing
that he had not gone quite so far. But it was done now, and he enjoyed the
lush, though flat, County Meath countryside. They passed Tara of the Kings,
now just lumps in a green field, and through Navan--John vaguely remembered
that Pierce Brosnan was born here--and before long the bus pulled into the
little historic town of Kells, or Ceannanus Mor, as the official name
is. As the bus ground up the hill towards the centre, John was touched how
most of the people on the bus made the sign of the cross as they passed the
`chapel'--it was a huge modern church--and some of the older farmer-type
men raised their tweed caps and hats. John was a Catholic himself, a legacy
from his Irish mother, and about the one thing apart from life itself and
money that he felt grateful to his parents for. And of course the example
of the Henrys was still strong in him, so he had continued to practise the
faith whenever he could.

Off the bus, John quickly oriented himself, and found the Headfort Arms. He
booked himself a room for the night, and set off to explore. The rather
brutal sixties' `chapel' proved to be even more vast than it promised from
the road, and John was intrigued to see that only four Masses were
celebrated on a Sunday; that meant that almost a quarter of the entire
population of the town could fit into this building at one time. John
looked at the ancient Celtic monuments of the town, the four mutilated High
Crosses, the Round Tower, and `Columcille's House', the supposed home of St
Columba, and as evening drew on, he sighed, and decided to do what he came
to do. It could be put off no longer.

He found an old newsagents' shop, and bought himself an exercise book and
some pens. Then he went and had a quick supper in the hotel (curry and rice
with the surprising additions of cabbage and chips), moving out as soon as
he could. He found a little bar just up the road, and, under the amused
scrunity of the peroxide-blonde landlady, ordered himself a pint of
Guinness, sat down, took out his exercise book and pens, and started
writing the story of his life so far.


And, in short, he came out to himself that evening, and wrote his heart
out. He knew that his life as a gay man was not going to be easy. It would
be fantastic if he could just either disbelieve in his Catholic faith, or
else take a pill and change himself to a straight man, but to do either was
impossible. He couldn't bring himself to work the compromise that many gay
catholics do, to think the Church is fine on everything except gay issues,
where it suddenly gets it all wrong. `It's either all right, or it's all
bollocks' he wrote, `and I can't think that it's all bollocks, even if I
wanted to'. He would just have to do the best he could, and leave it in
God's hands. `But I've been too lonely for too many years' he continued,
`and I can't live the rest of my life like that; I can't bear the thought
of doing without love. And why the fuck should I have to?'

John continued to write long into the evening, and finally at about half
past eleven, and after four pints, he shut the exercise book, and headed
back to the hotel. He felt that at least he had got a handle on the
problem; that he had identified who he was, and he was, on the whole, happy
with that, and happy with himself and the way his life was going. He would
have to wait and see what the future would hold.


2.3

It was in the South of France, Nice to be precise, that John's life
changed.

After he left the great ship and returned to Chichester for the winter,
John had planned out what to do with his life for the next few years. He
took a trip to London, to the great Boat Show at Olympia, and bought
himself a small cruising yacht, with comfortable accomodation for four,
which he named the Saucy Mrs Trusspot, after a sketch from the sixties'
radio show called Round the Horne that had made him laugh. He then went
into business in a small way; he would take people cruising around the
Mediterranean during the holiday season: he would sail the boat for them,
or help them to do so themselves if they took a fancy to it, and cook for
them, since he had taken classes to continue what Bernadette had begun in
him, and become quite an accomplished chef. He did not need the money, so
his charges were reasonable, and he occupied himself doing what he loved
most of all, simply being on the water and being around other people.

A friend from the big sailing ship had become a journalist on one of the
national Sunday newspapers, and one weekend there appeared in the colour
supplement a feature on John and his boat. The photographs were beautiful,
the boat was beautiful, the sailor was beautiful, and the write-up was
flattering. `All good for trade' said John, and so it proved. He was a
little nervous that his photograph would be recognized by the Henrys, or
someone else would tell them, but when no enquiries were made, he knew his
secret was safe.

As a consequence of the article, he had had a very good summer, being fully
booked all the way through, and now the season was drawing to a close; John
was due to meet his latest customers, who would be the last that year; they
had flown out from Manchester to Nice airport, and so he had pulled on a
shirt, hired a car and driven to the airport to collect them. He looked at
the documentation, and scanned the crowd coming out from baggage return for
a woman, her boyfriend, and her teenage son. They all found each other
quite easily, and John took in the tired, peevish eyes of the
forty-something woman, and saw how she nagged her much younger boyfriend,
who was clearly already frustrated with her and dreading the
holiday. Behind the two of them, feet dragging on the marble floor of the
airport was the son. He must have been at least sixteen stone--or two
hundred and twenty pounds--in weight, fat and sweating through his
ill-fitting clothes; his greasy hair was too long, and he wore heavy
glasses which had been mended with tape. He looked bitterly unhappy, with
the lines on his face that suggested that he rarely, if ever, smiled.

`Well,' thought John, `this is payback time. I suppose I had to get the
lemons eventually!'

In the car, the lovebirds sat in the back, still bickering about whose
fault something or other was, and the boy heaved himself into the front
with John. As he plumped himself down into the seat, the car sagged sharply
on his side, and the woman let out a harsh laugh,

`Careful, F.B., you'll have us over!'

The boy coloured, and glowered, but said nothing.

On arrival at the boat, the newcomers cheered up a bit as they unpacked
their clothes into the lockers. The man, Tony, and the woman, Linda, took
the double bed cabin, and the boy took one of the single bunks in the other
cabin, though John wondered whether he would be very comfortable, since the
bunks were not very big, unlike the boy himself. John himself never used a
cabin when there were customers on the boat, but bedded down in the sail
locker, where he hung his Sunday suit on a hook and had his one or two
other bits and pieces. The canvas sails were not exactly a feather
mattress, but John liked the rough and rugged feel against his skin--his
Abercrombie and Fitch fantasy again--and the privacy, albeit cramped, was
precious on board a small boat like this. He took off his shirt--he hardly
ever wore one on board--kicked off his boat shoes, and went, dressed only
in soccer shorts and an apron, to prepare dinner for everyone.

He made it a rule never to join the customers to eat unless they invited
him. He thought that when on holiday, they would want to be together, not
to feel they had to entertain the staff. And in this particular case, he
thought that he would much rather enjoy his own company than try to make
stiff conversation with these people to whom he could not warm. And since
this party did not invite him to join them, he took his plate and sat on
his own in the cockpit to eat, enjoying the warm late summer evening, and
the lights across the harbour twinkling in the gathering darkness.

His cooking (Bernie being a fine teacher) was always excellent, this meal
being no exception, and he could hear the moods of his customers mellowing
as their bickering gave way to more gentle conversation. It was not
difficult to overhear; the boat was not large, so it had had to become part
of his professional expertise to pretend that nothing could be heard, but
this meant that he had to carefully remember what he had heard and where,
lest he give away accidentally that he had heard something he wasn't
supposed to know. The couple, Linda Sanders and Tony Sullivan, were both
now in good humour; the prospect of a holiday, with good food and wine is
an excellent restorative, after all. John never heard the boy, F.B., say
anything at all. For a moment he felt a twinge of sympathy for the
lad. That was how mealtimes were with his own parents; silent on his part,
with only morose observations from the adults about his shortcomings.

John, a gay man, had an keen eye for male beauty, and it had to be said
that F.B. was not beautiful. As most people do, even heterosexual men, John
naturally warmed to good-looking, personable, manly young lads, and he
enjoyed having them on the boat. This boy, apart from being hugely fat, no
doubt would be cack-handed and clumsy, and not even good company. F.B. was
going to have a miserable holiday, for the two grown ups clearly were not
thinking of him and his needs at all; they were wrapped up in themselves
far too much for that. John listened to Linda; she was trying to impress
Tony by putting F.B. down, commenting on his appearance;

`You'll have to sleep on the other side of the boat to us, F.B., or you'll
have us all in the drink!'

John sighed. He could see that it was going to be down to him to try and
cheer up F.B., since Linda and Tony clearly were just going to use him as
the butt of their jokes. Poor lad! John began to feel some sympathy for him
growing as the evening wore on. He remembered his own lonely childhood.

As the sounds of eating and drinking faded away, John went down into the
saloon again to clear away the dishes. Without being asked, F.B. got up and
began to help him.

`Leave it,' said Linda. `It's what he's paid to do!'

John kept his face straight, but F.B. winced.

`No honestly, I don't mind. I'd like something to do,'

It was the first time John had heard him speak. Linda just shrugged, and
John smiled at the lad, raising his eyebrows in an `are you sure?' sort of
way.

And F.B. smiled back. It brought the sun out on his face, and John began to
warm to him. With both of them working together, the washing up did not
take long. Linda and Tony had already retreated to their cabin, shedding
clothes unashamedly as they went. When the door was shut, John picked up
all the clothes, folded them and laid them aside for them to find in the
morning. The noises of passion began almost immediately from inside the
cabin.

F.B. looked sick and revolted. John grinned at him. The lad was only
sixteen. He said quietly

`It's still early, soldier. If you're not ready for bed yet, there's still
a glass or two of wine left. Come and join me in the cockpit, and we'll
leave these two to their fun.'

F.B. smiled again. `I'd like that' he said.

The two chatted in the darkness, and John was surprised to find himself
quickly warming to the boy. They weren't that far apart in age, and their
unhappy childhoods had given them a lot in common.

F.B. said `You know, this sailing thing is something of a dream come true
for me'.

His accent was cultured and polished, unlike his mother's, which was broad
Lancashire. Odd.

`What do you mean?'

`Well, I never knew my father--I hardly think my mother did either, to tell
you the truth, but when I was younger, he used to send things to me from
time to time, you know, presents. I think he felt guilty about me. And one
of the things he sent was the whole collection of Arthur Ransome books. I
wanted to sail from then on, and this is the first chance I've had. I
really want to learn how to do it: I don't just want to be a passenger, I
want to work hard. I know what you're thinking, though: I know I'm fat and
huge, but I'm quite handy, and if the worst comes to the worst, I can
always double as ballast!'

When John had stopped chuckling, he had begun to think that these next few
weeks were not going to be as bad as he thought.



The following morning, John woke at six, as was his custom, and rolled off
the stack of sails onto the decking. He turned the water heater on for
showers, and headed for the open air. He had slept in his shorts as usual,
and he lifted himself out of the forehatch at the prow of the Saucy Mrs
Trusspot so that he did not have to go back through the main part of the
boat, waking the customers. He had placed a ladder there over the side, and
he let himself gently down into the harbour water. He would have liked to
have dived in, but that would have set the boat rocking and probably woken
his clients; he wanted to see as little of them--the adults, anyway--as
possible. He swam strongly for about half an hour; it was not particularly
pleasant swimming in the harbour, though at that time of the morning there
were few people about and the water had not begun to fill up with the
diesel, detritus and probably sewage of the day. He pulled himself out onto
the quay, and there he went through several sets of push-ups, sit-ups,
squats and pull-ups in the early sunshine until he felt that he had done
himself justice. As he finished, he finally noticed that he was being
watched from the cockpit of the boat. It was F.B., and he was staring,
fascinated, at John's muscular, sweating, chest.

`How long have you been there?' said John, a little disconcerted.

`Ages: I woke up really early, and heard you going swimming, so I thought
I'd come outside'.

`Do you swim?'

`Never could; I'm hopeless at anything physical'.

`Well, we'll have to see about that while you're with me. Swimming is
pretty good exercise, and actually one where being, um, large, isn't much
of a disadvantage. But not in the harbour; we'll wait till we get somewhere
nicer. Okay?'

F.B. didn't look convinced, but he shrugged and said `okay' anyway.

John came aboard onto the foredeck, and let himself down the hatch
again. Once inside, he went for a quick shower, washing his shorts at the
same time. He dried himself off, and pulled on a clean and dry pair of
shorts (the only other ones he had with him) and hung the wet ones in the
sail cupboard to dry, for him to wear tomorrow. This was his invariable
routine, and it saved all sorts of fuss.

By now it was seven thirty, and he went into the main cabin, pulled an
apron over his bare chest, and began to cook breakfast for everyone. As the
delicious smell of grilling bacon and mushrooms percolated round the cabin,
Linda and Tony began to surface; they went for their showers, and everyone
was ready soon to eat. Over breakfast, for which John joined them, the
plans for the holiday were discussed. It was John's policy to sail the boat
to wherever in the Mediterranean his clients wanted to go, providing only
that there was enough time, and they had the correct visas in their
passports. Linda had set her heart on the Greek Islands, and this was good
news for John, who loved the area and was only too happy to spend some time
there. It should take about a week and a half or so to get there from Nice,
weather permitting, and if they were prepared to change their flights to
return to England from Athens, or one of the larger islands with an
airport, then they would have just over another week to tour around.

And, thought John, this would give plenty of opportunities to teach F.B. to
swim. By now the boy had become something of a crusade for him; he wanted
to give him at least some happy memories of this holiday, and send him home
a little bit healthier than he arrived.

As soon as John, helped again by F.B., had cleared away breakfast, they
readied the boat for departure. John started up the big engine; Linda
complained about the noise and said that she didn't think she'd be paying
for a headache, but John kept his cool and explained that they couldn't
sail in the harbour, and the engine was used only until they got out into
clear water. She grumbled, but accepted this, and went below. John thought
he had better wait before breaking the news to her that wind in the
Mediterranean during the summer is not always reliable, and they would
probably have to use the engine more than she would like. A few minutes
later, Linda emerged in a revealing bikini, and stretched herself out on
the cabin roof to get some sun.

There was no doubt that she was an attractive woman. Though she did nothing
for John--he neither liked her nor lusted for her--he could admire in an
abstract way the fact of her physical beauty. For a woman in her forties,
she had kept herself very well; her skin was clear, her hair free from grey
and she had an attractive slim curvaceousness that made (most) men pant
after her. Tony came and joined her a little later; he had taken John's
example and had stripped to a pair of light shorts. Now this was more like
it, thought John. Tony was really pretty good-looking; a man of twenty-four
or twenty-five, his smooth body fit and muscular, and he had beautiful dark
hair and eyes. He and Linda began to smear sun tan oil over each other, and
John had to look away lest he get an erection when he saw Linda rubbing her
hands over Tony's defined chest. His own thin nylon shorts wouldn't do a
lot to hide his embarrasment!

For a while, John worried about them, lest they roll off the cabin roof and
into the briny, (and indeed there was a part of him that longed for it) but
inside the harbour there was little swell, and there seemed no harm in
their lying on the roof. It would be different when they raised the sails.

F.B. stood with John in the cockpit, as John steered. Once they were clear
of other boats, John said to F.B.

`Care to steer for a while?'

A look of mingled terror and delight came into the boy's fat face. `Oh!
really? Can I?'

`Yes, of course. Just keep her headed for the mouth of the harbour there,
and try not to waggle, or you'll pitch your mother into the sea'.

F.B. giggled, but didn't hesitate, taking the wheel into steady hands. He
was a natural, thought John soon; for a first attempt it was pretty
good. As F.B. steered, John waited until he was sure the boy would have no
difficulty, then went below to the sail locker, to bring the sails up on
deck. It was not easy; the sails were heavy, and he had to push them up the
forehatch from below, then pull himself up through the hatch himself and
drag the sails to where they would be needed. Tony saw him and leapt to his
feet to help. Good mark for Tony, thought John.

`Tooonyyy' whined Linda, `come baaack. Leave him to do it. He's bloody well
paid enough!'

But Tony flashed Linda an irritated glance, and raised eyes to heaven in
John's direction. John grinned quickly at him, and began to suspect that
even Tony might turn out to be good company.

`After all,' said Tony quietly to John, `sailing is what this holiday is
about, isn't it? I want to do it properly, not just get ferried around.'

John smiled at him. `You can do as much or as little as you like, as far as
I'm concerned. But there's no doubt that some jobs are easier with two.'

Linda, annoyed now at not being in control of the situation and being
disobeyed, suddenly noticed that F.B. was at the wheel. She shrieked at him
to get off it,

`You stupid fuck, what do you think you are doing? You'll have us all
over. That's dangerous, you bloody fool!' F.B., to do him credit, kept hold
of the wheel, and glared mutinously at his mother.

`I can't let go, Mum, or we will be in trouble'. She was between John and
F.B., so there was nothing John could do in the short term. She turned to
him;

`You should know better! You're supposed to be a professional! He's only a
kid, and a stupid and incompetent one at that; he can't even ride a bloody
bicycle. We've hired you to do this job, not to make us slave for you! I'm
not sure you even know what you're doing; you're only a kid yourself!'

John had had enough. It was time to make it clear who was in charge on the
boat.

`Look, Ms Sanders, the security of this boat is my responsibility, and I
know a great deal more about it than you do. The job of steering under
power is not difficult, and actually F.B. is doing it really well. I have
every confidence in him, and so should you have. Give him a chance, for
God's sake!'

He knew he had overstepped the mark. Linda was F.B.'s mother, and also for
this fortnight his own employer. To seriously piss her off on the first day
was not good business policy.

F.B., however, was looking at John with adoration in his puppy-like
eyes. John wondered if anyone had ever stood up for him before.

Linda's eyes narrowed, and she drew breath for a blast, but Tony got there
first. He said mildly,

`Actually, Lin, I agree with John. It's good for the lad to get some
experience, and he is doing really well. And, while we're on the subject, I
hope that John'll let F.B.--and me as well--do a lot of sailing on this
holiday. I certainly don't mind mucking in; it's what I came to do, after
all. And don't look at me like that; as a matter of fact I paid for this
holiday, not you, and so it's I who am employing John. I have every
confidence in him, and if you would only shed your bloody attitude problem,
we would all stand a chance of having a really good holiday. And as for
F.B., well, just stop picking on the poor boy; I can't stand it!'

Linda looked from one man to the other, red faced and furious. John was
very embarrassed, so he bent down to recoil a rope that looked as if it
might come astray sometime in the next six months. Linda just edged her way
into the cockpit, saying to F.B. `I'll talk to you later', and went into
the cabin, slamming the half-door behind her.

F.B. looked as if he had won the lottery. But his expression quickly turned
to panic as he saw the harbour entrance approaching more quickly than he
wanted. John ran lightly across the cabin roof and jumped into the cockpit.

`Don't worry, F.B.; you're doing fine. Just aim to the right of that
buoy--that's it--and we'll soon be out. No, I'm not going to take the
wheel, you take her out. Just be aware that as soon as we get out of the
harbour, she'll become a little more difficult to steer, as the sea will be
a little more choppy.'

And so it proved; F.B. had a moment of panic as a wave hit the rudder and
jerked the wheel, but instinctively he moved to correct it, glowing with
pleasure as he saw John's glance of approval. John pointed out another buoy
for F.B. to steer for, and then, again once he was sure that the lad would
be fine, went forward to where Tony was still lugging the sails out onto
the cabin roof.

`No, we won't need all those sails, Tony: let's start gently; there's no
hurry, after all. Let's keep Linda happy!'

Half an hour later, they were in open water, and it was time to raise the
sails. The engine was finally stilled, and all that could be heard was the
slap and rush of water against the hull and the cry of the gulls. There was
a gentle breeze, but it was coming from one side of them, the ideal
position; it was going to be necessary to quarter the wind, and so once
John and Tony had raised the mainsail, John went quickly to take the wheel
from F.B., who had begun to panic again.

`It's okay, soldier, I'll take it from here. Just go and put your
lifejacket on; I don't want you drowning until we've made a sailor out of
you, and drown you will if you fall in without being able to swim.'

He had already ascertained that both Tony and Linda were good swimmers.

John spun the wheel, and the sail caught the wind. The Saucy Mrs Trusspot
heeled over a little and began to make speed towards Corsica. John felt the
great surge of excitement that he always experienced at this moment; he
felt at one with all the sailors of history as they harnessed the elements
to this most ancient of crafts. Tony, on the foredeck, grasped the coaming
and looked forward, excitement on his face.

Not everyone was happy, though.

As the ship heeled over to catch the wind, there was a shriek from the
cabin. John's mood was broken in a flash. By the sound of it, Linda had
been on her bed, and had been pitched onto the floor. John quickly
suppressed a grin as Linda's face, wearing a confused and rather frightened
expression appeared at the doorway.

`What's wrong? Are we sinking? Is it a storm? Did we crash into something?'

She was slurring her words, and John realized with a sinking heart that she
was drunk. That was all that was wanted. He willed Tony to come back and
sort it out, but Tony was too engrossed in the horizon, and had missed the
exchange. So John had to do his best himself.

`No, it's all entirely normal. Don't worry, Linda. The boat has to sail at
an angle to be able to catch the wind; we'll probably be changing to lean
on the other side some time. I'll shout out `going about', so that you'll
be ready.'

`Can't you make it steadier? Can't we travel upright?'

`Not if you want to make the Greek Islands any time this month. I could
start the engine if you prefer, but you don't like that, either, do you?'

Linda just looked confused, and went below again. Tony had seen the
exchange, but had not heard it. He let himself down the forehatch and went
to see what was going on.

F.B., meanwhile, had gone very quiet. His face had turned an unhealthy
shade of grey, and at first John thought it had been the exchange with his
mother that was distressing him. But it was something far more
natural. Suddenly F.B. grabbed the coaming rail and leant over it, vomiting
violently into the deep. John smiled to himself. Poor lad! He remembered
his own first journeys by sea, and how he had had the same problem. Most
people do, especially in a small boat, until they adjust. He reached out
one hand and patted F.B. on his shoulder.

`Poor old soldier! Don't hold back, let it all come up. You'll get used to
the motion soon, and feel tons better. Look at the horizon; that sometimes
helps.'

F.B. said nothing, but just heaved his breakfast into the sea.

When his retches had subsided, John became aware of another noise. Tony and
Linda were having a blazing row in the cabin. A little later, Tony came up
into the cockpit carrying a nearly-empty vodka bottle, out of which he
emptied what remained over the side.

`She's pissed out of her skull' he told the others. `But she's been puking
too, so I think she's got rid of a lot of it. We've had some words as
well--you may have heard us; in fact they probably heard us in New
York--but I think that everything will be fine now. She's gone to sleep for
the present, which I think is just as well.'

Tony looked grimly satisfied. It was only then that he noticed F.B. huddled
miserably in a corner. He patted his shoulder in a comradely way, thankful
that he did not seem to be succumbing himself.


It was evening when the Saucy Mrs Truspott's engines were started again to
take her into harbour at Calvi on the Northern coast of Corsica. They had
made good time, and there was still some time left for exploring the town
after they had found their mooring. But before they left, Tony asked
everyone to come into the cabin. Linda had something she wanted to say.

`What now?' thought John.

`I just want to say how really, really, sorry I am for the way I've been
behaving' she began, when all four of them were sitting down. `I've been a
bitch, and I just want you to know, that I'm going to pull myself together,
and we'll have a really good time now. I want to help, too. I want to get
involved; John give me a job; let me do something!'

`Not the cooking' said Tony quickly, and everyone laughed. The
uncomfortable atmosphere was broken.

But John had a suggestion that he had found usually appealed to the ladies.

`We need someone to go shopping' he said. `Fresh food from the markets is
really nice to have; if I make out a list of what we need, and give you the
money, perhaps you could get it. I think you'd enjoy it as well; these
places are really interesting. And you could do some shopping on your own
account.'

Linda looked relieved. No doubt she'd been expecting to have to scrub out
the bilges, or splice the mainbrace or whatever mucky things sailors
do. And shopping hit the spot perfectly. Every woman can shop!

That evening, Tony and Linda decided to go for a meal in the town, so it
was only F.B. and John left on board.

`Aren't you going?' said John.

`N.F.I.' said F.B.

`N.F.I.?'

`No fucking invitation. Not wanted on voyage. Not wanted, full stop. Mind
you, I'd rather be anywhere than where they are, Mum and her latest
groin-prod. Though actually, as groin-prods go, Tony's not too bad. One of
the better ones, in fact.'

`Well, never mind. I expect they just want a romantic evening
together. Suits everyone from time to time. And you and I don't have to
stay in minding shop: what's to stop us going out too? Let's go and hit the
town, ourselves, soldier!'

`What, us, together? Really? Cool! You don't mind me tagging along?'

On being reassured, F.B. smiled happily and waddled off to make himself
ready. They found a pizza parlour; John was reluctant to test the tolerance
of a restuarant's dress code, since he had only shorts and polo shirts to
wear, unless he was going to wear his Sunday suit, which seemed
overkill. But pizza with a glass of wine suited F.B. perfectly, and even
John was not so old that he had forgotten the glamour of pizza.  The meal
was quickly over, and they strolled around the town in the dark, chatting
together. John found himself beginning to understand and even like this
complex youth, and he wondered how F.B. found in himself such resources to
cope with his miserable life.

F.B. Sanders was, as John had already gathered, the illegitimate child of
Linda Sanders and some mystery man. She had wanted an abortion, but the man
had made it financially worth her while to have the child; for some reason
it was important to him, though he had never set eyes on his son. He gave
Linda enough money to live reasonably comfortably, and all the boy's
expenses were paid for generously out of a trust fund. The father used to
send occasional presents, like the Ransome books, or a bicycle, and
F.B. would fantasize that his father was royal, or a film star, or a
millionaire, because there seemed no lack of money for the necessaries of
life. F.B. was sent to a smart boarding school, too--a good one,
Whitefriars, the same that John's father had attended--and although his
lack of sporting prowess was a misery to him, since it made him so
unpopular, school was at least a change from home. And that was the length
of it. He went to Whitefriars with relief because it was a change from
home, and he went home with relief because it was a change from
Whitefriars. A fat boy in a sporty school has a very miserable
existence. Nobody was prepared to acknowledge him as friend, and he was the
butt of everyone's adolescent and often cruel humour. The only thing that
his unattractiveness had spared him was the sexual predation of the older
boys, some of whom, starved of female company, would routinely subject the
youngest and best-looking boys to their lusts. And for this escape F.B. was
grateful. And on the other hand school gave him the possibilities to learn,
to read, and to become acquainted with numerous useful skills. John learnt,
for instance, that F.B. had studied the art of navigation, in a seafaring
society at Whitefriars, though he had before never stepped onto a boat
until this week. That might be seriously useful. He had been preparing for
his sailing even when he was not sure that his dream could be accomplished
any near time in the future.

A couple of years ago, the gifts from his father suddenly ceased;
F.B. stopped fantasizing and began to face reality. The trust fund had
continued to supply his exorbitant school fees, however, so there was no
worry that he would be asked to leave. At home, his mother continued to
entertain a constant procession of different boyfriends, some nice, some
unbearable, as her tastes and resources gave her opportunity. The financial
security she was given for agreeing to give birth to F.B. left her
comfortably off, and able to choose her partners. Though the life was good,
the price she had to pay was raising F.B., and this price she resented
every step of the way. It seemed that no man was willing to consider taking
both her and the boy. If F.B. had been an attractive lad, sporty and
charming, no doubt somebody might have been willing to adopt him; but this
mountain of flesh, sweating and wheezing and shy, repelled all possible
suitors, and Linda was still, at the age of 42, drifting from lover to
lover with never a chance of anything permanent.

And for all this she blamed F.B., to whom she was shackled until his
eighteenth birthday. What happened then, she had no idea, only that when he
was legally an adult she would be free of her ball and chain, and that,
whatever happened, if F.B. was still alive and well at that date, her own
income would continue until her death. She had not really considered what
she would do when that happy day came; she was not actually a bad woman,
merely disappointed, and no doubt she did love, in her own way, that scion
of her own flesh who was like her in a lot of ways. But she longed for her
release, and hoped--even prayed--that her own desireablity would not have
declined so far by then as to be unable to finally secure a man for
life. Because F.B. was intelligent, there was every expectation that he
would move out to go to University, and then Linda would have the freedom
she longed for.

F.B. told his story with a surprising self-awareness and a lack of
self-pity which betokened that same lively intelligence. He was a realist,
and he, too, longed finally to be able to unknot the tie to his mother,
even though he truly had some residual, if small, love for her. It was the
fact that they were shackled together that made it so difficult for them
both. No doubt, had she been able to shed him into some orphanage, they
would each have gone to counselling and tried to `grow with the
experience', but, as it were, they were tied together in some devouring
vampiric symbiosis that sucked the life from each of them as it gave no
nourishment to the other.


As they walked back to the boat, John's heart was full of sympathy for the
boy. In such an ungainly waddling figure he had found real dignity, and
affection longing to find a return. And he actually found himself beginning
to return it.


John found the remains of the bottle of wine that they had not finished
yesterday in Nice, and poured himself and F.B. a glass. They sat together
in companionable silence, and then John told the boy about his own
childhood, on one level more comfortable than F.B.'s, but also lonely,
frigid and difficult, until the Henrys had rescued him. When he finished,
they sat again in silence. Then F.B. put his hand on John's shoulder in
sympathy. John looked in amazement at the lad, that even in his own misery
he could find compassion for him. And moved by impulse, he pulled the big
boy into a hug.

There were a few tears on both sides, and both knew that they had this
night for the first time made a real friend.


After a while, when the wine was finished, the lad turned to John and asked
a question;

`Can I ask you a favour?'

`Sure.'

`If we're going to be friends, would you please not call me F.B.?'

`Is that not your name?'

`No; my name's Chris'

`Chris?'

`Chris.'

`Then what's with the F.B. stuff?'

`It's what my mother calls me.'

`What does it stand for?' John was puzzled.

But Chris would not reply, and John was not prepared to push him. Instead,
he said

`Well, of course, soldier; if you want to be called Chris, then Chris you
are, as far as I'm concerned, in future!'

`Thanks, John. It means an awful lot to me; I really appreciate it. I hate
"F.B." and all that those initials imply. I have always longed to be Chris;
at Whitefriars I'm just known by my surname, Sanders. The only person who
ever called me Chris was my father, when he sent me birthday cards and
presents. So that name has happy memories for me.

`So Chris it'll be.' John said. `Now; it's getting late, soldier,
er...Chris, and we've an early start tomorrow, if we want a little time to
spend on land.'

`Yeah; I think it's time I turned in now; good night.'

`Good night, Chris. God bless.'

Chris looked at him strangely, and went off to bed. Shortly afterwards,
Linda and Tony returned. They were in a mellow mood, and somewhat amorous,
so reconciling himself to a rocky start to the night, John repeated his
warning about the early start and bid them good night.


The following morning, despite his warnings, Linda did not surface until
after eleven. Tony grinned apologetically at John, who just shrugged and
said that it didn't matter really; they would just not get as far that
day. John had planned on a six-o'clock departure for Sardinia; instead,
they headed at nine for Civitavecchia, ignoring the (mostly obscene) cries
of protest from Linda in her cabin. There was little or no wind, either, so
the engine was used for most of the day, which, Linda claimed, was
responsible for the headache she suffered. Behind her back, Tony tilted his
hand at his mouth to suggest that it was drink, rather than the engine,
which was afflicting her. But despite her foul mood, she was ready to party
again when they finally pulled into port, and she and Tony went off to try
out the nightlife. John wondered if he was wasting his breath telling her
not to stay out too late, as they needed another early start the following
day, but Chris quietly suggested that perhaps they should just start early
in the morning anyway, and let her deal with it her own way.




2.4

John had set his alarm for five in the morning, so after his swim and
exercises he was cooking breakfast at six. There were grumbles from all the
sleepers, but friendly ones--even Linda managed to surface--and by seven
the moorings were being cast off, Chris standing proudly at the wheel as
the Saucy Mrs Trusspot motored out of the harbour past all the sleeping
boats.

The weather was wonderful, and the wind strongly dead aft, which meant that
there was almost no heeling over and the yacht made very good time indeed
down the Italian coast to Capri, arriving in the mid-afternoon. John, with
the funds he had available, had purchased a rather exclusive year-round
mooring at the Piccola Marina and recommended to the party that they spend
at least a full day here on the island, leaving the morning after
next. Everyone was agreeable, since the sail round the island in the
afternoon sun had been breathtakingly beautiful. Linda and Tony left almost
immediately to walk to the ruins of the Emperor Tiberius' villa up on the
promontory, and so John and Chris were again left to their own devices.

`Now lad,' said John. `Time for your swimming lessons!'

Chris was very humiliated, for without his clothes he did indeed look a
mountain of flesh. His stomach was huge and flabby, and he had breasts that
were almost female. All his skin was a chalky white, acknowledging silently
that it had never seen the sun before. John pretended not to notice, and
indeed his sympathy was stronger than his revulsion, now that he had a
chance to get to know the boy who was held prisoner in all this fat. He was
forced to realise that his own prejudices had got the better of him in the
past, and his pre-judgment of this boy had showed him his values in their
true colours.

But Chris loved the water. It held up his weight, and once he had learnt to
trust it, he quickly moved in it with confidence, feeling, for once, at no
particular disadvantage to those who were slimmer. John began by supporting
Chris with his hand, but even before the afternoon was out, Chris was
managing a doggy paddle on his own. However, his stamina was not at all
good, and even when confident, he could only cope with swimming for short
distances before he would collapse. So it was not safe to let him out of
his depth, and John eventually conceded defeat.

`In the end, Chris, you're just going to have to lose some of that weight!'

`Easier said than done.'

`True, I guess.'



Early that evening, Linda and Tony phoned John's mobile to say that they
were staying to eat at a restuarant in Capri town, and so once again Chris
and John were left to their own devices. John made a quick stir-fry with
the last of the food from Nice, for an early supper, while Chris watched,
fascinated.

`Can you cook?' John asked.

`No; Mum gets in pre-cooked package meals at home. She can't cook either.'

Which explains the weight, John thought. The mystery is why Linda isn't
another whale. Perhaps all the sex keeps her slim!

`Well, do you want to learn to cook?'

Chris gave him a bright smile. `That'd be wicked!'

So John started him on the smelly jobs, showing him the quick way to chop
an onion, how to avoid crying when you do so, and how to peel and crush
garlic. Then he stood over Chris as the lad pushed the vegetables and
chicken around the pan, and finally they sat and ate. Chris opened another
bottle of wine for them.

`I've never drunk so much wine in my life!' Chris confessed. `We get it
occasionally at Whitefriars now I'm 16, but not very often, and never at
home.'

`The rule is to stick to a glass or two at a time. And it really helps food
taste better, and helps you digest better. The Mediterraneans are far more
sensible about it than we Brits; even small children get watered-down wine
to drink with their food. And you see far less alcoholism or loutish
behaviour.'

After they had cleared their meal away, John and Chris left a note for Tony
and Linda, in case they returned first, and went for a long walk over to
the other side of the island. It took an hour or two, but the air was laden
with the scents of flowers, and the breeze was warm. As they strolled, they
talked. John asked something which had been puzzling him:

`Chris, if you and your mother get along so badly, how come you're here on
holiday with her? You're sixteen, old enough to take care of yourself, and
it sounds as if you really would both be happier apart, even for just a
fortnight.'

`Well, it was all Tony's idea. He really fancies my Mum--yeah, I guess you
noticed--and although he's worked out that being nice to me isn't exactly
the way to her heart, he wanted a chance to see if we could function
together as a family. And Mum is really keen on him, too--I suppose that's
obvious, too--so she agreed. After all, they'd hired the whole boat, and
whether you've got two or three in it doesn't make that much difference. I
wanted to come too, because of what I told you about always wanting to
sail, and also because I really like Tony; he's been the best of Mum's
groin-prods so far. In fact, I think that life would be whole lot better if
he were around, so I wanted to give it a try. Though I'd prefer if it was
you! I suppose it's too much to hope for that you fancy her?'

`Well, thanks for the compliment, but somehow I don't see me and your Mum
making an item!'

Now me and Tony might be another matter, thought John.


The sun had almost completely set as they arrived at a viewpoint from which
they could see the bay of Naples and, in the distance, the great city's
lights beginning to twinkle. Mount Vesuvius loomed over everything, its
sides first red from the dying sun, then darkening to a black mound against
the night sky. It was magical, and both John and Chris stood silently,
their shoulders touching as they leaned on the iron rail preventing them
from falling over the cliff on which they stood. Chris sighed.

`I never want this to end!'

`Yeah, me too, but we ought to be getting back, soldier. It's getting
late'.

As they strolled, the scents in the night air intensified and, as if by
some unseen signal, the ground was suddenly full of little lights;
fire-flies, thousands of the little insects giving off that extraordinary,
eerie, light. Chris gasped, and John smiled quietly; he had seen this
before, but it had never lost its magic.

They wandered into Capri town, and had a half-hearted look for Linda and
Tony in the Cathedral piazza, and then took a taxi on their own back to the
Piccola Marina and bed.



The next morning, John was able to take much greater pleasure in his swim,
for the water was clean and warm. When he had exercised, he sprinted to the
bread shop and bought some fresh rolls for breakfast, then jogged back to
the boat, and his shower.

`Today, Linda,' he said over the coffee, `is definitely shopping morning;
we're out of food! You've got a choice, though; for speed, the supermarkets
and boutiques of Capri town; or for fun, there'll be a market in
Anacapri. A bus should be along in forty minutes.'

So Linda and Tony went off happily to Anacapri with a shopping list. It was
a much harder job to get rid of Chris, but today was housekeeping day, and
John needed the boat to himself. In the end, he persuaded the boy that he
would be faster without his help, and why didn't he practise his swimming?
Once Chris was splashing around in the water, John stripped and remade the
beds and took the soiled sheets and the towels to the nearby laundry. He
scrubbed every inch of the deck, and cleaned and disinfected vigorously. He
cleaned the cabins thoroughly; he was proud of his boat, and took real
pride in making her look like new. He worked so hard that he never noticed
that Chris had stopped swimming and was sitting a little way from the boat,
a towel hanging round his shoulders to hide his breasts, just watching John
work with a hopeless longing in his eyes.

It was the rumbling of his stomach that made Chris return to the boat.

`Are we going to have lunch sometime, John?'

`What's the time? Blimey! I never noticed. Let's go and get a panino;
there's nothing on board.'

And after lunch they strolled and talked again, returning via the laundry
to collect the washing, to find Linda and Tony already returned, laden with
purchases, and bursting to tell him of their experiences. Over a cup of
tea, John got out the charts and showed them the long journey to be made
the following day, to Syracuse in Sicily.

`So, it's an early night again, folks.'

Tony spoke: `John, there's a little restuarant here at the Piccola Marina
that used to belong to that singer, Gracie Fields. We thought we'd go there
tonight, and we'd love to invite you along.'

`Well, that's very kind of you. I'd love to come; the food is really good
there. But what about Chris?'

`Who's Chris?' Tony was puzzled, but the look on the boy's face told him
his answer straight away.

Linda suddenly looked furious. Taking her son along was the last thing she
intended, but she caught Tony's eye, and capitulated sulkily.

`Okay, F.B., you can come, if you promise to keep your mouth shut.'

Chris didn't look grateful. In fact he shot the three adults black
looks. Nonetheless, the evening at the Canzona del Mare was a comparative
success. Linda pulled herself together and even brought herself to speak to
Chris, though through gritted teeth. The food was delicious and the wine
excellent; Tony knew what he was ordering, and turned out to have pretty
good Italian, almost as good as John's.



The run down to Syracuse in Sicily was also easy; however, instead of going
into harbour, they dropped anchor in a little deserted cove, where they
spent the night without landing.



In the morning of what was to prove a very momentous day, one of the most
momentous in his life, John rose before dawn and quickly got the boat under
way, because the wind was blowing directly against them, and they would
have to tack; he was aiming for Brindisi, but he knew they would be very
lucky to make it before dark. The movement of the boat woke the sleepers,
but Chris and Linda both managed to get off to sleep again; the ability to
sleep in all conditions was obviously a shared family trait.

Not so with Tony, however. He rolled out of bed; not an easy thing to do as
the boat was leaning heavily the other way, and wedged Linda tightly into
the bed with blankets. He pulled on a pair of shorts and went into the
cabin to see what he could do.

A short while later, John was pleased to have a mug of hot coffee thrust
into his hand. He had really warmed to Tony, and was glad to have his
company in the cockpit. Besides, John had to admit, a barechested Tony was
pretty easy on the eyes, too.

The two men chatted about this and that as the sun rose in front of
them. Suddenly, Tony's tone dropped into a confidential mode, and he asked

`John, what do you reckon to Linda?'

`Well, it's not really my place to comment, is it? She's your
girlfriend--in fact, your lover. It'd be hard to miss that!'

Tony grinned at him. `Yeah, I suppose boats aren't the most private place
in the world. But seriously, I'd value your opinion. I know you don't know
us well yet, but she's got my head all to pieces. I don't know what to
think. She can be really sweet; she's actually quite bright, though she has
almost no education or culture. She's fantastic in bed, really fantastic,
she's witty, and very good with her hands.

`But then there's all the other stuff. She can really be the most appalling
bitch, and I think she's got a drink problem. She controls it when I'm
around, but I'm afraid that if she and I become a permanent item, the
problem would simply emerge and take over. And worst of all is the way she
treats F.B., or whatever his name is. Despite the fat, he's not a bad lad,
and the way he sulks around her is entirely understandable in the
circumstances. But she hasn't got a single good word to say either to him
or about him behind his back, and it's really getting to me. I don't know
how the boy stands it without cracking up. I thought that perhaps getting
them both away from home into a pleasant environment might help them to
settle their differences, but if anything it's made it worse. Every time we
go out, she bitches on and on about the poor boy until I can't stand any
more. Do you understand my problem?'

John said quietly; `Actually, listening to you, I think you've already made
up your mind. I'm sorry, for Chris's sake, because he really likes you, but
I can't say I disagree with you.'

Tony remained silent, shaking his head sorrowfully.


A little later, a head appeared at the prow of the boat. It was Chris,
squeezing himself with difficulty through the forehatch. John righted the
boat quickly so that the lad would not be thrown off, and waited until he
had edged his way along to where the others were in the cockpit at the rear
of the boat. John was cross, and not a little frightened.

`What were you thinking of, lad; that was bloody dangerous! And you're not
even wearing a lifejacket!'

`I'm avoiding Mum; she's in the main cabin, and she's in a really bad
temper. Worse than usual, and that's really saying something.'

John and Tony looked at each other, appalled. Had she overheard their
conversation? Tony went below, and almost immediately the shrieking and
shouting began.

Chris looked embarrassed, and he and John tried to think of banal remarks
to make to each other, but in the end just fell silent and listened. An
hour later, Tony reappeared in the cockpit, white and shaking.

`Well, that's done it! We are no longer officially an item. I'm sorry,
Chris, it just wouldn't come right.'

There were tears in Chris' eyes, and soon there were tears in Tony's as
well.

But Chris was resigned;

`It's okay, Tony, I don't blame you. Nobody else has been able to stand
living with her either.'

John asked `Where is she now?'

`Just stamped off to the bed cabin and locked the door. I guess I'll be
taking the other bed in your cabin tonight, Chris, if you don't mind.'

Chris just shrugged and nodded.



The day wore on, and they were not making good progress. The wind had
veered round until they were heading right into it, making wide tacks
across the sea. Chris made everyone a sandwich for lunch, though he did not
manage to get a response from his mother, so he ate hers as well.

In the afternoon, it became clear that they were not going to make it to
Brindisi that night, so John decided that he would need to go below to look
at the charts in order to find a good place to anchor. Tony and Chris were
both competent now at the wheel, and so he felt confident that the boat was
in good hands.

He went down the steps into the main cabin, only to find that he was not
alone. Linda was there, sprawling on the seats wearing nothing but one of
Tony's t-shirts. It had ridden up, so that her pubic hair could be seen
easily, and one buttock. John averted his eyes, and took out the chart; he
decided that under the circumstances he would risk the chart blowing away
in the cockpit rather than pass another minute in Linda's company right at
that moment, so he turned to the steps.

`Well?' Linda's voice was challenging. It was also slurred; she was clearly
drunk again.

`Well?' echoed John, turning to her. Now that he looked, he could see that
she was very drunk indeed.

`It seemsh that there is a posish...a position vacant,' she got out.

`Oh yes?'

`Yeah. I need a boyfriend. Right here.' And Linda pulled up the hem of the
t-shirt to reveal her pussy. She stuck a finger into her vagina and slurred
`I've got this vacancy and it needs filling.'

John just looked at her with pity and disgust. He could not feel even the
slightest stirrings of desire.

Linda began to grow irritated. `Well?' she said again, speaking more
clearly now. `What are you waiting for? Slip those fucking shortsh off and
lets get on with it. Tony doeshn't want me any more, so I'm all yours, big
boy!'

Seeing that John hadn't moved, she got angry. `Well, what's wrong? I
haven't got smallpox; I've got a fucking great body and so have you. You
know you wanna do it. Come on! I'm so fucking horny!'

And she slipped the t-shirt off so that she was completely naked. John
looked away. She screamed,

`Fuck you!'

John just quietly said `I rather got the impression you wanted me to fuck
you!'

`Well, why not?'

`Because if I was looking for a drunken slut, I'd have a much better choice
in Nice. Second, you're old enough to be my mother. Third, you're a
vicious, malignant, woman who has made the life of her own son a misery,
and for that alone I don't think I can forgive you. I have a very
particular angle on that one.'

With surprising agility for one in her condition, Linda sprang to her feet
and slapped John hard across the face. She pulled the t-shirt on again, and
stood with her back to him, speaking in a low voice, suddenly considerably
more sober.

`You know fuck all about it. I never wanted that child; I always said it
would be cruel to bring him into the world where he wasn't wanted. But no,
his, bloody father insisted. And where was he when the child was born? Back
with his bloody wife, nice and cosy. Who had to change the nappies? Who had
to feed the little sod? And what did F.B. ever give me back, eh? Surliness,
hatred, uselessness, ugliness! I'm the one who has suffered here, but does
anyone ever think of me? No, Never. I'm the one who's had all the problems;
I'm the one who's got nothing out of this'.

`Except rather a lot of money, I understand' said John.

Linda exploded `You've been talking to that little fucker, haven't you?
Haven't I been telling you he's a mean little liar? Well, he's made a
proper charlie out of you, hasn't he?'

`No! you're the liar, Mum!' Linda and John swung round to see that Chris
had quietly come in. How much of all that had he heard?

`I know all about the trust fund' he said. `You never loved me, you only
loved the money.'

`You fucking ungrateful little tow-rag!' she shouted.

John could see that Chris' presence was making everthing worse, so he
quietly said;

`Chris, I think you'd better leave your mother and me to sort this out; why
don't you go and join Tony for a bit again?'

But Linda shouted `Chris? Chris? Who the fuck's Chris? He's F.B.! That's
his name, and nobody is ever going to call him anything else! He deserves
nothing else! He's my son, unfortunately, and so he's called what I say
he's called.'

`Look, Linda, what is all this F.B. stuff, anyway? What does it stand for?'

`He didn't tell you that, did he, when he told you everything else, when he
was slagging off his own mother. Oh no! Trust him to look after
himself. Well, you can tell him now, F.B.! Go on! Tell him, you little
sod!' She was shouting hysterically.

But Chris ran, shaking, from the cabin back up the stairs to the
cockpit. Linda yelled after him

`Well, shall I tell John, then? Let's see if he still wants to know you
then! F.B. stands for FAT BASTARD, John! FAT BASTARD! FAT BASTARD! Fat,
because he is a huge obese lardy disgusting slug, and bastard because
that's exactly what he is, in every sense of the word. FAT FUCKING
BASTARD!'

She broke down crying at that point, and ran to her cabin, having only the
presence of mind to take the vodka bottle with her. She must have bought it
that day in Anacapri. John heard the lock turn in the door. He suddenly
felt exhausted, but he went up out into the cockpit. He found Tony steering
with one hand, while with the other arm he was comforting a sobbing
Chris. Tony had heard everything, of course, and he looked dangerously
angry. John went up and took Chris into his own arms, and they both sank
down on the bench, clinging to each other until the boy's sobs subsided.

Funny how I think of him as still a boy, thought John, because he's
sixteen; really, almost a man now.

When Chris looked more composed, John went back downstairs to the cabin to
do what he had gone down in the first place to do; to look at the
chart. Chris nervously came with him, and between the two of them they
worked out their position, and found a little sheltered cove not far ahead;
the work together calmed both of them down, and John was surprised at how
quickly Chris recovered. No doubt he was used to rows like this.


It was as well to stop travelling for the day because the wind was
beginning to fail altogether, and so, despite what Linda might say, John
decided to start the engine. They all needed a break now. Once anchored in
a pretty little sandy cove, John began to cook some dinner, and Tony and
Chris helped without being asked. Adversity had bound the three
together. John really put himself into the cooking, because he thought that
they really needed a good memory for the day which had proceeded so
horribly. Tony called Linda to eat, but she just told him indistinctly to
fuck off.

`Liquid supper for Linda' he remarked sadly to the others.

Chris went off to bed early, exhausted, and Tony and John cleared away,
then took bottle of brandy up to the cockpit with a couple of
glasses. Still dressed only in their shorts, they watched the sun go down
flaming over the sea, turning the tops of the waves different shades of
orange and brilliant red. There was a gentle warm breeze off the land,
scented with pines and hay. The two men chatted for a while about the day's
doings as the dark grew around them, and then as they grew increasingly
tipsy, they began to share confidences in the manner of two guys
discovering a new friendship. Both wanting the moment not to end, they then
talked about anything else that came into their heads. John was intoxicated
at having this handsome, highly sexually-charged man sitting so close to
him, and wanted to keep him at his side; from time to time their bare
shoulders or thighs touched, which John felt almost as if there had been a
jolt of electricity. As the bottle slowly emptied, increasingly he felt a
strange mixture of tension and relaxation which hindered him from carrying
on his side of the conversation quite as intelligently as he wanted. John
had been talking about his life in Chichester, when suddenly Tony said

`But don't you get lonely, John?' and he laid his hand on John's upper
thigh. John's head spun round in shocked surprise and met the deep brown
eyes of Tony looking straight into his own.

`Oh my God!' thought John. `He's coming on to me!'

`Well, I've...I've always been on my own, really. I'm used to it,' he
managed to get out.

`What's a really handsome guy like you doing on his own? It ought to be
against the law!'

The hand on John's thigh began to gently stroke the nylon shorts up near
his groin, and John began to panic as he felt his cock begin to
stiffen. What was going on?

John looked again into Tony's eyes and saw an unmistakeable invitation in
them.

And before he could say anything, Tony had reached out the other hand and
was rubbing it on his chest, circling around John's nipples. John gasped.

`Aha! I thought so!', said Tony, looking down at the stiff bulge straining
at John's blue nylon shorts.

`Wh...what do...? How...how did you know? quavered John.

`Know what? Know that you were gay? Well, you've hardly kept your eyes off
me these last few days, for a start, and when I take off my shirt, you
suddenly go all silent. And you never showed the slightest interest in
Linda; most guys don't really care about her personality once they see her
tits! Besides, I can usually tell.'

`Bloody hell, I thought I'd been so careful! And what about you?'

`Well, I suppose since I've outed you, I ought to 'fess up too. I suppose
I'm what most people would call bisexual.

`Whereas you,' Tony continued, `are what most people would call absolutely
drop-dead fucking gorgeous.'

And he turned John's head towards him and kissed him, gently at first, and
then with increasing passion. They stood in the gently rocking cockpit and
explored one another's mouths and bodies, their cocks rubbing against one
another through the sensuous shiny material of their shorts. When neither
could bear it any more, they pulled down each other's shorts and rubbed and
tugged each other to climax, shooting over each other and over the
deck. They subsided onto the bench, clinging together as much for support
as for affection. The tension was released.

When John had recovered, an awful thought struck him. The cabin door was
still open! He pulled on his shorts again, and went downstairs. The noise
of snoring came from Linda's cabin, and there was no sign of Chris,
either. Thank goodness! He went back up to Tony again, to find him sluicing
down the deck with a bucket of sea water. He turned to John with a grin;

`Better remove the evidence! I'd hate to think what Linda would say if she
saw that! And it's a good job no-one was about downstairs, because your
chest is covered in cum.'

John looked down, and then looked at Tony; he grinned; `so's yours!' and he
dived over the side of the boat into the sea, to be shortly followed by his
new friend. They swam a short distance, and horsed around in the water,
ducking and chasing each other until, by a common accord, they struck out
for the beach only a short distance away.

There they lay, side by side on the sand in the beautiful Mediterranean
night. John leant across and kissed Tony gently again. Passion suddenly
consumed him. He rubbed his hands over everywhere he could reach, and felt
Tony doing the same to him. He was completely lost in the moment,
transported. His cock strained against his shorts again and he could feel
the hardness in his lover's shorts also. They rolled together on the beach,
never sated of each other's body, careless of the uncomfortable sand
getting into every crevice; they tasted sand on each other's tongues but
were too much in lust to spit it out. They rubbed sand into each others
hair, and it was a miracle that neither of them got any in his eyes.

`Oh John!' gasped Tony, `would you let me fuck you?'

John lay suddenly still for a moment, considering. Eventually he said `To
be honest, Tony, I'm not sure I'm ready for it. This is actually as far as
I've been with anyone before in my life.'

`That's okay, buddy, we'll have lots of fun thinking of something else to
do!' He pounced on John and wrestled him.

And they rolled and rubbed and frotted and kissed again until John thought
he would explode. He lay on top of Tony, and pulled his aching cock out of
the leg of his shorts, to slide it between Tony's muscular thighs. Tony
gripped hard as John's muscular body lifted up and down until the younger
man exploded into the sand under Tony's body. John saw stars and collapsed
onto Tony, only to feel Tony's hardness bend painfully under him. Tony
grunted and spun John onto his back, and straddled him. Then he did as John
had done, and it was John's turn to grip Tony's cock as tightly as he could
with his thighs.

When it was all over, they lay together in each other's arms until John
broke the silence.

`Ow, fuck!'

`What's wrong, honey?'

`I've got sand under my foreskin.'

That broke the atmosphere, and both men laughed until they had tears
running down their faces.

So they swam again, to get clean, and returned to the beach. John spoke
again.

`I suppose we've just broken the law! I'm sure there has to be some sort of
Italian law against gay sex on a beach. But who gives a fuck?'

Tony giggled. `Not you, anyway, not to me!'

And they slept there on the beach, in the balmy late summer air, wrapped in
each other's strong arms.




John woke early, as always, and at first wondered what was different. He
thought about the tumultous events of the previous day, culminating in the
unlooked-for sex on the beach; his first sexual experience with another
person. He looked down at the sleeping Tony with affection and asked
himself how he felt about him. And he thought some more, and by the time
Tony had awoken, he had made some decisions.

`Hello, handsome' said Tony sleepily.

`Hello, yourself' said John, giving his companion a gentle kiss.

`Mm, that was nice. Are we in business again?' he said with a wicked glint
in his eye. `I seem to have this little problem in my shorts that needs
sorting out. It's a bit chilly, too, I need warming up.' And indeed, his
morning erection was gilding the skies.

`Go and have a piss, if you want to take care of that' said John,
smiling. `I don't really think that Linda and Chris, if they're awake,
would be entertained very much by the sight of us shagging on the beach'.

Tony went off to take care of his erection, and when he returned, he saw
John swimming back towards him from the boat.

`They're still asleep' said John. `And in Linda's case, just as well,
because she's going to have the mother and father of hangovers today.'

`Good, good; so there's time for us to play?'

`I don't think so, fun as it would be. Anyone might happen by; we have no
idea who owns this beach--Italian beaches are nearly all owned by
someone--and anyway, I want to talk to you.'

`Okay, boring old fart!'

`Less of the old: I'm fifteen years younger than you at least!'

`Then you should benefit from some experience. Anyway, I'm only 26, you
bastard. That makes you a schoolboy!'

`Look, will you shut up and listen?'

`Okay, okay, sorry', and Tony kissed John gently.

`Look, Tony, last night was great fun, and it was a fantastic release after
a horrible day; you're a really handsome and wonderful guy, and I really
want to be your friend, but let's not delude ourselves that we're actually
in love. You scarcely gave me a glance in that way until you dumped Linda;
I think you're just a lovely, affectionate bloke, who simply needs a lot of
sex and affection. If I wasn't here, you'd find somebody else. And on my
part, I can't deny that the sight of you without your shirt makes me all
hot and bothered, but so do lots of other men.'

`Okay, so let's just have the sex and affection; I'm ready right now for
some of both.'

`Yeah, me too! But here comes the difficult bit. You see, Tony, I'm a
Catholic.'

`So? I think I'm supposed to be, too.'

`Yes, but the point is that I actually believe in it. Look: I'm not being
smug and pious; I can't deny the possibility that someone in the future may
actually sweep me off my feet, or grab me by the hair and drag me to his
cave. And until I get there, until I actually fall in love, I can't know
how I will react. But I do know that I have enough respect for love and for
God to be chary of casual sex just for its own sake, where there is no real
love present. I really want to be your friend, but if we went on as we did
last night, I would probably turn against you, and hate myself too. I
wouldn't wish that on either of us. Honestly, I'm too fond of you.'

Tony looked thoughtful, and then spoke `You know, John, you're a really
wonderful guy. Ever since we met, I have admired how you have handled a
number of difficult situations. You say how young you are, and that's true
in years, but you have a real maturity of outlook, far more than me. I'm so
very proud to know you, and to know that you want to be my friend. And if
that means no sex, well, it'll be a first for me, but I can easily get
sex. It's much harder to find a friend.'

And the two embraced and kissed gently again, then walked to the water hand
in hand. As they got there, Tony suddenly tripped John and pitched him into
the sea.

`That's for standing me up, you sod! No-one's ever turned this sex god down
before!'

John stood up, gasping. `I'll get you for that, you old lecher!' and he
wrestled Tony into the water. They horsed around for a while, kissed, and
then swam out to the boat.




2.5

As they climbed aboard, they smelt coffee. Chris had woken and prepared
breakfast for four, and was coaxing his mother to come out and join
them. John was quietly impressed at the lad's resilience, but he supposed
that this had not been the worst row the boy and his mother had had in the
sixteen years they had been in each other's lives. When Linda finally
emerged, she did not look as wrecked as the others had expected. Perhaps
she had grown accustomed to heavy quantities of alcohol. But she was
chillingly cold to everyone.

The atmosphere was horrible around the table. Tony took charge.

`Well, I suppose we need to think what we do now.'

Both Linda and Tony agreed that the holiday was over. There was no point in
prolonging the agony. They would sail to Brindisi today, take a taxi to an
airport and fly home: Tony to London and Linda to Manchester. John happily
refunded Tony the value of the remainder of the holiday; Tony protested,
but John had no need of the money, and felt guilty about his part in
bringing it to a premature end.

So Tony made a couple of calls on his mobile phone, and found some
flights. There was, however, only one seat on the Manchester plane. With
her usual selfishness, Linda said to her son

`Well, that's your problem, sunshine. I'm sure as hell not staying here on
this deathship a minute more than I have to. You'll have to go back on the
train.'

John had an idea. He asked Chris when term began at Whitefriars.

`About three weeks' time'.

`Well, why don't you stay on with me, and you and I can sail back to Nice
and berth the boat down for the winter. Then I'll make sure that you're
back in time for school. Would that be all right, Linda?'

She shrugged. `Whatever. But what is it going to cost me?'

`Nothing. He'll be my guest. It's the least I can do for my part in what
has happened.'

`Too bloody right! It's you who has split my family apart; I'll never
forget, and I'll never forgive you!'

Tony snarled `Oh put a fucking sock in it, Linda. I'm sick of your
bitching. If you ask me, John has done us all a favour here, and its we,
especially you, who owe him, big time. John, I take it that your kind offer
is accepted gratefully, only the poor cow can't find the words to
graciously thank you.'

`Fuck you' said the gracious cow, and the matter was settled, to Chris'
huge and obvious delight.



Shortly afterwards, they were under way again, heading for Brindisi. There
was enough wind to sail, but John took unworthy revenge on Linda by using
the engine. Chris was clearing away the breakfast things, and Linda had
retreated to her cabin to pack. Tony was in the cockpit with John, talking,
or rather whispering.

`You know, John, we could let Linda go to the airport, and then I could
give her the slip and return. The three of us would have a blast!'

John considered the idea. `It'd be fantastic, Tony, and another time, I'd
really like to do that. But that was partly the reason I returned you the
money. I think that Chris needs me now. If you were here, I strongly
suspect that last night's fun and games would happen rather a lot, and that
wouldn't be fun for the lad, nor do I think that he would benefit much from
our shenanigans. But look, I'm really not blowing you off. So to speak. I
really meant what I said, that I want to be your friend. London and
Chichester are not worlds apart; lets get together often, and perhaps next
year the three of us can go sailing. In fact, let's make it a date!'

`You're on. And you're right, damn you. You've been really good for that
boy, and he worships you. A little time with you on his own will do him the
world of good.'

And so it was settled. At Brindisi, mother and son parted without any sign
of affection, especially strange considering that they would not meet until
Christmas, since Chris was going to Whitefriars directly from Nice. Linda
simply ignored John's attempts to bid her farewell. Tony and John observed
the proprieties and shook hands, then pulled each other into a hug,
whispering into each others ears that they would meet very soon. They had
previously exchanged contact details.

Linda suddenly turned to John and said

`You're just like your bloody father, you know!'

and got into the back seat of the taxi. John was puzzled. What the hell did
she mean by that?

Tony had no intention of sitting next to Linda, so he went around and sat
next to the driver. This would not be a comfortable drive. John and Chris
waved the car off, but only Tony waved back. The car rounded a bend and
went out of sight, whereupon the two remaining mariners returned to their
vessel.




John battled with himself, part of him wanting to phone Tony's mobile and
tell him to give Linda the slip and return, but the sight of the
deliriously happy Chris restrained him. This was going to be really
important for the lad, and John wanted to be part of that. He could not
understand the strange affection that bound him to this ungainly and
unbeautiful creature, but it was none the less genuine for all that. What
he felt for Chris was far more akin to love than his rumbustuous friendship
for Tony; there was nothing of sex in it, but a real desire to see Chris
develop as a person, almost a paternal instinct.

The two of them went out for a meal that night; a real splash-out slap-up
meal that cost a small fortune. But in his heart, he called it his `ditch
the bitch' celebration, and he had no doubt that Chris thought the same
way; and anyway, John could certainly afford it.

Back on board, Chris diffidently asked him why he didn't come and take the
spare bunk in his cabin, now that it was not needed. John noted that he did
not suggest taking the bed where Linda had been, but he remembered how much
fun it had been to share a room with a friend when he was Chris' age, on
the very rare occasions that his parents had permitted it. So he smiled and
agreed, and the two of them made the bunk up.



The following morning, after his swim and exercises in the harbour, John
showered, then dressed in his suit. It was Sunday, and he was going to
Mass. He left a note for the still-sleeping Chris, and slipped out,
following the sound of bells until he came to a big ornate church. A priest
was hearing confessions, and so John got in the queue and waited his
turn. After his adventures with Tony, he did not want to go to Communion
without being at rights with God. He was seriously scared that the priest
would go ballistic with him; he knew just how macho a culture southern
Italy was, but in the event, the priest was kindly, praising him for his
decision to decisively end the nascent liaison, and imposing a light
penance. So it was with a happy tread that John returned to the Saucy Mrs
Trusspot, and consequently he was surprised that Chris was somewhat
aggrieved to have been left alone.

`Why couldn't I have come?'

`Are you a Catholic?'

`Well, no, but does it matter? I only wanted to see.'

`You'd have been bored!'

`How do you know? I'd like at least to try.'

`I'm sorry; next time I'll ask, definitely.'

And Chris was mollified. John took off his suit there and then; he already
felt constrained and uncomfortable. Chris watched, fascinated as his hero
stripped to the skin in front of him, as naturally as if Chris were not in
the room; the lad noticed with particular interest that John wore no
underwear. He had seen nude young men before, of course, as any boy at
boarding school has, but John was truly special to him, and the ease with
which John walked around naked betokened a particular acceptance and
friendship which meant the world to the love-starved teenager.

John said, as he pulled his shorts on,

`Well, soldier, we've got some planning to do. We've got weeks to do a
journey back to Nice; it only took us five days to get here, and then we
were going really gently because your mother didn't like the waves. What
say we do some real sailing?'

Seeing Chris' eyes shining, John asked

`Sod Greece! Have you ever been to Spain?'

Chris shook his head.

`Neither have I! Let's do it, buddy. But first, we've a few adjustments to
make. Namely, to your clothes.'

Chris looked a bit panicked at that. John went into their shared cabin and
took out Chris' bag. He held it upside-down over the bunk and shook
everything out.

`You haven't got a single pair of shorts, or a single short-sleeved shirt
here, Chris.'

`Well, no, but would you, if you looked like me?'

`If you had a tan, you'd look a whole lot better! You can't get a tan
covered up in cloth. Now look, I've seen you wearing your swimming
trunks. It's not a very pretty sight, I grant you, but it holds no shocks
for me. There's no need to cover up for my sake, so, for the next two
weeks, you're going to be getting some sun!'

Being Sunday, there was nowhere in Brindisi where John could buy Chris some
shorts and t-shirts, so instead he found Chris' best-fitting jeans and
hacked away at the legs until he had turned them into fashionable
cut-offs. He did the same with a couple of shirts, cutting them right away
at the shoulder, leaving no sleeve at all. He quietened Chris' panics,
saying that he would buy Chris some better fitting stuff at the first
opportunity. And there was no doubt that Chris looked much better in the
new style of clothes. His big body, while not beautiful, now had a casual
fashionableness about it; he could even see it himself.

They started the engine soon after lunch, and when clear of the harbour,
for the first time they hoisted every sail the boat had, even the huge
racing spinnaker. The wind was now blowing strongly abeam, and as it caught
the sails, the boat heeled over and picked up speed. Both John and Chris
whooped with excitement as the Saucy Mrs Trusspot felt her true power. They
grinned at each other as they flew over the waves, hearing the roaring of
the water under the hull. This was life! If ever John had doubted Chris'
real love of sailing, it was laid to rest now, for the boy discovered a new
zest for life as he scampered over the vessel, fearless in his
excitement. He even appeared graceful, for one so large, and as the days
passed, his limbs took on a golden tan very like John's own. Growing in
confidence, Chris shed his shirt too, and passed the days like his hero,
dressed only in his shorts. Some muscle began to appear under the fat, and
his face became leaner, a sign that his weight was beginning to drop.

The time passed too quickly for them both. They made it to Spain, and they
were both disappointed. It seemed that the entire Spanish coast was
populated with British and Germans of the most unpleasant sort. So they
returned instead to the spectacularly beautiful coastlines of Sardinia and
Corsica; completely fearless, they sailed at full pelt whenever the weather
let them, and thoroughly enjoyed themselves. Chris, in particular,
unquestionably had never been as happy in his life before.

On their last night, once more in the harbour at Nice, they had a long
talk. John said

`Chris; there is no doubt in my mind that you are a seriously good sailor,
a real natural.'

Chris glowed in this praise from his hero.

`Well, I had the best teacher.'

`Thanks. Now, I'm going to put my money where my mouth is: I'd really like
you to consider something. As you know, I run these sailing holidays for
people; it's more of a hobby for me than a real job, but I enjoy
it. Nonetheless, I'm aware that I don't provide as good a service as I
might. I do everything myself, and that means that some things are not as
good as they might be, because I simply don't have four arms.

`I was wondering if you would consider coming again next summer, after you
finish school, to crew for me? I don't expect you to do it for nothing, of
course; I'd pay you.'

Chris looked as if he would burst with happiness. That was answer
enough. However, John continued.

`Good, I can see you're interested. Now, there is a condition or two on
your side of the deal. I want you to do something about your weight. You're
already looking a good deal better than when you arrived, but I want this
to continue. I need you to be as agile as you can be, and for that you need
to be much slimmer. I realise it's a tall order because you've a lot of
weight to lose, but I really think you'll be happier if you manage it, and
there's no doubt that you'll be more use to me that way. Do you think you
can do it?'

`I don't know. But I'll try!'

`Good man. Cut out the carbohydrates; eat the meat, the fish, the greens,
but leave everything else. No bread, no potatoes, no rice, no puddings. And
get as much exercise as you can; we need to build up that stamina! You can
do it, soldier!'

At that moment, Chris thought that if John had asked him to fly to the moon
he would have started right away.