The Delivery Trip

The Delivery Trip

“Bad evening Sean” said old Mossie, wiping drops of creamy stout off the bottom of the glass before setting it in front of the young fisherman, hunched at the bar counter. The three days of stubble coupled with an air of dejection made Sean seem much older than his 22 years. His dark good looks and usual devil may care attitude made him a great hit with the island girls. A long jagged scar on his right cheek (the result of a late night brawl with another drunken fisherman who had looked once too often at his girl) only added to his roguish appearance. However there weren´t any admiring young girls about tonight and except for the two old lads huddled over the log fire Sean found himself the only customer in the pub.

‘Bloody right it´s bad’ thought Sean, ‘and in more ways than one’. Bere island on the south-western edge of Ireland had been lashed by squalls and strong south-easterly winds for weeks on end. January usually brought occasional storms, but this was the worst he´d remembered for many years. Sean hadn´t put to sea for several weeks now and was down to his last few euros. ‘Bloody maddening’ he thought in frustration thinking of the large shoals of herring just two hours steaming time south of the island. Sean had recently invested the proceeds from the sale of his late mother´s house with the help of a substantial bank overdraft and a generous grant from the Fisheries board into the purchase of a brand new trawler. However he was struggling to meet the bank repayments, particularly when the fishing was bad. ‘If it wasn´t for the few quid from the weekly dole I´d be rightly in queer- street’ he thought as he moodily traced patterns on the bar counter. ‘In fairness the porter´s good´ he sighed observing the creamy rings of froth on the glass. Old Mossie prided himself on serving a good pint of stout.

As he debated whether or not to have one for the road, the bar door, caught by a sudden gust of wind, crashed open causing the logs in the open hearth to flare. One toppling log sent a shower of sparks in all directions causing the two old men to jump hastily to their feet. “So sorry, boys” the new arrival called out apologetically to the startled couple. Mossie´s bar was a popular gathering place for visiting yachtsmen during the summer months but the elderly lady´s genteel English accent now seemed oddly out of place.

“Oh Jaysus here we go again” muttered Mossie, studying the new arrival through the back mirror of the bar as he busily polished a pint glass. Sean gave him a quizzical look. “She has me plagued for the past week looking for crew. You’d never think she´s around the seventy mark if she´s a day and she´s sailed twice around the world if you don´t mind. She´s loaded too they tell me’ he added ‘though you wouldn´t think so looking at her old tub of a boat’.

‘ Her late husband was some sort of big noise in the oil business; but she´ll never manage to move out of here in this weather without another pair of hands to help her on that ould yoke. They say she´s wealthy enough to buy a state of the art motor cruiser complete with cook and crew but she tells me that she loves that old boat and reckons it´ll see her out” he shrugged. “And she seems to enjoy her own company; and not just her own company’ he added with a grin. ‘Quite a character I can tell you”.

‘So that´s who owns the old motor sailor’ thought Sean. He had wondered about her. The 30-foot wooden boat moored off the pier must have been at least years 50 to 60 years old and the peeling paint-work and rusty metal cladding begged for some tender loving care. He looked hard at the new arrival as she sat alone in the one of the comfortable booths at one side of the blazing fire daintily sipping a steaming hot whiskey.
Stray blond curls peeped cheekily out from the under the knitted multi-coloured beret and the casual tartan scarf and fashionable Dubarry sailing boots added to her stylish appearance. A subtle hint of lip-stick and cleverly applied eye shadow made her not unattractive, he mused. Can´t imagine she´s anywhere near seventy. Must have been a right looker in her day’ he thought, glancing across at her again. As she stretched to toss a log on the fire the tight woolen sweater gave a hint of the generous figure beneath. ‘Not bad legs either’ Sean observed, and even though she didn´t look over in his direction it was obvious she was well aware of his attention. ‘They always seem to know’ he thought and decided to make a move. The pearl necklace and matching ring glowing in the firelight hinted at hidden wealth, only adding to the attraction.

“Would you fancy another one of those?”
She looked up at the attractive dark young fisherman standing over her. “I don´t mind if I do” she replied, smiling brightly up at him “ but I think I´ll have a gin and tonic this time though if you don´t mind. Why don´t you have one too? My name´s Elizabeth but do call me Liz’, she added smiling coquettishly up at him”. Mossie gave him a broad wink and a knowing look as Sean fished his last fiver from the pocket of his jeans and carried the drinks back across the bar floor.

Within ten minutes he had her entire life story. Colourful tales of visits to tropical islands in the Carribean, battling in high seas in the shark infested waters of the South Atlantic; dodging enormous ice bergs in the snowbound Artic; she seemed to have been everywhere. But now, she told him she wanted to explore all the little harbours and secret places around the coastline of the British isles - and Ireland she added hastily. If it wasn´t for the appalling weather of the past few weeks she´d have been in Dingle by now, she added. ‘I´ve some distant Irish cousins up there, the only relations I have in the world’ she added. ‘I´ve never met them and they´re not expecting me , but it´s just a bit too much for me to sail up there on my own in these conditions’ she added wistfully.

Sean had already decided on a plan of action and he decided to take the plunge. Would she be willing to pay him to take her as far as Dingle, he wondered. Her face lit up and she grasped his hand excitedly across the table, bright eyes shining . ‘Christ, that ring must be worth a few bob’ he thought glancing down at the hand which now rested on his bare arm. ‘Might as well go for it’ he mused. She did say she was all alone in the world’. ‘I don’t come cheap, Liz’ he added aloud, his blue eyes smiling roguishly. ‘I´d have to charge you €750 for the trip. I have to think of the fishing time I´d be losing out on’ he bluffed.

‘Oh would you really’ she gasped breathlessly’ that would be absolutely spiffing’. I don´t mind the fee’ she added ‘ but I won´t be able to pay you until we get to the bank in Dingle. Oh I´m so glad we´ve met. Lets´s have another drink to seal the bargain’ she added, her eyes sparkling in the firelight. ‘Mossie just loves sterling ‘ she laughed handing him an English twenty pound note. Ask him to make them large ones’ she giggled. ‘I feel like celebrating’. She had moved over in the booth when Sean returned and patted the cushioned seat next to her. “Why don´t you sit here” she said. “Much more comfy”.

They sat close together, shoulders and hips touching and he noticed that in his absence she had undone the top two buttons of the sweater. Catching his glance she gave him a naughty smile. “Hope you don´t mind” she whispered, soft lips brushing against his ear” but I´m feeling rather hot . These log fires are smashing but they do raise the temperature, don´t you think?”
“I don´t mind in the least” Sean grinned. “You know, they say some like it hot”.

“Oh you are a bit of a rogue” she laughed, large soft breasts pressing against his side. What say we have one for the road? “Here” she said, folding a bank note into his hand. “Do let me pay, I´m the skipper now so I´m giving the orders and there´s plenty more where this came from after we get to Dingle” she added.

They were still there laughing and chatting like life-long friends when Mossie rang the bell for time. Sean could tell by her demeanour that the alcohol had done it´s work. “I don´t usually drink so much” she giggled “ but this is a special occasion. Very special’, she hiccupped, and broke into peals of laughter. Sean was conscious of her warm thigh pressing against his. ‘Game set and match’ he thought as he rose to his feet.
“I guess it´s time to hit the road” he said aloud with a laugh. ‘What time would you like to head out tomorrow ?’

‘Oh I´d say first thing in the morning’ was the reply. “The forecast is perfect. Light south westerly winds”. And then as if it had just occurred to her - “Why don´t you get your gear and come aboard tonight?’ she added. “There´s plenty of room and I do love a bit of company” she added grasping his arm and smiling into his eyes. ‘Suits me fine’ said Sean giving Dessie a wink and thumbs up as they headed out unsteadily into the dark night……

Sean felt like a million dollars as he stood in the cockpit soaking in the rays of the morning sun. ‘And if I play my cards right I might end up a millionaire too’ he thought fingering the haft of the wicked sea knife hidden in a side pocket of his all weather jacket and thinking of this twist of fate which had brought all sorts of possibilities into play. ‘Jaysus, she´ll never be missed’ he thought. ‘Pity though. She was something else in the sack but then’ - he shrugged - ‘ there´s plenty of fish in the sea. Anyway’, he thought, ‘you don´t look a gift horse in the mouth . This could make me comfortable for the rest of me days and opportunities like this don´t turn up too often’.

It was a perfect morning for sailing and the shimmering green coastline of south Kerry never looked better. ‘Old this boat may be’, thought Sean ‘ but by God she´s some sea-boat’. He had cut the engine some time back and the only sound to be heard was the swish of the bow slicing through the waves and the calls of flights of gannets and puffins flying high overhead as they headed for their home on the Sceilig Rocks just visible on the horizon. Sean was in his element at the cockpit, just giving the odd touch on the helm every now and then to keep the boat on course.

He still couldn´t quite believe the happenings of the previous night. On entering the wood-panelled saloon they had discarded their all weather suits and hung them on pegs to dry by the old wood-burning stove. Sean noticed the cheque book and cheque cards lying casually on the sideboard and a black velvet box with an array of rings, earrings and assorted jewellery. ‘Christ she must be worth a fortune’ he thought gleefully. The mellow light of the old brass oil lamp cast flickering shadows around the cosy cabin. His companion excused herself and re-emerged some minutes later wearing a flimsy clinging night-gown which didn´t do much to hide the fact that she wasn´t wearing much underneath. She hadn´t warned him that the old boat had only the one large double berth but after a couple of large glasses of fiery Spanish brandy that didn´t present any difficulty.

He had often wondered what it would be like with an older woman.
She was insatiable and they made love with fierce abandon again and again through the long night as she urged him feverishly on leading him into areas and acts he´d never experienced before . “You´re my young bull, my matador” she murmured in his ear, the long painted fingernails of one hand tracing patterns in his curly black chest hair while the other grasped his manhood and stroked him to hardness once again as this time she lowered herself onto him, whimpering in ectasy......

The late morning sunlight reflected off the little Skellig rock as thousands of squalling gannets whirled and circled high overhead. “It´s the second largest breeding ground in the British Isles ” Sean told her as the little motor- sailor crested the two metre high waves without any difficulty. The steady off-shore breeze filled the billowing white genoa and main-sail and the boat sailed along at a steady five to six knots. “Ten thousand pairs of gannets last time they counted, and rising” he added. She giggled like a schoolgirl, making some saucy reference to things rising and the erotic nature of the salty Atlantic air. ‘Tell me about fishing’ she asked, one arm circling his waist and warm body pressing suggestively against him as the boat rose and fell in the gentle swell. ‘Is it true that Irish fishermen never learn to swim? she asked . ‘It seems so romantic’. He explained that it was an old Irish superstition. ‘We call them pisheogs’ he said. If a fishing boat went down in the Atlantic, being able to swim would only add to the drowning mans misery and prolong the inevitable. ‘Better to have it over and done with quickly’ he added, rather unconvincingly. He wondered when would be the right time to make his move but decided to wait for the cover of night.

They had hoped to make Dingle by nightfall but the wind had now gone about and they faced into a stiffening north-westlerly wind. The Valentia weather station warned of a force 8 gale later that evening. ‘Better to put into Valentia’ she said. ‘The pilot book says there´s a good anchorage in Knightstown. And we´ll have another night aboard before I pay you off´ she added coquettishly ‘or maybe you´d prefer to continue on with me?’.

‘I might even do that’ said Sean with a grin, putting the helm down and heading for the towering cliffs of Bolus head. The sea was now very choppy and white frothy caps whipped off the wave tops. Visibility was deteriorating and the two miles distant shore-line disappeared into the mist. They could hear the eerie sound of the Valentia fog-horn moaning its warning message in the far distance. ‘This might be just the time’ he thought, feeling inside his jacket for the hidden knife.

Just then his companion, who had been standing aft, grasping a shroud to keep herself steady called urgently up to him. She was leaning over the rail peering into the sea. “Oh damn. Come quickly, quickly, I´ve dropped it. Oh hurry, hurry, it´s the only one I have”. He swiftly lashed the wheel and struggling to her side dropped to his knees and peered over the transom. “Where is it?” he called back, hanging precariously to a stanchion and peering into the wash from the boat. Suddenly he felt a sharp push in the small of his back and seconds later he was struggling in the heaving sea. He fought his way to the surface, spluttering and thrashing about in panic. He could just make out the outline of the boat as it disappeared into the mist, and the small, fragile figure peering back at him. Just as he went down for the second time her voice floated back to him. “Oh dear, what a shame you fishermen don´t learn to swim!” And then he was sinking, down, down, far down, his heavy sea-boots dragging him into the depths and he knew no more…..

Dusk had fallen as the little motor sailor chugged into the shelter of harbour of Knightstown Harbour, Valentia Island. The slight female figure hunched over the wheel deftly picked up a mooring a hundred yards off shore just opposite the line of smartly painted cable station houses at the waters edge. As her little dingy approached the shore she could just see the outline of the Royal Hotel through the gloom and the welcoming lights of the public bar with it´s inviting Guinness sign swinging in the slight breeze. She removed the imitation pearl necklace and matching ring from an inner pocket and checked her appearance in the mirror of her little vanity set, applying a little rouge to her cheeks and a dab of scarlet lipstick to her lips. ‘Now then’, she chuckled to herself ‘who can I find to help a little old widow lady make a delivery trip to Galway?”
The End