Tugboat Man and the Lost Continent

That was when I heard a perky voice from the dock saying, "What kind of boat is this Mister?" I turned around irritated and almost sprayed her. That was because she was absolutely spectacular.

I'm a guy and this woman was like an average teenager's wet-dream. She had obviously come in on the big motor sailor that was moored next to me. And she might be the daughter, or granddaughter of the dirty old man who was driving it.

She was almost elfin; very tiny with a muscular little body and a pair of very full breasts. I could evaluate her boobs because she was wearing one of those bathing suit tops where the only thing left to the imagination was the color of her nipples. She had on a pair of khaki boat shorts, a lot like mine.

Her face was perfection. This woman was the classic blonde beach bunny from every Gidget movie ever made. I was still pathologically shy. But I was on my own boat. More important, she wanted to know about it. And no nerd can resist the opportunity to show off his technology.

So instead of ducking into the cabin - like I would have normally done. I mopped the sweat off my forehead with my shirt, gave her a faintly pedantic smile and said, "It's a former Navy YTB Seagoing Tug. It's been converted to a live-aboard. And it's my home."

She gave me a look of pure fascination and said, "Can you show me around?"

That would normally be miles above my capacity to interact with a human being. But It was hard to say "no" to a sexy little thing with big delectable tits and a smile like that. So I said, "sure" and reached out to steady her on my boarding plank.

She didn't need it. She scampered across like a squirrel on a tree limb and jumped nimbly aboard. She was wearing one of those very light wraparound tropical print skirts that women wear over bathing suits. So I couldn't evaluate her legs. But her hips and butt were as superb as her tits.

She had big blue eyes that complemented her dirty blonde hair; which she wore in a braid down her back. She was probably from the Miami-Fort Lauderdale area. Because she had one of those golden tans that women in south Florida can develop without putting in much sun time. And it looked like it might be an all-over tan.

She was radiating joy and something else as she walked up to me, stuck her hand out like a guy and said, "I'm Ava." I took it and said, "Everybody down here calls me the Tugboat Man - for obvious reasons -- most people just shorten it to Tug."

I showed her the lounge area and she was blown away by the teak and brass fittings. I had to admit that I HAD spent a lot of money on décor. I showed her the two little sleeping cabins and the head. And then I took her down the after hatch to the engine room.

In the eight months that I had owned my tug I had gotten absolutely OCD about making the engines so pristinely perfect that you could eat off them. And I was proud of my handiwork. Hey!! What can I say?? I'm a natural born geek.

She was astonished at the size of the two diesels. I said, "Remember - this used to be a tugboat. That's why it is wider and more powerful than your average ship. The one you came over on is built for beauty, grace and speed. My ugly old girl is a platform to tow big ships."

I took her up in the pilot house and showed her the navigation gear. She was so cheerful and full of life that I said without thought, "I was about to eat. If you give me a minute, I can make you lunch too." She looked delighted and said, "That would be perfect!!"

I parked her in the lounge while I went to take a shower. I had just finished washing the grime and sweat off, when the door to the head opened. That startled me. I yelled, "I'm in here!!" When a giggling little apparition appeared in the shower with me. She said, "I know."

She was stark naked and sleek as a seal. And there were no tan lines. She had a perfect little tight dancer's body with a flat stomach, muscular legs and very hard flanks. Her aureoles were almost virgin pink and her nipples were like bright red cherries from all of the blood flowing through them.

I would have had to be made out of stone to refuse something like that. And at that point one part of me most definitely WAS. She was gazing at me with a challenging fuck-me stare as she buffed Old Lucifer to a sheen. I turned her around with a snarl, and she eagerly backed up on my jutting bowsprit.

She was almost better from the rear. Words like "cute little round butt" don't come close to describing her. She was exceptionally tight. But I got to the top with a little thrusting. When I did, she let out a groan that might have been heard at Sherry's. Then she began pushing herself backward emitting loud moans of lust.

I was just getting into my stride when her head flew back and she let out a shriek. I could tell from the contractions and the way she was whipping her long blond hair around that orgasm-one had hit. But there were more to come.

She started to quiver like she was being electrocuted and orgasm-two was a bit louder. She was now braced with her hands widely spaced on the shower wall groaning and gasping and pushing back in a way that I thought she might hurt herself. It was such an intense episode that I arrived a little quicker than usual.

The feeling of my shooting inside of her took her legs out from underneath her. And I wasn't certain that she hadn't passed out since she went kind of limp, I was holding her around the waist as I finished and she was flopping around like a rag doll making no sound at all.

But her autonomic contractions were still milking me like a crazed Iowa farmhand - and that odd sensation kept me hard as a rock.

If she had actually passed out she came-to in a matter of seconds. Because she put her hands back to where she had them earlier. Then her whole body seemed to gyrate around me. She was all muscle, like a gymnast and she was working her butt in such a way that she was rotating me inside her in wide 360 degree arcs.

That produced a heated array of shrieks. And then her body went totally rigid. She held that posture for an impossibly long time. Then she collapsed. And we both ended up on the floor in a sodden heap. All-in-all it was the most amazing sexual encounter I had ever experienced,

I got shakily to my feet. She was still just lying there looking like she had been fucked to death. I got us both towels and began to dry her off. She came back from wherever she was visiting and said wearily, "I have never been fucked like that. I thought we would just have a little fun."

The fact is that I didn't know where that performance had come from either. I have a lot of experience with friends with benefits. But I am definitely not a porn star. And I have never had a woman pass out on me during sex. Of course having a woman as responsive as Ava helped. But it was almost like I had tapped into some heretofore unknown mystical energy.

Fortunately, I didn't need to wonder what kind of girl would fuck me a mere hour after meeting me. I knew a lot of women like That. Ava might be a talented amateur, or even a pro. Nonetheless, it was clear that she absolutely loved sex. And that she was in the generation that doesn't have any hang-ups about what sex means in the grand scheme of things.

We were attracted to each other -- nothing more. It was as simple as that. And as a result, we had a good time getting further acquainted. Nobody was hurt. Nobody else was involved, And I wasn't planning on giving her my class ring afterward. It was just sex. And it was fun.

She dressed and did a little clean-up while I fixed both of us a conch salad. She had never experienced that yummy Key's delicacy before and she was delighted. I didn't tell her that a conch is just an edible marine snail. She probably wouldn't have enjoyed her lunch quite as much.

Then she proceeded to hang out with me on the boat. Being with her was like adopting an eager Welsh Corgi. She was merry and full of energy. And she was really an attractive package of femininity

I finally asked her whether the guy she was with would be pissed at her for spending the day with me. She said indifferently, "Oh, he doesn't mind. He knows that I'll take care of him tonight. I'm thirty-five years younger than he is and he's just happy I'm with him." So he WASN'T her father,

At that, she looked at her watch and said, "Now that you mention it, I gotta run." She grabbed her wrap, fastened it, kissed me chastely on the cheek. And said, "Thanks for a wonderful day."

Then, without a word she scurried back down my boarding plank across the dock and up into the boat she had arrived on.

Later that night I was sitting in the warm night air drinking a last beer. There were the usual marina noises, boats coming and going in the bay, water lapping against the dock and the lurid sounds of Ava getting the ever-loving shit fucked out of her next door.

I fell asleep to the keening noises of her latest orgasm. Amazing!! Her boat left early the next morning. I think the guy she was with was jealous.

~

One afternoon a couple of days later we were sitting on the deck at Sherry's. The thing about being on the ocean is that you see weather without having it effect you. And we could all see the edge of something big and nasty moving along the horizon from southwest to the northeast perhaps 20 miles to our west.

The sky in that direction was blood red and the lightning was continuous. You couldn't hear the thunder but the almost nonstop lightning strikes were throwing up huge flashes.

There were a bunch of us watching from the higher elevation of the sand-hill where Sherry's is situated. Basil, was one of the group. He said with his classic island lilt, "I'd hate to be out in that, mon."

He had no idea what an understatement that was for me. Even though I was expert at boat-handling by that point I was decidedly not brave.

Of course, that was when the god who likes to fuck with me decided that it was time to turn me into his personal speed bag. A kid who worked the docks at Browns came running up looking panicked. He spotted me and hustled over to where Reg and I and Basil were sitting. He said, "Tugboat Man, there's a boat out there that needs help!!"

A big yacht had gotten caught in the worst of that monster. They were foundering and they had radioed an SOS. My first instinct was to say, "So how does that affect me?" But before I could get the words out Reg said, "Come on mon. We're the only ones who can help them."

I knew it. I hated it. But I knew it. And for the first time in my life I actually did the right thing. I was astonished. Getting involved in anything that concerned other people was so totally NOT me.

But, thirty minutes later we were headed west at full-throttle. Tugs are definitely not the greyhounds of the sea. They are more like big fat waddling bulldogs.

But my boat was not encumbered by all of the towing gear that most tugs have. So we were making a respectable twelve knots. Still, it was over an hour before we got into the edge of the worst of it.

It was the oddest weather that I have ever encountered at sea. Normally there is a spattering of rain and that increases proportionally as you progress further into the storm. The same is true with the wind. But in the case of this storm it was almost like we crossed an invisible boundary.

One minute we were in the clear and registering almost no wind. Then the next minute it was like somebody turned off the lights and we were in a violent storm. It was as if we had passed through a curtain into a blacked out room. And it almost seemed like the storm itself was a living entity.

There was underlying energy in the air. It was like the constant lightning had charged the atmosphere with electricity. It even started messing with the digital navigation gear.

We were on a course that was laid out on the GPS location that they had broadcast. But we were also scanning with the tug's Navico BR24 Broadband Radar.

I had never thought I would use the radar for any practical purpose. I just like to buy leading edge gadgets. Nevertheless, the signal was coming and going irregularly. It made the radar contact seem more like an intermittent energy pulse than the usual constant steady blip.

It was fortunate that we were using the radar though. Because we got a firm contact about two miles northeast of our GPS destination. The storm was packing gale force winds and the waves were in the twenty, to thirty-foot range. But my old girl is built for weather like this. And she was shouldering the waves aside on her two 2,500 horsepower locomotive engines like they were nothing.

We finally sighted the ship. It was sideways in the trough of the waves and getting beaten up pretty badly. It was a hundred-and-fifty-foot cabin cruiser. And its size was the only thing keeping it afloat. Reg had been on the radio as I conned us close, in order to get a line across. He had them preparing to receive it.

We had a tow cable that was left over from the last owner of the tug. But no gun to shoot it to the distressed yacht. Nevertheless, Basil and Reg managed to secure our end to one of the old girl's original towing cleats.

Reg and Basil were very brave men. Because everything that they were doing was happening in driving rain, which was sweeping back and forth across the afterdeck with enough force to knock them over at times.

It was also taking place in total darkness -- with almost no visibility except where the deck lighting was. The only other light came from where I was illuminating the yacht with our searchlight.

We could see the crew waving for the guideline.

I timed the rising wave so that we were actually looking down at the deck of the cruiser as we passed its forward port quarter under full throttle -- perhaps forty feet distant.

Reg twirled and then threw the big grappling hook with the light guideline attached. It was an amazing display of seamanship.

The hook grabbed the cruiser's front rail. And the other crew pulled the accompanying towline across and secured it to their own cleat.

I firewalled the throttles. And the big yacht snapped around on the towline like a puppy on a leash. Then, without further ado we pulled our burden through the teeth of the storm and back to Browns.

It took another two hours but five thousand horsepower makes an authoritative statement when it comes to getting anything through rough seas.

They had no engine power so I nudged them into a berth. The boat looked to be in the ten-to-twenty million-dollar class. They must have had a generator going on-board because all the time that we were maneuvering the thing was lit up like Times Square. Then we docked ourselves.

Reg and Basil had done all of the heavy lifting. And they were both battered and soaked to the skin. But they wanted to get back to Sherry's as fast as they could. No island creole worth his salt would pass up the chance to describe the adventure that we had just had.

Sherry's was packed. And we were greeted like conquering heroes. Since I absolutely hate being in the limelight I retreated to the back corner of the bar and hid out in the dark while Reg and Basil provided the entertainment. They were a great act.

The story was imaginative to say the least -- the waves were only thirty feet, not fifty. But the locals just expected their tale to be "inventive" and they were having fun asking the two heroes to embellish it. That was a perfect example of the kind of joie-de-vivre that permeated the entire island.

And that spirit was making me into a different, slightly less feral human being. The problem was that there were a few mainland types at Sherry's that night.

Mainlanders come in two varieties. The tourists never stop telling you how quaint everything is. They are just embarrassing.

The really insufferable ones are the Hemingway wanna-be's. The waters around Bimini feature very big fish. And THAT has always attracted guys like Hemingway. Meaning, men who want to allay the doubts that they are having about their own masculinity. Those guys are universally aggressive. Worse, they consider anybody else's success a threat to their status as "manly men."

There were three of the manly-men types sitting around a table listening to Reg and Basil. They had obviously been there for some time.

Basil was just getting to the part where we were securing the line from the yacht in the dark when one of the guys at the manly-man table started laughing belligerently.

Basil stopped and said in a very even voice, "Something funny, mon?"

The mainlander was a big guy, a mid-forties fellow with the kind of beefy frame that indicated he might have once played football. He and all of his friends had that upper-middle-class attitude, where people like Basil were put on this earth to do their bidding.

Hemingway junior said, "You islanders are like little children. None of that story is true."

Now -- besides being incredibly condescending that statement was also downright insulting. Especially given the fact that we had risked our necks to save a boatload of people; who were just like this asshole. And it was Reg and Basil who had been exposed on the open deck in the driving rain.

Reg said with menace in his voice, "What do you mean mon?"

There was suddenly a lot of dark electricity in the air. The fool was about to answer when three new arrivals distracted everybody's attention. And their entrance probably saved Hemingway Junior's life.

The leader of the group was late 50s, incredibly handsome and charismatic. If he was not the boss of one of the Miami Cartels he should have played him on TV. His wife was a stunner, perhaps fifteen years younger with a Latina body that would have made Sophia Vergara jealous.

But the third member of the party was the person who grabbed everybody's attention. She was tall and tan and young and lovely. The Girl from Ipanema must have looked just like her. She had abundant light brown hair with expensive blonde streaks. It was parted in the middle and it fell straight down her back. She was in a t-shirt and shorts. And she was remarkable.

Women with jugs that big generally do not have such a long narrow supple waist and lithe hips. That alone would make her exceptional. But her real glory was an extra-long pair of perfect legs. My first thought was "Barbi" but this woman was definitely NOT plastic. The assembled multitude just stared. You could have heard a pin drop.

The Cartel kingpin smiled and said politely, "Where is the Tugboat Man?"

OMG!! They say that you have a "fight-or-flight" reflex buried deep in your lizard brain. Well my reflex is strictly "flight." Except I was trapped in the corner where I was hiding, hoisted on my own petard!!

Reg smiled his thousand-watt smile gestured toward me and said, "Over there mon." I was cowering behind the table looking for all the world like Bambi in the headlights of an oncoming Peterbuilt.

The man strode over with what was obviously his wife and daughter following. He extended his hand and said, "Carlos Montero, I wanted to personally thank you for saving us."

I took his hand and began studiously examining the tops of my shoes. I croaked out, "It was nothing" while wishing that I could disappear through the floor.

Reg came to my rescue. He extended his hand to the man and said, "I'm Reg. Tug is a little special. So I do his talking for him." That was true -- if not massively understated.

Reg said, "We just did what anybody else would do. Fortunately, we had the ability to do that thanks to Tug."

I raised my eyes and unfortunately I was staring right into the daughter's face. She had an oddly interested look in her eyes. The eyes were Bastet's -- huge, amber and intelligent.

I whipped my eyes back to studying my shoes. The dad relieved the tension by laughing and saying, "Perhaps I can buy all of you drinks back at my ship? We want to thank every one of you."