The Marinaby
Meriel Heather
HERMES DUTIFULLY returned the Englishman’s salute. With a tired smile plastered on his weather-beaten, well lined face, he despised the pale paunch hanging over the briefest of briefs, the girl on each arm.
Hermes knew those million-dollar yachts seldom went to sea, let alone raised a sail. He knew those poseurs hired them for show, just as they hired their scantily clad Grecian women. He knew because he was the marina’s broker, he was the marina: Hermes knew fixers, fitters, painters, plumbers. He knew owners, tenants, their families and financial affairs.
Yes, bitter phlegm caught in Hermes’ throat; knowledge was power, but it didn’t buy a dream boat. He walked on, stumbled and cursed his aging body. He was weary. Weary of being just Hermes. Hermes the messenger.
About to board his one-man craft, his home at the far end of the marina, he saw the vacant berth next door had been filled. My, that's one mighty-fine sloop; Hermes stopped mid-stride. This was not ostentation, this was oceanic elegance. Aphrodite & Areswritten in golden Greek lettering over a pearly scallop shell crossed by a bronze-tipped spear decorated the hull. Magnificent! There was no sign of life from stern to stem. He moved closer. No one.
Gone shopping, he mused, wondering how he had missed the vessel’s entry into the marina. Dare he step aboard? Just a quick look around, only on deck of course. This beauty would fetch a nice sum in rentals. He slipped off his plimsolls.
Lordie, but she was to die for: he nosed the rich sailcloth. His soles massaged the decking of exotic timbers. His fingers stroked the mahogany arm rests of loungers with their thick cream cushions. He caressed the gold encrusted wheel. Oh to sail her, he sighed, noticing the open, welcoming hatch to below-deck.
“Hello,” he called. Silence. Glancing behind, he descended. The last step landed him in paradise. Conscious of his gnarled feet, unshaven chin, tatty jeans, oil stained T-shirt and well-fingered cap, he stepped onto a carpet which enveloped him, and there she was. A true beauty.
Never had a woman been so passionate, so skillful. He groaned in tune with her doves, coupling in the cherry blossom.
“You’re a goddess,” he gasped, “magnificent!”
“She’s all yours. You will sail her,” she whispered, her softly curved scallop shell forging further togetherness.
Afterwards he stood at the helm, sails full mast, steering his beauties toward the skyline.
“I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he laughed deliriously.
“Indeed you have!”
Hermes rounded. The man with his snake-infested beard raised his bronze-tipped spear, “Aphrodite is my heavenly whore,” Ares raged, “and so is this.” He encompassed the sloop with an air-slicing twirl then, plunging the bronze tip into Hermes’ heart he roared, “go back to your rotting earth.”
Hermes’ chest pained. His fist held the blood flow. He sat up and watched his sloop hover on the horizon. He heard running footsteps. “Hey,” the English voice shouted, “dial 911.”
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