John Paul was about the only person in the world, aside from those who were actually out looking for me, who knew my background. He was like a brother to me, despite our bickering and arguing. It was always in good fun. I could trust him, and it was good to have someone to trust. It almost made life bearable. Throw in a couple of women and a bottle of something strong, and suddenly all was good in the world.
It was John Paul’s idea for me to buy The Oblation in the first place, knowing full well I wouldn’t object to taking him with me. She was a one hundred and five foot traditional gaff-rigged, three-masted schooner, and she could sleep twelve passengers and a three person crew. On day trips we could take nearly fifty out at a time just hanging out on the deck. That money was pretty good, but the big bucks were in taking a few filthy rich, high society idiots on their own private pleasure cruise.
Usually it was a ritzy family vacation or some debutante on their bachelorette cruise. I got a lot of action on those trips, half the time from the soon-to-be bride. The current excursion was a five-day sail, running out of San Juan, stopping in the British Virgin Islands for snorkeling or whatever, and then continuing to Anguilla to some high class resort there. I didn’t get involved in any of the tourist crap. I just owned the ship, sailed it during the day and spent my nights drinking, either on the ship or off. It didn’t matter to me.
Sometimes I fucked one of the passengers, but that was purely because my hand had gotten tired.
I wasn’t a people person, and one thing I tried not to do was to associate with any of the passengers at all. If I could avoid even seeing them, that made for the perfect trip. Other than the one sitting under the mast with her book, I hadn’t laid eyes on any of them yet, but we had just left port yesterday. I did most of the actual sailing, John Paul did the tour guide shit, and Alejandro, John Paul’s bunkmate, did the cooking and whatever else was needed. The three of us knew how to sail most anything, and we all got involved in the mechanics of making the ship go where we needed it to go. I wouldn’t even have any passengers, but I had to make an honest living somehow.
I didn’t have a lot of experience in my nearly thirty years when it came to honest livings.
I stubbed the cigarette out and chugged some of the “special” coffee out of the thermos John Paul left for me. I probably should have had something to eat, but my stomach just wasn’t ready for that yet. Maybe a little later. I lit up another smoke.
After a couple of hours, the passengers started to wake up and come out on the foredeck where I couldn’t help but see them. I usually looked surly enough they didn’t try to spend a lot of time talking to me, but there was always one who would attempt to truly engage me in conversation. I just didn’t feel up for it this morning, so when an overweight, balding guy came up and started babbling, I smiled dumbly and responded with “Yo no hablo Inglés,” and he left me alone.
I chain smoked and ignored passengers until noon, when I ate a bit of something Alejandro brought up from the galley and let him hold the wheel so I could take a piss. The rest of the afternoon was spent in much the same way. About the time the passengers were having dinner, we arrived in Cruz Bay for the night. They’d spend the rest of the night and next day there with their snorkeling and shopping and whatever the hell else they did on shore. To me it meant better booze than what I had on the ship and a good hooker.
Once we were docked and John Paul took over for the night, I made my way to the closest drinking hole and ordered three shots and a beer. After the shots were gone, I sat back and nursed the longneck, watching the people around me. I saw the chunky guy who tried to talk to me earlier, but he was busy trying to talk to the early-rising, bookworm girl with dark hair and long legs. I couldn’t see her face from where I was sitting, but she had to be twenty years younger than the guy. Unless he was seriously loaded and sporting a ten inch cock, she was way out of his league.
He must not have had either because she got up and left after just a few minutes of listening to him babble. As she was walking out the door, a black-haired island girl walked in wearing clear heeled shoes. Just what I needed. I didn’t waste any time but walked right up to her, whispered a number in her ear, watched her eyes light up, and took her back to my cabin.
I wondered if she was even eighteen as she rode my cock half the night. Not that it mattered around here – sixteen was good enough, legally. Being a U.S. man, though, I had a thing against girls under eighteen. It just didn’t seem right. I guess for what I was paying her, she would agree to be whatever age I’d be comfortable screwing.