Dave, (everybody called him Shark Boy) found himself in an embarrassing situation, it was dark and he was standing on a rocky outcrop with Delilah. She had pulled him close to her and kissed him, but when she unsnapped his jeans they dropped like a rock because of the recently found coins he had stuffed in his pockets—they hit the ground with a thud.

“G-G-Gee Delilah” stammered Dave, “I-I-I told Jesse I’d b-b-be right back so, I have to go now.”

Delilah only knew a few words of English but she understood rejection and her heat of passion transformed into anger as she turned and ran away. Dave pulled up his trousers and returned to the excavation. Jesse was still awake and he mocked Dave by saying, in a cruel voice, “She’s trying to use you for a ticket off this island kid, don’t be a chump! She’s playing you like a cheap guitar, as soon as she gets what she wants–she’ll dump you like yesterday’s garbage. The world is full of naive men who say to themselves, ‘Only, I can save her’—get real, Delilah doesn’t care crap about you.”

“You’re saying that because she didn’t choose you,” scoffed Dave.

“That’s your enlarged ego talking,” insisted Jesse. “If she was interested in you she would’ve offered her friendship first—instead of sex. She’s the sort of girl who loves money more than boy-toys.”

“That young girl, however, the one whose been sailing around your mom and dad’s boats this summer is a Philly of another color,” proclaimed Jesse. “I know for a fact she doesn’t sleep around.”

“How do you know that,” asked Dave?

“Because when she sailed by my boat, I offered her a thousand dollars for a roll in my bunk, but she spit at me. I heard that her daddy is one of the CIA guys who lived at Hawk’s-Nest, near Robert Openheimer’s former residence. Openheimer was, of course, the man in charge of the Manhattan project but he lost his security clearance due to a congressional witch-hunt for communists—he was retired here. The agent who deflowered that girl’s momma refused to marry her, but he did, pay for the girl to attend a private school on the East Coast where she excelled at sailing. A racing great named Cornelius Shields Jr. set up the sailing program there and taught her coach everything he knew about sailing. Shield’s competitors called him the “Silver Fox of Long Island Sound.” He started the International One-Designs (I.O.D.) class and one of his star pupils taught that girl every trick in the book—she’s a three-time national sailing champion in one of the keenest of all racing classes and you can safely bet that each of this year’s contenders for the “Ould Mug,” (America’s Cup), will have had somewhere in his background served a substantial apprenticeship in the I.O.D. under the old Fox’s tutorage.

Your Dad, and I, noticed that girl is more than curious about you; she’s your age and at least with her you wouldn’t have to worry about being infected by some incurable venereal disease.

“Well,” proclaimed Dave, “She couldn’t beat me in a sailboat race no matter what kind of boat she used!”

“I know you’re good kid,” remarked Jesse.m”But, I’m not too certain about the outcome of a race between you and her in I.O.D. sailboats that are exactly equal. I’ll tell you what, I’ll bet you one of the gold escudos that you can’t beat her on an I.O.D. race course.”

“You’re on,” exclaimed Dave, “But if you’re going to set up a race you better hurry because she’ll be going back to school after Labor Day.”

Dave’s words became lost in Jesse’s snoring and his mind drifted back to all of the times that summer he caught that girl watching him and he always wondered what her name was but he never asked and she never told him. She sailed from and returned to a restricted pier that’s clearly marked by huge warning signs to keep out and it’s electronically guarded. If anybody gets too close–security forces in full combat gear immediately approached him, or her, and asks them what they’re doing there? At the end of each summer when school starts security people escort her to a private jet at the St. Thomas Airport and she’s not seen again until the following summer.

She has always enjoyed the freedom of nude sailing when she visits her mother. Although her nudity is accepted in the tropics it turns heads and causes unwanted stares when she sails near other boats—many of who are not from the tropics. But she nevertheless is unapproachable, not even the fish cops or, the Coast Guard bother her about not wearing a lifejacket because the C.I.A. insignia is clearly displayed on all of her sails. The vision of looking down at her flawless, well-tanned, body from the deck of Dream Weaver or, The Flying Circus, remained burned into Dave’s brain as he drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, an orange sunrise chased the slumber from Dave’s eyes while he rummaged thru their supplies looking for bottled water. When he stood up he saw the goat herd approaching, the Australian stock dogs barked, bells clanged, the girls whistled, that is, all except Delilah and she was nowhere to be seen. Dave shook Jesse and told him it was time to wake up. He moved much slower than Dave in the morning and while he was getting around Dave used the metal detector to sweep the bottom of the hole. No matter which direction he turned it, it beeped and buzzed with intensity.
The girls brought them fresh baked Tuscan bread, chilled goat milk, cheese and a bottle of wine. The girls spread a clothe on the ground and while Jesse partook of the bread, cheese and wine, Dave consumed the cool milk. Delaney who was very close to giving birth suddenly went into labor and lay down on the clothe by Jesse. Among his several talents, Jesse is a qualified EMS person and although he had never before delivered a baby he was the only one who knew precisely what needed to be done…He sent Dave running back to the shack to bring Lambini, buckets of fresh water, hand soap, towels the big two-wheeled cart and, if they had a pair of sharp scissors they should bring them too, in case they didn’t have time to get Delaney back to the shack. While the other women timed Delaney’s contractions and gave her moral support Jesse comforted her with soothing words of encouragement…
To be continued.

John Stark

The author of the "Tales from the Caribbean" fictional column. He attended school at Waynedale Elementary, Maplewood, Elmhurst HS in the Waynedale area. John had 25 years of professional writing experience when he passed away in 2012.

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John Stark

The author of the “Tales from the Caribbean” fictional column. He attended school at Waynedale Elementary, Maplewood, Elmhurst HS in the Waynedale area. John had 25 years of professional writing experience when he passed away in 2012.

> Read Full Biography
> More Articles Written By This Writer