I leave the derelict, backwoods marina and head to Daytona Beach - land of too much skin and itsy-bitsy bikinis.
Chapter 69:
ESCAPE WITH A TINY DANCER
69. I felt great relief once I cast off and left the "cornucopia of delights" marina. It was not yet dawn as I backed my sloop out of the slip. I made certain to escape well before any of the derelicts woke up. These people were straight out of the movie Deliverance. "Squeal like a piggy", a famous line from the movie, kept running through my mind. It was all there except the banjos. I shuddered to realize how true to life that actually was. But now I was free again, alone on my Love Boat. No more Samantha and no more Tiffany, thank you.
I slowly motored back into the Ditch, headed northbound. Surveying my charts, I was disappointed to see that the day would be spent traversing Mosquito Lagoon. For the uninitiated, allow me to explain the cause of my disappointment.
These waters are on the north edge of Cape Canaveral, the giant NASA rocket launch site in Florida. The Ditch is carved into the Indian River until just past Titusville. Then, it turns east, going across a wide bay of very shallow water, through the Haulover Canal at Allenhurst, then turns north again. The water is then called Indian River North, hugging the west side of a vast expanse (30 miles by 5 miles) of knee-deep water called, appropriately enough, Mosquito Lagoon. During previous trips through this area, I have been forced to drop anchor for the night here. Avoid doing this like the plague or you will be inundated with the omnipresent stinging insects. The waters live up to their name.
Motoring through Mosquito Lagoon, at 5 knots mind you, takes all day. The terminus of this torture is 30 miles distant. In essence, boats are "trapped" in this boring, insect infested, shallow stretch until New Smyrna Beach and Ponce inlet. The only consolation is that a mere 10 miles further north from Ponce inlet is Daytona Beach.
Aahhhh ... Daytona! Land of wide beaches and scads of attractive bodies in scant bikinis. It was fortunate that I had escaped from the "cornucopia of delights" marina at such an early hour. Getting underway before dawn meant that I could easily make Daytona with plenty of sunshine left.
Crossing Mosquito Lagoon gave me an abundance of time to identify a suitable spot to spend the night. Consulting my guidebooks I identified an appropriate marina in Daytona on the Halifax River. Calling ahead I reserved a transient slip. With mental images of scantily clad women scampering about on the famous beach or sunning themselves (on their belly with their bikini tops unfastened for that "no line" tan), I reserved three nights.
I arrived in Daytona by late afternoon. Once secured to the cleats in my slip with power and water connected, I poured my usual tipple of single-malt and contemplated whether to cook or go out for dinner. By the end of my first drink, I had convinced myself that going out would circumvent dirty pots and pans. The human mind can justify just about anything.
The taxi dropped me at the epicenter of the famed Daytona boardwalk. The place was crawling with people, every size, shape, and color imaginable. Gift shops, restaurants, and rental offices lined the plaza. Street vendors hawking their wares squawked at every passerby. Groups of simply gorgeous girls in micro-bikinis waltzed by, chatting and giggling. I found a bench and retrieved a cold beer from my backpack, quietly taking in the hubbub of activity surrounding me.
As I was assuming the energetic vibe permeating the area, an elderly woman, about my age, plopped down on the bench next to me. She started rummaging through her beach bag, frantically searching for something. "Damn! I thought there was more. Shit! I'm parched" she muttered to no one in particular.
I intruded. "Excuse me. Did you say that you were parched?"
"Why, yes. I am. I thought there was another beer in my bag, but I guess not. Can't believe I finished that whole six-pack so quickly."
While retrieving another beer from my backpack I responded, "Your knight in shining armor to the rescue!" I proffered the can which she readily accepted. "Although my armor is thin and not so shiny anymore, I do come prepared."
She chuckled at my lame comment. "Well, thank you just the same. I guess at our age, the shine faded years ago. My name's Doloris, but everybody calls me Dancer. I've been a ballet dancer since I was young."
"Pleased to meet you, Dancer. I'm Sailor, for the same kind of reason. I've been a boater my whole life and after my wife passed, I retired and moved aboard my boat full-time." She gave me an understanding nod as she drained the last drops of beer down her throat. "I guess that you were parched! I’d offer you another, but I'm fresh out of beer. However, if you join me for dinn ...."
I didn't have time to finish my sentence. She blurted out "I'd love to! It gets so lonely dining alone and so awkward in a restaurant. The looks I get, like I was a leper or something. I know a great place just around the corner."
Dancer jumped up and started nearly speed walking down the boardwalk, striding ahead atop her long legs. She had an unusual body for a ballet dancer. She was, overall, very short, yet her legs seemed to make up most of her frame. Her legs were long and almost seemed out of proportion with her torso. I guess that long legs are an asset for ballet dancers.
Being a dancer, she was in prime physical shape. Her hair was kept long, wrapped into a bun at the back of her head. It was a luminous silvery gray. Her face was narrow, her age exhibiting itself in the creases and wrinkles beside her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. Round wire-rim granny glasses were perched on a thin nose, turned up at the tip giving her a pleasant facial expression. Whatever breasts she had were not evident under her loose fitting top. The top half of her body was compact flaring into wide hips anchoring her extra-long legs. Her derriere had nice handholds at the rounded bottom which moved suggestively as she walked.
We had a spirited talk over dinner. I pressed her for details about her life as a ballerina asking questions about her flexibility and agility. She explained that even at her advanced age she could still wrap her foot up and behind her head. She wanted to know all about life living aboard. What about storms? Sharks? How do you handle toilet waste? What if you run aground and get stuck?
Cocktails over hors d'oeuvres and a bottle of wine with dinner made our inhibitions and judgment disappear. After a short pause in our spirited discussion she coyly asked "And what do you do for sex? You've described taking long passages all alone. I mean, it must get lonely. Am I right?"
"Of course, Dancer. On some trips I have internet available so there's porn. On longer passages, when I'm beyond the reach of cell signals ... well, there's always my hand, my memories and my twisted fantasies."
"Since my husband died, I've found that's the hardest thing to replace. We had an extremely active sex life, just the two of us, for 45 years. Masturbating can't replace that. It's only a quick fix."
"You've just captured my world in a few words. 'Masturbating is only a quick fix.' When I land somewhere I go out of my way to meet new people. You just never know what can develop. I find that so many of the single women are just looking for a sugar daddy. Not my style. Others are too high maintenance. And, tragically, most women instantly put me in the 'friend zone'. Guess it's just a vibe or something. I don't know. It's difficult to run into someone who understands the spiritual, the emotional and the physical needs of others."
"Isn't that the truth. It's difficult, but not impossible." She stared off momentarily, digesting my comments and conjuring a go forward plan. She tipped her head down and seductively peered at me with upturned eyes. "Want a quickie? There's a public restroom nearby."
She entered the bathroom first, alone. In a few moments a middle-aged woman exited, and Dancer waved me in signaling all clear. She went to the larger handicapped stall at the end of the row.
There was no foreplay other than her turning and giving me a brief bear hug, her head only reaching my chest. I embraced her in return, making sure to include her tush in my response. "Ooh that felt good to have a hand on my tush. Now, it's been a while so go easy on me."
"No worries, Dancer. I'll be gentle" as I kissed her on the forehead.
As she was turning and bending over pulling her pants down, she said over her shoulder "And no comments about my dainties. They ain't so dainty anymore." Her pants on the floor, she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her ubiquitous granny style underwear and peeled them away. Then she raised one leg up onto the sink counter with absolutely no effort or strain. "Will this do?"
The sparse, wispy pubic hair had trouble hiding her generous lips. Eyeballing her privates as I retrieved my dick from his cloister, he sprang to life. Her leg stretched high up on the counter looked natural, even graceful. The pose made her fuckbox easily accessible. With some spit lube, I pushed hard enough to force the first couple of inches inside. She cried out "OH, OH, OOHNHNHH...."
"Am I hurting you?"
"Ohhh fuck no, God no, keep going! It's just that it's been a long time since I've had something other than my toys in there. Damn! It feels so real!"
It felt nice to slide my cock in and out. Even though she only took about four inches, it was rewarding to hear her expressions of deep satisfaction. I kept my eyes closed and visualized that it was a hot babe, that I was balls deep and that I could have her ass next.
After a few minutes of my physical and mental gymnastics, I managed to spurt a small load. It was more like a duty fuck, fornicating with this elderly woman who had been celibate for years. Her moans told me that I had succeeded in giving her pleasure.
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