In the following story, all of the characters are totally fictive and the setting is real. For whomever it would be illegal, immoral or prohibited for any other reason whatsoever to read a story about love between two young men is kindly requested to refrain from continuing. A free picture album illustrating this story (pdf) is available upon request at maringiustinian@laposte.net. Please remember to help Nifty stay online by sending your contribution. This being said, I hope you enjoy the tale.
OF LIGHT AND LIFE
by Marin Giustinian
Paul Duncan, the forth of seven children, grew up on a remote sheep farm near Dunbar, east of Edinburgh, Scotland. Being the middle child, he was left mostly on his own to grow as he could. He was an indoors boy, often helping his mother as she spun. He enjoyed feeling the soft wool, twisting the skeins and wrapping them. Later, like all lads coming of age, he was more inclined to roam outdoors, going to the cliffs to gaze at the sea, yearning to sail away -- anywhere!
In secondary school, he was considered a becoming, bright, and politely shy lad, qualities which, as he grew, made him the perfect cabin boy on a sailing yacht based in Leith. She was recently built, ultra-modern, with luxurious accommodations for twelve passengers. She cruised the Norwegian fjords in the summer and the Mediterranean in the winter.
Paul's natural kindness, excellent manners, and unquestionable competence in mastering the elegant lifestyle aboard quickly earned him the rank of head steward.
His captain, Gustav Hansen, was Norwegian. From the beginning, he took to Paul. Both literally lived aboard, thus they developed a close but respectful relationship. Gustav taught Paul the essentials of sailing, teaching him also basic Norwegian. Under the elegant influence of Gustav's presence, Paul naturally became a very refined, young gentleman.
Month after month, over fifteen uninterrupted years, Paul had put aside nearly two-thirds of his pay and tips. He was considerably well off. Being also a model of discretion, he could even share the intimate company of a lone passenger if the rare opportunity fancied him. What more could be wanted?
And yet, on the night of his thirty-third birthday, after the guests had retired to their cabins, he made his usual inspection tour. Afterwards, he went up on the forward deck to enjoy the glow of the summer's endless twilight. The captain had, as usual, given him his usual birthday gift, a box of Belgian chocolates. Standing at the bow, Paul opened the box, savoured a chocolate, feeling terribly empty deep down inside.
He wasn't really able to pinpoint the reasons of his dissatisfaction, but he was no longer happy with his aimless life. He realised he had never really decided as to what he did, nor to where he was. His 'sweet and easy' life now left him with a taste of bitterness.
An urgent fear suddenly gnawed at his stomach. Would that interior emptiness plague him for the rest of his days? Did he have to decide right then and there to radically change his life -- change it completely? He ate another chocolate.
The more he pondered the question, a kind of self anger swelled bringing a few tears. He could only blame himself for his own despair. Objectively speaking, there was nothing stopping him from a change, nothing but himself, his habits, his reluctance, his fear of disturbing the status quo. Even if he were on the loner's side of bachelorhood, free as a lark, he was at a loss with his freedom.
He went back to his cabin and put the box of chocolate on the shelf over his desk. He then took his spiral watercolour pad, along with the colours and brush out of his desk drawer, and sat down. He thumbed through the pages with the intention of finishing an imaginary landscape he was working on. He closed the pad.
He was obsessed by the unavoidable question of the meaning of his life. He knew he had money gathering interest in the bank. He was in good health, and with his good looks, he could do whatever he wanted -- but that was the crux of the problem. He knew what he didn't want, but was unable to actually say what he wanted in life, as if he didn't have the right to know.
He opened the pad again, found the page he was looking for, stared at it, doing nothing. As he sat there, a little light began to glow somewhere, deep down inside, immediately followed by a small rush of panic trying to extinguish it. Thousands of things raced through his mind. He couldn't finish the painting because what he was painting didn't really exist.
He longed for real things. He felt an insistent need to live in a simple, self-sustaining way, on the water, feeling free to come and go as he wanted, never being forced by the circumstances of his life to please everybody. He yearned to live for himself, leaving in his wake the lightest carbon foot print possible on the planet.
Simple, natural things, real things such as a traditional wooden boat and cast iron stoves; casual, soft woollen clothes, and authentic dignity came to mind. He despised his mandatory uniform of starched white shirts, synthetic ties, brass-buttoned vests, pleated trousers and shiny shoes. He hated having to shave every morning, groom his hair and smile, smile and smile again! He hated his arrogant, wealthy clients. He realised that he was just the perfect, servile, robotic steward that everyone adored. This perfection was numbing his soul, killing it softly.
The awakening of his own audacity excited him. He was starting to decide things for himself instead of letting society, security, or even practical reasoning decide in his place. For the very first time in his life, he was the one who decided, with his own dreams, his own hopes, his own visions of happiness. He was now allowing himself to create an ideal future and no longer just wonder, dreaming of one.
Instead of painting imaginary things, he was resolute to henceforth paint real things, real landscapes, skies and islands and fjords that he was going to contemplate, for himself, as long as he decided to do so and earn his living doing just that!
He realised that he lived for beauty and beauty alone. His religion was Nature. His art was Light. His mission was art. His aim was simplicity. To do such, he had to take the risk and leave.
He shut his watercolour box and put it with the pad back in the drawer. He stripped, ate a last chocolate, and slipped in bed, singing to himself, "Happy rebirth-day to me, happy rebirth-day to me -- Ha!" The following morning, he informed Gustav why he must now go.
Gustav, for the first and last time, took Paul in his arms and said, "I'm sad that you must leave, my boy, but I understand how you feel. You must go before it's too late, and I know what I'm talking about. It has been a real pleasure knowing you, Paul. Fair winds and following seas."
Tears reddened Paul's eyes as his captain and mentor authorised him to hug him one more time.
May 2018
He had examined all the sites of British yacht brokers, seeking the boat of his dreams. He came across a 42' Bristol pilot cutter that seemed to fit his requirements. Luck had it that she was moored in Mallaig, only a six hour train trip from Edinburgh. After receiving his last pay with a farewell bonus, he called the broker handling his chosen cutter. He requested an appointment to see the cutter mentioned in the advertisement for the following afternoon. That was arranged within the hour.
He packed his meagre belongings, took a room in a hotel near Waverly Station, dined on fish and chips in a nearby pub, indulging in several pints of dark ale and slept like a baby. The following morning he boarded the 7:15 train, changing in Glasgow for Mallaig. He was met at the station by an employee from the boatyard who took him to visit the boat.
Paul's guardian angel was obviously at work. The cutter was perfect! A wealthy yachtsman from London had commissioned a shipwright in Bristol to build a classic cutter. She was launched in 2002 and had been kept in perfect condition since.
The owner of the boatyard told Paul that while the boat was being careened, her proprietor had an emergency heart problem and was flown by helicopter to Glasgow to never arrive alive. His heirs priced her for a quick sale. Paul phoned the broker and offered ten percent less than the quoted price. His offer was accepted the following day!
The boatyard consented to immediately begin a few minor modifications on the interior to suit Paul's needs. He renamed her Halcyon, had all her papers drawn up in his name, and a month later, moved aboard, mooring her in the Mallaig marina for an unlimited length of time.
Halcyon was flush decked with no portholes and a very low roof over the companionway. However her interior was quite liveable and well lit with the rainbow glow of the inserted deck prisms amidship. The companionway ladder descended into a totally open space. First there was the double berth facing a slicker closet/loo. The chart desk over which was installed the electric panel and radio was situated beside the loo. Before the mast, there was a well equipped galley facing a small coal stove, also burning peat briquettes and wood, when available. It furnished all the heat one could need, and was surrounded by storage cabinets galore. The drop-leaf central table was further forward, after the mast. A big brass lamp hung overhead. Upholstered benches on either side gave ample lounging space. In the bow, a large delta shaped berth served, for the time being, as a kind of catchall until everything found its destination aboard. Paul was amply satisfied with his spacious, luminous and airy Halcyon, his first real home!
Paul fed his fire another load of anthracite, and diced some lamb and vegetables to stew on the stove. He opened a bottle of red wine and relaxed, propped up in the cushions of the starboard bench by the table. He was at peace with the world, and finally with himself.
The following days he took the Halycon out on small test runs. He also had to test his own capacities to sail her singlehanded. She governed quite well by motor. Under sail, she was easy at the tiller but, of course, a bit more complicated to manoeuvre. As long as the weather was clement, it could be done. This shouldn't be a problem since he didn't imagine himself leaving for long hauls far from the coast.
Paul's audacity was now limitless. He began painting again with the idea of selling his works on the harbour. A great quantity of tourists visited Mallaig. The ferry going to the Isle of Skye left from Mallaig. Above all, there was the Jacobite, the tourist steam train made famous in the Harry Potter films under the name of the Hogwarts Express. The Jacobite ran two return trips a day, out of Fort William. There was one in the morning and the other in the afternoon. The passengers had an hour to visit Mallaig before returning to their carriages and like all tourists, were usually in the mood to shop for souvenirs.
Paul set up his 'business' in the area just after the train station in the open pedestrian zone by the fishermen's wharf. He painted in public, with a choice of his works exhibited along the wall behind him. He produced rather good views of the harbour and the boats at anchor. The price was more than reasonable and the paintings decorative, so he had no problem selling them. Also, he had to admit to himself that he enjoyed being admired, photographed and, even at times, indulging in an interesting discussion.
Working as a waiter aboard the Jacobite, serving in the tea carriage, was Ronald Johnson, a very comely lad of seventeen. He had dropped out high school and was lucky enough to be hired for the season. He was useless on a school bench, but perfect for the job on the Jacobite.
It seemed that he was just not cut out for studying. At least, that's the way his parents explained Ron's scholastic disasters, year after year. That nightmare was now over for him. However, he was still at a loss as to what he wanted to do when the job ended.
He lived with his parents in a shabby, rundown mobile home by the highway, a few miles out of Fort William on the road to the coast. It seemed to be stranded on the edge of a small industrial estate where his father worked as a welder in the shipyard. Whenever he could, he would hike to the last flight of locks of the Caledonian Canal, emptying into the estuary and gaze at the yachts on their way to Oban and beyond to faraway places. Yachts helped him forget where he was. There was another thing that helped him escape into his dreamworld; that was his drawing. Sometimes he even attempted colour crayons. He had tried watercolours, but never having acquired the basics, he was quickly discouraged.
Every evening, he returned to the 'dirty old box' he called home. There he found his eternally depressed mother, always with a lit cigarette stuck between her lips. There was also his smelly fourteen year old brother, Clinton, with whom he had to share a bed. His half drunk father, always came in late. Home sweet home.
Things were looking up for him though. His job on the Jacobite was his blessing! Since he couldn't go see the world in his tea carriage, the world came to him. He loved waiting on the tourists, many of whom were from foreign lands. He loved donning his smart uniform, preparing the service, and welcoming the passengers. The strange languages he heard as they rolled along gave him the illusion of escape, of really being elsewhere.
During the Jacobite's layover in Mallaig, he spent his break between trips strolling on the waterfront, always curious to look at the yachts in the marina and let his mind wander over the open waters to the islands.
Ron Johnson and Paul Duncan, actually had a lot in common, even if they were both totally unaware of each other's existence.
When Ron discovered Paul painting by the wharf, he was fascinated. Ron would observe Paul work at a distance, too shy to disturb him. He even saw Paul leaving the beautiful cutter he often admired in the marina, deducing that he was the owner.
As for Paul, he had spotted the regular presence of the young man, quite noticeable in his train attendant uniform. It would have been difficult to not notice him since he was much more becoming than an ordinary teen. In fact, Paul mused to himself, "The lad over there might be my guardian angel in disguise."
Little did he know...
The summer season eased into autumn. The guardian angel no longer passed by. There were fewer tourists, then none at all. The Jacobite's runs were over.
With the shorter days, Paul lit his stove every evening. The season was propitious for cozy days working on his painting. The sky was now a battleground of clouds, sunbeams, and rainbows -- an endless marvel of dawns and twilights. He realised that he needed to simplify his style, which, like most self-learners, was way too complicated. He wanted to concentrate on nuancing his colours, concentrating less on the subjects of his paintings and more on the atmosphere they conveyed. They needed to acquire more delicateness and subtle luminosity.
Also, he was on good terms with the few locals he befriended in his favourite pub. His little business as an artist was well looked upon. He kept saying to himself that he wasn't too bad off where he was.
Yet that little sensation of dissatisfaction came back. The memory of the light in the Norwegian fjords haunted him. He longed to return there. However, he realised that his skill in painting needed to really be improved if he wanted to face the challenge of Norway's wild bare beauty.
Even if he was moderately satisfied by Mallaig, Norway lingered in the back of his mind. The vision of the fjord where his birthday revelation happened was still quite vivid in his memory.
October 2018
As the saying goes, 'After the calm, the tempest' and that was exactly what happened. The barometer suddenly dropped and a respectfully strong gale from the Northwest drove in. In spite of the harbour's protection, the wind hummed and then howled in the shrouds. Paul secured the halyards to prevent them from whipping against the mast. As the swell rose and fell in the harbour, Halcyon moved ever so gracefully, straining the lines of her mooring. Paul was thankful to not be worrying about a slipping anchor, or wretchedly wrecked on some wicked reef, drowning to death all by himself.
Facing such terrible weather alone at sea was suddenly unthinkable for him. The problem in fact wasn't so much the wind and the waves. He had known foul weather at sea before. The problem was having to face such adversity alone. Halcyon was a seaworthy boat, built for stormy seas, but in that kind of weather, she needed at least two men to handle her, one at the tiller and the other with the sails. Along the Norwegian coast, even in the summer, storm and squalls could be a real threat. Since he was now determined to sail there, he had to solve that problem.
Every now and then, whenever he needed items he couldn't find in Mallaig, Paul took the regular train to Fort William. Having spoken with the managers of a few of the better hotels there, willing to exhibit his latest work, he would always frame a picture or two to take with him.
For lunch, he preferred this one fish and chip place he had found. The last trip he was there he was greeted by a young man saying, "Excuse me, Sir. Aren't you the artist who worked this summer in Mallaig?"
Paul recognised his distant guardian angel, this time wearing a waiter's apron instead of a uniform.
"Yes, I am -- and judging from the uniform you wore this summer, you worked on the Jacobite."
"You noticed, Sir?"
"Yes, I did. And so now I gather you work here."
"Yes, Sir."
"Could you bring me a portion of fish and chips with a lot of tartar sauce and a pint of dark ale on the side, please. I'll take the little table by the window."
"Very well, Sir."
Paul was a slow eater. Since he had left his job as a steward, he had learned to take his time in everything he did. He was gazing out the window when Ron came to clean off his table. The crowd had thinned and Ron also didn't seem to be in much of a hurry. Wiping the table, he mentioned, "I draw some too, Sir. I'm far from being as talented as you, but I love art. I really admired your work. I saw you lived on a beautiful boat too -- I love boats, even if I've never sailed on one."
"How interesting. What's your name?" inquired Paul.
"Ronald Johnson, but everybody calls me Ron."
"Glad to meet you, Ron. I'm Paul Duncan. Could you bring me another pint and the bill, please?"
"Right away, Sir!"
One evening Paul's phone rang. It was the owner of a well known art gallery in Glasgow who had noticed two of Paul's paintings in the gallery of a hotel and restaurant in Fort William. He congratulated Paul on his work in general, and on two pictures in particular.
"Paul, I think you are underselling yourself judging from the prices I saw. I estimate your talent as being worth twice as much," the gallerist stated.
"I'm not aware of my worth. I'm just beginning in the professional field."
"That's what galleries are for, Paul! I think we should talk together, and examine some of your latest works. Can you come to Glasgow with a few paintings any time soon?"
Paul immediately noted the gentleman's name, address and phone number. They found a date that worked for the both of them. Paul reasoned that he had nothing to lose and if they came to an agreement, that could perhaps bring in money enough to hire a crew member with whom he could safely sail to Norway.
His trip to Glasgow was a success. He concluded a good deal with the gallery and they fixed a date for him to share an upcoming exhibit.
Having always lived in uniform, he now needed some better winter clothes. After having done his shopping in Fort William, he went to enjoy a lunch of fish and chips. He was cordially greeted by Ron who seated him at his favourite table by the window.
That's when a farfetched but feasible idea first dawned on Paul.
"Ron can we talk some at the end of your service?"
"Of course, Sir. I'm off at 2:30. Where would you like us to meet?"
"At the train station. I'm taking the 4:19 back to Mallaig. That'll give us some time to talk."
"Quarter to three at the train station. Very well, Sir. See you then."
"Yes... See you then."
Paul's idea was to ask Ron if he would like to work with him as an apprentice, learning how to sail and paint at the same time. Both activities seemed to interest Ron, so why not give it a try? The young man, after all, was Paul's guardian angel!
He figured he could equip the forward berth for him when they would be underway. His bank account allowed him to pay the lad's expenses and even give him some pocket money on the side. And if the lad was gifted, that could increase sales -- Who knows? It might work?
Ron showed up right on time. Paul explained his offer. Ron listened, not believing his ears.
"So, tell me, Ron, are you interested?"
"Oh YES, SIR! I definitely am!"
"You must now come to Mallaig, see the boat and discuss details with me concerning my offer. However, before that, tell me, how long is your present job going to last and also do you have to have your parent's consent?"
"Don't worry about my job nor my parents. I can handle both."
"If you say so. When can you come and bring me some of your drawings?"
"I'm off Wednesday."
"Very well. Can you take the 12:13 train? I'll meet you at the station. I'll treat you to lunch."
"I'll be there, Sir -- and thank you, thank you a lot!"
Wednesday came. Ron stepped off the train beaming, just like Paul, waiting for him. After the usual greeting, they walked together to the marina. Halcyon was docked at the end of the pier.
"Step aboard!"
"Thank you, Sir."
"Let me put your wraps in the closet. Take a seat."
Sandwiches were on the table and soup was warm on the stove. Tea?"
"Uh, please."
"Sugar?"
"Yes, please."
Suddenly realising where he was, alone with his highly admired artist, Ron became a bit tense as if he were sitting in the dentist's chair. As Paul served the soup, Ron uttered, "I hope I won't disappoint you, Sir. I have no experience in sailing and am far from being as good as you are in art. You'll see..." but then quickly added, "However, I really want to learn, Sir, learn for real."
"We have all afternoon to discuss that, but first of all, let's eat and then you'll tell me some about yourself."
"Very well, Sir."
They ate. Ron obviously enjoyed his lunch. Neither a drop of soup nor a crumb of his sandwich remained. Paul stood to clean off the table. Ron rose with him.
"Stay seated, Ron. It's my turn to be the waiter."
Ron smiled.
"I'm not used to being served, Sir."
"Well enjoy it! How old are you?"
"I'm seventeen."
"And not in school?"
"I dropped out of school last June. I never succeeded to go further than S4."
Paul hesitated, then smiling at the lad, politely replied, "I see -- Would you mind telling me about you and the school?"
"Not really. I guess you need to know everything. That's normal."
"Take your time."
He looked at Paul, who just gave him an encouraging smile, waiting for him to talk.
"I've always had problems with groups, having to conform to school rules, stuck in a chair, having to write all the time. It just didn't work for me, Sir."
"Do you like to read on your own? Listen to music? Figure out things by yourself?"
Ron immediately replied, smiling, "Yes -- All that!"
"With friends?"
"I don't have friends -- well not many -- and they often get on my nerves."
"I see... And girls? With your good looks, you must really be popular with them."
"They get on my nerves even more than the blokes! Ha!"
Little by little the conversation became easier. Ron loosened up. Paul was a very good listener. The lad was open and humble at the same time.
Paul then asked, "Could you please show me some of your work now?"
Ron opened the portfolio he had put on the bench beside him. Paul examined the contents as Ron looked on, nervously dreading Paul's judgement. Little by little, it wasn't only Ron's looks that impressed Paul. His drawings were excellent -- simple and direct, just like his personality.
Paul commented on the sketches, leaving Ron relieved, almost flattered. Then Ron asked Paul to explain him more about what was expected during an apprenticeship with him. Paul answered, "You must first see my latest work. It's different from my summer's production."
"I'd love to see it, Sir."
Paul handed Ron his portfolio to browse through.
"Your paintings are so simple, and yet they're really powerful and..." he stuttered, seeking the right word, "I don't know how to say it..."
"Well, Ron, I try to keep everything in my life as simple and as elegant as possible, above all my painting."
"Elegant! Yes! That's the word. Elegant! Your work is elegant. Your boat is elegant. You are elegant too, Sir!" Ron stated, suddenly surprised by the candour of his comment.
"Why, thank you, Ron!"
Ron blushed. So did Paul, just a little.
Paul then explained in detail what he expected of an apprentice. When he had finished, he asked, "Are you still interested?"
"More than ever, Sir!"
"Good. Now let's go up on deck and take a good look at Halcyon's rigging. Grab your coat and scarf."
Paul gave Ron a quick overlook of the riggings, of the motor, and showed him some knots. He explained how to read the compass, why it's used and how. Ron was absolutely fascinated by it all. At one point he took the tiller in hand and looked up at the top of the mast. It was obvious he was already dreaming of the high seas. Paul smiled, recognising that certain look of wanderlust on the high seas in Ron's eyes.
"Let's go back in."
They discussed dates, conditions, etc.
"Can we agree on a trial period over the month of January? You'll stay at your parents' home and take the train back and forth. You can get a commuter's reduction. I'll pay your fare. After the trial period, if we are happy with each other, I could take you on, all expenses paid. In April, after your training, we should leave for Norway. This agreement would last for six months, until mid July. We can make up our minds about what to do after that. Does that suit you, Ron?"
"Perfectly, Sir."
"Just one more question. What about your job, waiting on tables?"
"I've already resigned, Sir. Whatever could have been your decision, I wanted to quit anyway."
"Really? And what if it doesn't work with me either?"
"You're different, Sir. But if you don't want me after the trial period, I can always find something else. You know, like the Jacobite. Don't worry about me, Sir."
"And what about you being authorised to work with me. Do your parents agree on your apprenticeship?"
"When I quit school, if it weren't for my Mum, my Dad would have thrown me out. So you see, since I'm over sixteen and with the act 1991 concerning the age of legal capacity here in Scotland, I'm free to do as I please."
"Well, I guess we've seen it all then. I'll walk with you back to the station."
"Going back? Already?"
"It's half past three."
"Really? The afternoon flew by for me!"
"That's a good sign, Ron."
Then Ron looked at Paul and simply stated, "You haven't said if you were taking me on or not, Sir."
"I'm sorry. Yes, my offer is open to you."
"Thank you, Sir," Ron politely replied, refraining from jumping on Paul with a hug!
They swiftly walked back to the station together. On the way, Paul inquired, "Ron, I almost forgot... You do know how to swim, don't you?"
"Like a fish, Sir!"
"Good. I hope you'll never need to show me!"
"Me too -- I'm really glad to have met you, Sir!" Ron exclaimed as he stepped on the train.
It was almost dark when the train pulled out of the station. Paul watched it disappear, shrugged and went back to his boat, for the first time, feeling a little lonely.
Paul had ignored the Christmas holidays, working like mad on the paintings for his exhibit in Glasgow. He delivered his work and was duly congratulated. When he returned to Mallaig, he was ready to welcome aboard his impatient apprentice.
Ron arrived, excited, shaved and scented, his hair freshly shampooed. He obviously wanted to please. Paul complimented him and immediately put him to work painting stripes of colour blending together.
He gave Ron very little theoretical explanations. He felt it best to have him work directly, making and correcting his blunders, understanding in a very active, practical way. The days flew by, quickly becoming weeks. Ron was a quick learner, but like most beginners, he overloaded the paper with too many colours, totally covering the surface.
"Ron, stop suffocating your picture with too much colour and don't get trapped in details. Above all, work with the light. It's already there. It's the empty white of the paper. All you must do is make it vibrate, glow. It's the light from within, behind the colours, that makes beauty, giving your painting its part of mystery. Every good painting reveals an invisible meaning. Your job is to let it happen. In a misty sky, the invisible sun glows through a misty sky, like an unaware dream in the back of your mind. Trust the light within."
"I think I understand what you're saying. At least I feel it."
"Then go back to work."
An hour or so later, Ron exclaimed, "Look!"
"You're getting there! You seem to feel the light. Continue to work with it. Don't try to master it. Light is the invisible part of your picture, and light is something you have to let happen... and as it happens, don't strive to MAKE it happen. Give up wanting to dominate. Schools teach you that you must master, control, and dominate whatever you do. They'll never teach you the art of light, love and lust wherein domination is an abominable mistake."
Seeing Ron's puzzled look on his face, Paul smiled at him and said, "It might take some time for you to really understand all that, but you've got time, my young friend!"
"I always strive to please you, Paul. Don't worry, I always discover deeper pleasure for myself."
Paul said nothing in reply. He simply pulled Ron to him, hugging him by the shoulder. Surprised by the sudden body contact, Ron stiffened an instant, then melted some, slightly leaning on Paul in return. Both seemed to silently become aware that something important lingered in the air, something had happened, and neither really understood nor acknowledged what it was.
After three intense weeks, Ron became a wizard with light and colours. He was fascinated by clouds. He dared painting them on the edge of abstraction. His vision of things challenged Paul. He was tempted at times to temper the young man's audacity -- however, he refrained. Paul recognised that the lad was gifted enough to explore as he felt, and that he, as a true master, had no right to thwart him.
With the first signs of springtime, the moment was drawing nigh for them to hoist the sails and leave on their trial cruise. It seemed like Halcyon was impatient to be finally set free to sail with her handsome crew. After all, that was her job!
Ron moved aboard the day before their departure. He prepared his tiny quarters. The weather was dry and airy enough for him to open the hatch in the deck over his berth, sun his mattress, and clean every tiny corner. He stashed his boots and slicker with the others in the loo, unrolled his sleeping bag and hung his seabag at the foot of his berth.
The weather forecast wasn't ideal but clement enough to sail over to the Isle of Eigg and anchor there for the night.
Ron was full of questions during their dinner that evening. Paul explained just a few more details, concluding, "Just like you can only learn painting by painting, you can only learn sailing by sailing. You already know the name of everything aboard and I've explained to you how they work. Now you have to feel the wind, the currents and help Halcyon enjoy splitting the waves."
Ron stifled a yawn as Paul spoke.
"I see that it's time for us to turn in. I want to cast off at daybreak around 6:00 AM... therefore, up at five. Let's do the dishes and wash up. Okay?"
"You're the captain!"
Ron still wondered about 'washing up'. There was no shower onboard. The loo was full. This was going to be a discovery.
Once the dishes were done, dried and put back in their cupboard, Paul pumped fresh water in a bucket and cut it with the water simmering in the kettle on the stove. He took a sponge and two towels out of a small overhead cabinet. He handed Ron a towel and began to strip.
Paul glanced at Ron just standing there and teasingly inquired, "So, what are you waiting for?"
Ron blushed and began to undress too. By the time he was completely naked, Paul had begun sponging himself. A fragrant scent of soap filled the cabin. Ron was captivated by the sight of Paul's nudity glistening in the lamplight.
"Ron... come on over here. Let me do your back. Then we'll swap."
Of course, Ron couldn't dissimulate his erection as he came closer. Seeing the lad's embarrassment, Paul simply commented, "You're quite a handsome young man, Ron. I didn't realise how good you look under your clothes. Nice cock too!"
Ron smiled and uttered as he turned his back, "You too, Paul..."
They towelled down.
"Good night, Ron."
"Good night, Paul."
Ron retired to his berth, then Paul to his, after turning off the lamp.
The next morning was dim and misty. They motored out of the harbour. Space seemed to expand by enchantment. They headed into the widening channel. Ron had done a decent job of pulling the halyards, hoisting the swelling sails. Paul cut off the motor, and Halcyon heeled, picking up speed.
Ron joined Paul at the tiller.
"You did well. With practice you'll be able to do that even quicker," commented Paul, patting Ron on the shoulder.
Ron beamed.
Halcyon rose and rolled a bit in the increasing swell, entering the open water. She was now clipping along at nearly six knots. Paul decided that it wasn't necessary to hoist the topsail. With just the mainsail, jib and mizzen, Halcyon was perfectly balanced.
"You look a little pale, Ron. Would you be a bit seasick?"
"I feel queasy, Paul. I'm sorry."
"The sooner it happens, the better. Come here and take the tiller."
"What?"
"I said take the tiller and keep an eye on the compass. We have a good northeasterly breeze and want to stay on 260 ° to pass between those islands over there, Eigg and Rum."
Ron gripped the tiller and attentively did as told. Slowly he relaxed, moderately keeping his course. He even began to smile.
"Is it like the way you dreamt it to be?" Paul asked, siding up to Ron.
"Better! Much better, Sir."
No longer any sign of seasickness clouded Ron's twinkling eyes.
"Keep her steady as she goes. I'm going down to brew us another pot of tea," Paul said, squeezing Ron's shoulder.
Useless to get into details. Once on the other side of Eigg, they had to tackle some fickle winds and currents before reaching their destination.
They tacked into the sheltered channel between Eigg and the tiny island of Chathastail, and dropped anchor in water deep enough to stay afloat at low tide. Another warm evening together was spent talking about Norway. Ron was absolutely captivated by Paul's stories of the majestic Sognefjord. He portrayed Norway as being an endless panorama of wooded mountains tumbling into crystalline waters. Descriptions of changing skies under the springtime sun made him dream more than ever!
They enjoyed cleansing and grooming each other that evening. It was a powerful act of bonding, leaving always a scent of amber and spice in the air.
The following morning they caught very fair winds returning to Mallaig harbour. Ron was exhilarated by the way they sped back. Standing steadfast at the tiller, he felt very, very important.
Once Halcyon was secured to the pier, Paul stated, "Ron, come over here. I want a hug!"
Ron was coiling a rope.
"Does that mean you'll take me on as your apprentice... and sailor?"
"Yes, it does, Ron."
The elated lad dropped the rope, and threw himself into Paul's open arms, daring a kiss in the neck.
"Oh, Paul! Wow! That's the most wonderful birthday present I've ever had!"
"Birthday?"
"Tomorrow I'll be eighteen and totally yours.
April 2019
Paul's paintings sold well in the Glasgow gallery. He promised to frame and send some larger ones in a few months.
All was now ready for their voyage to Norway.
"I want us to paint the light of the fjords and display our production in Flam. It's a village far inland, in a stretch called the Aurlandsfjord, just after the Sognefjord."
Ron looked at him with puzzled eyes...
"Oh well, for the time being, that means nothing to you... But, once we're there, you'll see how the waters and surrounding mountains are so incredibly beautiful. It will be quite a challenge. When I was working as a steward, we often made stopovers there. Now I hear that there are a lot cruise ships stopping there too. Rich tourists are always looking for something to buy! Also, the waterfront is perfect for setting up our display."
"Whatever you say, Paul, I'm your man!"
Halcyon was shipshape. Their stock of everything was replenished, they had paints, coloured inks, brushes and textured card stocks galore.
Ron called from Fort William saying that his brother and parents were going to drive him back to the boat for their departure.
"At last, I'll meet them, Ron!" exclaimed Paul on the phone.
"Be prepared for the shock, Paul!"
They arrived around 4:00 PM. Paul saw the procession arriving on the pier. There was Ron up front, with his seabag slung on his shoulder. Just behind, there was his father, followed by Mrs. Johnson and Clinton, his brother. They were having problems walking straight on the floating pier.
Dressed in their Sunday best, they tried to look as presentable as possible. The visit didn't last long. They didn't even want to step aboard. Ron introduced his 'art master and captain'. Mr. Johnson commented on the weather and told his son to behave. Mrs. Johnson gave her son a quick hug. Mr. Johnson tapped him on the shoulder, and Clinton shook his brother's hand. As they were leaving, Clinton, with a sad smile in his eyes, turned back, and waved. Ron waved back. And that was that.
They pulled out of Mallaig harbour around 4:00 AM on April 3. They sailed from port to port up the west coast of Scotland, never losing sight of land. They arrived in the Shetland Islands, last stop before making the crossing to Norway. In the main city, Lerwick, they filled up on food, fuel, water, and peat, checked everything aboard, and enjoyed a good dinner in a small fish restaurant near the harbour. The next morning they set sail, following the compass reading of 87 °, destination Sognefjord.
The entrance to the fjord was exactly two hundred and sixteen nautical miles from Lerwick, a distance which should be covered in some forty hours, more or less. They hoped to arrive the next day around 8:00 PM.
The sea was gentle and the winds perfect. They made very good time all the way. After a night of alternating watches and another day under sail, it was close to 6:00 PM when they spotted land. At the same time, a big thunderhead was driving directly down on them, spitting lightning, churning up angry whitecaps on the water. Just before the squall, Paul and Ron reefed the mainsail and mizzen, pulled in the jib from the bowsprit, and braced themselves as the storm hit.
Paul was tense but not afraid. He knew the area well. According to their satellite readings, their position was clear of danger. No rocks nor shoals nearby. Torrential rains, driven by fierce winds stung their faces. Short, raging waves pounded the bow, some washing over the deck. Ron braved the ordeal, in spite of the fact that he was totally terrified.
The squall lasted a little more than two hours or so, leaving behind a vast blue sky, clear as the first day of Creation. Paul teased, "Glad to see you're a little less pale!"
"And I'm glad to see you with your jaw a little less locked!" Ron quipped back.
As they were stripping off their slickers, Paul mentioned, "Listen, mate, according to my charts there are a few welcoming coves in the islands just over there to the South. That's where we're going to anchor, straighten up the boat, and catch up on our sleep. We've still got about two more days ahead of us before arriving in Flam."
Ron was relieved, finally able to pee overboard!
They dropped anchor in a small, sheltered cove on Vesoyna Island.
"We'll be like royalty here. I've a bottle of French wine to toast, with my first mate, to our inaugural, overnight crossing together -- that is if you don't collapse dead asleep beforehand!"
"Captain, I was sleepy a while ago, but now, I'm wide awake and eager to celebrate!"
They dined in music, laughing and congratulating each other on their seamanship. The sky blushed a kind of pinkish mauve as the day dimmed. The kettle hummed. Ron pumped a bucket of fresh water while Paul cleaned off the table.
They weren't in a hurry to finish cleansing each other. Especially Ron took his time sponging Paul all over. Their intimacy by then had become quite natural, but this evening, they were both a bit more aroused than usual. Paul closed his eyes letting a little moan escape in a sigh of delight, as Ron softly washed his intimates.
Paul then very gently passed the warm, wet sponge over Ron's silken skin as if he were caressing an angel, his angel. He too lingered a moment, carefully freeing Ron's glistening glans from its short foreskin. The transparent strand of slick falling from Ron's slit, made Paul smile.
They towelled off, and hugged in a glowing silence, then bid each other good night.
As Ron climbed into his berth he blurted, "Oh! Fuck! Good God!"
Paul turned his berth lamp on, mumbling, "What's wrong, Ron?"
He came over and stood dismayed beside Paul's berth, nude, repeating over and over, "I'm so sorry Paul! It's all my fault!"
"What's your fault?"
"I didn't completely secure the hatch over my berth and in the storm, water leaked in on my bedding. It's drenched! I'm so sorry. Please forgive me!"
Paul simply lifted his cover and said, "Get in."
Even if the cabin was still warm, Ron was shivering, more from emotion than from the night chill creeping in. Paul shifted over and Ron climbed in. He was almost whimpering.
"Forgive me -- Please."
"Things like that happen, Ron! You're learning -- and we're fine like this, aren't we?" whispered Paul, gently laying his reassuring hand on Ron's chest.
Ron sighed. After a moment, he whispered, "You know, I didn't do it on purpose, but..."
"But what?"
"But, I'm glad you let me share your bed..."
"Me too," confessed Paul, pulling Ron up to him a little closer.
Paul's hand wandered further over Ron's chest. Ron snuggled his face into Paul's neck. He turned a bit, gliding his hand over Ron's belly. Ron sighed ever so slightly as Paul's open hand gently cradled his turgid erection.
Suddenly losing control, Ron seized Paul's cock. They writhed, entangling their feet, then their legs. Their mouths joined, and opened as their tongues danced together. The natural transparent, oily fluids of their lust flowed. They jacked in rhythm, faster and faster until it happened. The inevitable orgasm overtook Ron first. He grunted, spewing into Paul's stoking fist. Drops of his cum leaked onto Paul's cock. Paul hunched, fucking Ron's speeding grip, their mouths locked in a feverish kiss. Paul's moans became a sudden howl as his cock blasted. His jets of semen joined Ron's as they smeared each other's bellies.
They began giggling as they rolled over on their backs. Beaming, they broke out laughing as they turned to look at each other. They turned off the reading lamp, and grabbed each other in a strong, long hug. Sharing a real kiss, a kiss that hushed all the words of love that could ever be uttered, they fell asleep, entangled in a tender embrace, warmly glowing from within.
They woke up still smiling. No longer master nor apprentice, captain nor sailor, just two satiated lovers, greeting the new day. After a hearty breakfast, they were sipping their second cup of tea when Paul simply asked Ron, "Don't you think we should talk some about what happened last night?"
Ron replied, "What for? It was beautiful, wonderful, marvellous, and... I can't find words good enough to convey what I felt..." then with a coy smile, putting his hand on Paul's, he added, "Uh -- Yes, I just thought about one thing I must say. My bedding will take ages to dry, don't you think?"
"Perhaps, even longer," replied Paul, giving Ron a little wink.
"Maybe even longer than that!" laughed Ron.
Several boats and ships passed them by as they progressed into the narrowing fjord. Ron was excited. He couldn't keep his hands off of Paul, and Paul obviously didn't mind it in the least. Even Halcyon seemed happier.
The scenery was, in fact, unbelievable. With the dwindling wind, they lowered the sails and continued under motor. The fjord mirrored the fields, cliffs and mountains, the red houses and tiny villages. The day flowed by, seemingly never ending. They stopped over in the village Ortnevic.
After dinner, they decided to go ashore for a walk, enjoying the fields of springtime wildflowers. Strangely, the warmth of the day lingered in the air around them. Their male scent combined with that of the soil. Ron took Paul's hand in his as they walked.
"I'm happy with you, Paul. I'm happy to be here with you. Thank you for saving me."
"I don't know who saved whom, but you make me happy too. It's a deep joy discovering what it's like no longer living alone." he replied, squeezing Ron's hand.
Returning to the wharf, a passing gentleman smiled at them.
"God kvelt," he said.
Paul returned the greeting and then said to Ron, "It's good to hear Norwegian."
"What did he say?"
"God kvelt -- that means good evening."
"It's good indeed! Let's go to bed."
"Are you sleepy?"
"No..."
On the waterfront of Flam, a cruise ship a day, sometimes two, called in, spilling their endless flow of tourists. Their art work would certainly sell well there.
However, they chose to stay at the wharf in Undredal, a much quieter village only several miles north of Flam. They 'commuted', sailing over in the morning and returning in the evenings.
The days fled by, some cloudy, others sunny, flowing into weeks. June exploded with its everlasting days and brief nights. Warmth had seeped into the earth and all of nature blossomed in abundance. High, thick grasses covered the pastures and the scents of summer filled the breeze.
The act of painting in public fascinated the passing tourists. Many stopped, turning around, straining to see the small art works in progress. Their paintings weren't miniatures, but small enough to be easily carried away, sold with rigid cardboard envelops for travelling. Even for those who didn't buy, just the sight of those two handsome, young men creating before their eyes was already a show. They were often photographed and sometimes even tipped.
The locals loved them. Paul's Norwegian wasn't as bad as he claimed. It was even getting better. Ron was beginning to pick up some himself.
Often, in the evening, after dinner, Ron and Paul enjoyed strolling above the village, filling themselves with nature's energy. On one particularly warm evening, as they wandered in the tall grass of a distant hayfield, Ron stripped off his shirt, stretched, and Paul followed suit. Together, they sprawled out on the grass. Ron rested his head on Paul's thigh as Paul lazily caressed Ron's now abundant hair.
Youth's ardour is an ever-burning flame. Once lit, it becomes inextinguishable. New thirsts appear that seem to be unquenchable. Little by little, Ron edged up a bit, pressing his cheek on the bulge in Paul's jeans. Paul spread his legs a bit more. Ron's fingers found Paul's belt buckle and began to undo it. Paul finished unbuckling and opened the top button. Ron undid the others and gently rubbed his cheek on Paul's cock, throbbing in his boxers.
Paul struggled, pulling on his jeans. Ron ripped them off along with the boxers and shed his too. Spinning around, covering Paul's crotch with kisses, he ended up with Paul's cock dancing in his mouth. His thirst became urgent. Paul accompanied the slight, yet tense back and forth movement of Ron's head as his own thirst swelled in his throat. He sought Ron's sex with his mouth, sucked it in, swirling his tongue around the swollen glans. Together they discovered a new dimension of their urging lust. Humming their thirst, swallowing each other deeper, it happened.
Paul's cock stifled Ron's scream as he shot his youthful cum, spasm after spasm. Paul drank, jolted, and spilling his, thrusted deeper into Ron's open throat. The waves of their massive orgasms collided in a riptide of surrender.
A very masculine fragrance of erotic fulfillment hovered in the late evening air. Their sweaty skin gleamed. Kissing and kissing again, they lovingly shared the taste of other joys to come.
July came. In spite of the threatening clouds, they were sitting on deck after dining. Paul brought up the subject of their expired agreement.
"Ron, our mutual commitment to each other should now be questioned. Have you thought about what you want to do from now on?"
"What are you saying there, Paul? No, I haven't thought about it at all. For me it's evident."
"What's evident?"
"You and I, our work, our life aboard. We just continue, don't we?"
Paul remained silent, looking out over the metallic surface of the water. It was late. The sky was beginning to dim behind Undredal.
Impatient, Ron sharply insisted, "Paul! I asked you a question! I repeat. Don't we just continue?"
"Listen, Ron, I'm sixteen years older than you. I thought maybe you'd now prefer being around people of your own age, return to the Highlands, to your family and friends... start making a home for yourself... Who knows, fall in love with a girl... become a painter on your own. You've got the talent..."
"Shut up, Paul! Shut up! Please!"
Stunned by Ron's violent reaction, Paul tried to utter something but nothing came out.
Ron was red with anger.
"Return home! You mean that dingy, drab, dirty 'box' in the middle of shit? With you, here, I'm at HOME. As for my country, Great Britain, it's in dire trouble, and even more so, Scotland! I can do without that, thank you!"
Ron began to nervously pace up and down on the deck.
"And anyway, can you imagine us NOT living together? I can't! I don't want another life!"
Paul listened, saying nothing.
"Paul, don't you realise that If we were in Fort William like we are here, life would be hell for us? We would have never accomplished what we've succeeded up till now. The local hicks, the boors, the conservative, church going dimwits I grew up with like my former chums and family are NOT gay friendly at all! For them, we'd just be poofs dabbling in art! Why not in needlework, antiques, hair-dressing, or crochet? On your luxury yacht, you were with the high and mighty who couldn't give a damn about whom you had sex with. Good God, Paul! Don't you see what I mean?"
"I only thought you'd..."
Ron cut him short, pleading, "Paul Duncan, PLEASE stop thinking FOR me! I hope you don't really imagine that this summer is just an educational experience for me..."
Then Ron spat out what he dreaded the most.
"Are you tired of me? Have I become a burden?" exclaimed Ron, turning his back.
"Of course not, Ron..." Paul said, standing.
Ron wasn't listening to him. He spun around, on the verge of crying, "Paul, don't you think I'm doing my share? My paintings don't sell as well as yours, but they sell enough to cover what I cost! I don't want your money! I want you!"
Exhausted, Ron wiped his nose and sat, staring at his feet.
Paul sat down close to him. He let the atmosphere clear a little before speaking.
"So living with me, like we do, here, is the life you desire. Am I right?"
"My life is with you, Paul! YOU are my REAL life. Halcyon is my REAL home... I worship you, Paul... I believe in you... Don't question our..."
"Our what?"
"Our LOVE!"
Lightning struck somewhere close by.
"That's the first time I've heard that word in your mouth."
"Shit man! Do I need to say EVERYTHING?"
"Everything, no... but there are things that need to be said, like 'I love you'. Those things shouldn't be taken for granted. Even if words aren't everything, they help!"
"I haven't heard you say that word either, Paul Duncan!"
Paul remained silent.
"Paul, tell me, in simple English, how do YOU feel about us. What do YOU want from now on?"
Paul took a long breath, then calmly stated, "I love you and want to love you all the time, all the ways a man can love. I want to always be by your side and you by mine! I want us to stand together. Have I been clear?"
"Oh my God! Alleluia! For being clear, that's clear! Guess what, Paul, you're stuck with me now! I hope for you that you really do love me!"
"Ron, I really do love you!"
"So we're stuck with each other, then, aren't we, Paul?"
"Yes."
Ron pulled Paul up against his chest and whispered in his ear, "And I want you stuck IN me too, right now!"
Instinctively squeezing Ron's buttocks, Paul whispered in return, "The first time hurts."
"I don't care if it hurts! I want you in me and that's all!"
"And I want you in me too..."
"I want that too, Paul!"
"Then, Ron, take me first..."
"No, you first!"
Heavy, stormy raindrops began to splash down on the deck.
"Are we going to argue?" quipped Paul, laughing.
"Not again! Let's get out of the rain!"
They scrambled down into the cabin. Clothes flew everywhere. Ron pushed Paul on the bed. He grabbed Paul's rigid cock and anointed it with sun lotion. Then he straddled Paul. As Paul's cock entered deep inside Ron he writhed in total abandon. Paul pushed up; Ron pushed down. In the increasing tumult, Paul bucked. Ron toppled over. Paul pinned Ron on his back. He grabbed the lotion and slathered Ron's rampant cock. Ron trembled, his erection drooled. Paul hovered on all fours over Ron. Ron hunched up; Paul lowered his rump. Ron pushed himself into Paul. They both lost control. They gasped, Ron thrusted; Paul squirmed. Melded in ecstatic delight, Paul leaned over, grabbing Ron's head and devoured his mouth. Ron bucked, grunted, sweating, his face red, his nostrils flaring. Suddenly he froze, wide-eyed, mouth agape, his whole body, rigid, trembled.
"Let it happen, Ron!"
Lightning struck. Rain poured. Ron yelled as it happened, like never before, again and again, deep inside Paul...
Ron nearly fainted.
Slowly, Paul rolled over, alongside Ron. Gradually, Ron came back to his senses, beaming. He slowly turned backside, grinding his buttocks into Paul's crotch.
Paul uttered, "Now?"
"I need it now! I need you -- I love you, Paul!"
Paul held his angel steadfast as he pushed deep inside him. Their souls danced, their bodies flowed, undulating like the rising tide. Again it happened, over and over again. Paul's guttural growl rose from deep within as he erupted in Ron. Ron gasped, then screamed, startled by his own surging semen, overflowing in a riptide of orgasmic oblivion.
Nested in a voluptuous silence, breathing in unison, they slumbered.
In the rainbow morning of a brand new day, Ron, already awake, uttered, "Paul?"
"Hmm..."
"Paul, do you remember when you taught me to let light happen?"
"I'm not sure -- I've told you a lot of things..."
"You told me the light's already there, like the sun behind the mist. Let it glow from the inside. That's what you said, or something like that..."
"Yes, I sort of remember now..."
"I always wondered what that light was, Paul. Now I know."
"How's that?"
Ron propped himself up on an elbow. The sunlight flowing through the deck prism glowed in his hair like a halo.
"That light inside is love. LOVE IS LIGHT, Paul -- and it's our light. It's our LIFE."
A free picture album illustrating this story (pdf) is available upon request at maringiustinian@laposte.net.