(no subject)

[lobelia321]

Title: Up Shit Creek
Part: 6/8
Author: Lobelia; lobelia321@aol.com
Other info: See Part 1/8

Billy was seething. He stomped about the beach, seething with rage. He bent his head back and screamed, "Fu-u-u-uck!" at the sky. He picked up a stone and threw it full pelt into the river. He kicked a rock and stubbed his toe. After a few minutes of this, Billy stopped seething. He decided that seething at inanimate nature was really quite a pointless exercise. There was no satisfaction to it at all. It wasn't like seething at Karl.

He was still freezing. He was still, because of misplaced modesty, encased in sand-caked, sopping cotton. So Billy finally, with a quick look round at the absolutely deserted beach and the even more deserted river, took off his shirt and his jeans and his socks and shoes. He draped them all over the self-same bush that Karl's jeans had been draped over. Karl hadn't packed the towel he'd thrown at Billy, it was still there, in the sand, next to where Karl had jumped Billy. Billy retrieved it and slowly dried himself off. Already, he felt much better. Well, he felt drier, and that was an immense help. It made his head hurt less and his skin less shivery. Now what he needed was a piss.

Billy positioned himself, naked as he was, at the edge of the beach and pointed his dick towards the scrub behind, and then had a nice long pee. The pee was hot and that warmed his dick for about five seconds. Afterwards, Billy looked around, spotted the windcheater lying on the sand, picked it up and put it on. Karl was taller than Billy, and broader than Billy, so the windcheater reached half-way down Billy's thighs and the sleeves flopped down over Billy's wrist. But after all that time spent shivering and wet and freezing, it was very pleasant to be wrapped up in dry, 100 per cent polyester.

Billy crouched down on the beach, pulled up his knees and tucked them under the baggy front of the fleecy windcheater. All that poked out were his toes, and if he kept on sitting like that he might almost survive for half an hour. Of course, his clothes would take much longer than that to dry. From experience, Billy knew that jeans especially took forever to dry, even when it was sunny, even when there was a wind. There was only a breeze now, enough to freeze your balls off but not enough to dry denim, and it wasn't sunny.

There was also no food here. Billy found himself thinking of Karl's bag and all its contents. Idiotic as the bag was and naff as it was to tote such a bag with you on a little afternoon boating trip, that bag *did* contain some very useful things. The towel Billy was sitting on had emerged from that bag, and the windcheater Billy was wearing had resided in that bag, and Billy also remembered a ziplock bag of apples and some sandwiches and a water bottle and goodness knows what other goodies in that bag of Karl's. At this very moment, Karl was probably on the other side of the hill, pulling an entire set of spare clothing out of that bag, sipping hot coffee from a thermos and munching his way through a 200-gram packet of trailer mix.

Whereas all that Billy had to comfort him was a six-pack of beer, a soggy Shakespeare play and one lone paddle.

He was stuck in the middle of nowhere, with one lone paddle and no Karl.

Well, no Karl was a blessing. That was for sure. Thank Heavens he'd finally got rid of that bothersome Karl. Hooray. Billy stood up and walked up and down the beach, enjoying his new-found peace.

That lasted for all of one minute.

So, after one last wistful thought about Karl's bag and the apples, sandwiches, thermoses, trailer-mix packets, chocolate tortes, five-course meals and gourmet picnic hampers hidden away in that bag, Billy made his way to the beached boat. He stood next to it, floppy windcheater above, white bare legs below, and studied the rowlocks, the remaining oar, the way the boat was tied to a protruding rock. Billy knelt down and scrutinised the knot holding the rope in place. It was probably not a knot at all. It was probably something like a double-spliced clove or a triple-looped hitch or whatever these marine moorings were called. Billy tried to remember his youthful readings of *Swallows and Amazons* but the terms and the facts had all disappeared into the mist of forgetfulness. Whatever it was, this knot looked scarily efficient. Karl was evidently a good knot-tier, and Billy didn't like to undo this particular specimen in case he couldn't get it re-knotted and the boat would drift away.

And anyway, why did he keep thinking of Karl? Ridiculous. He didn't need to think of Karl, now that Karl was gone. He could just walk about this beach without thinking of Karl one single time. Okay, so the knot reminded him of Karl, and the windcheater reminded him of Karl, and the slightly empty feeling in his stomach reminded him of Karl and his bag. Shit, and when did the boat have to be back? Billy glanced at his wrist but there was no watch there. Just as well, what with the drowning and all, he'd have ruined his watch. Karl, of course, had sported some chunky, multi-dial sporty number that probably could not only tell the time but read your temperature and predict the phases of the moon as well.

There he was, thinking about Karl again.

Must stop thinking about Karl. Too ridiculous.

Billy surveyed the boat, arms akimbo. Oh, and what was that? If it wasn't Karl's bucket. Karl had left his bucket behind. Billy peered inside. There was something squirming at the bottom of the bucket: bait. If it came to the crunch and Billy got marooned here for days, he could always try fishing with a line and this bait. Alternatively, he could just eat the bait.

But Billy wasn't going to be marooned on this beach for days. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw. If Karl could scull, so could he. Billy wasn't a Boyd for nothing! So he stepped into the boat, settled himself on the rear bench, grasped the oar and dipped it into the water by way of experiment.

He would just practise sculling a little before untying the boat. He would just paddle up and down a few yards, within range of the rope. How hard could it be? He tried to recall how Karl had done it but Billy had been too befuddled by rage and cold and the aftermath of just having been kissed to have paid much attention to Karl's sculling technique. All he could remember was how Karl's chest had heaved when he had moved the oar, and how Karl's muscles had twisted when Karl swivelled the paddle.

Rot. There he went, thinking about bloody Karl again.

Enough of that. Billy made some tentative swivel motions with the oar. He also made sure to grab onto the oar for dear life. The last thing he wanted was to lose another oar. He stabbed the paddle into the water again, just astern, and swivelled it out. Yes, yes, the boat was moving. And forwards. That was a good sign. Billy stabbed again and swivelled again. The boat was straining at its mooring. Very good. That meant it was moving. Billy was making progress. He'd lick this sculling business yet.

There was a flash of something out on the sound. Billy looked up. He scanned the shoreline on the far side of the river. He followed a bird with his eyes on its flight path.

Then Billy saw the dolphins.

There were four of them. Four dolphins, four perfect commas, arching out of the water in unison, building a bridge in the air.

Billy stopped sculling. He shaded his eyes and leant forwards. The dolphins were grey and wet and shimmering. They were like an apparition.

Billy had never seen dolphins in the wild before. No, once he had, as a boy, up in Dundee, in the firth. But there had been only one dolphin there and not this close. These dolphins were so close that Billy could make out their button-like shiny eyes and their blunt, pointy snouts.

The dolphins moved towards Billy's right in a series of graceful arches. They leapt over the waves, they gambolled, they frolicked. They disappeared around the headland. They were like a vision from another world.

Suddenly, Billy remembered why he loved New Zealand.

TBC