The July 4th weekend had been a high celebration in the harbor town of Shernhaven since before anyone in the town could remember. And, being a seaside town, celebration here was largely conducted on the water. The whole weekend the harbor itself was packed with pleasure boats from as far south as Martha's Vineyard and north as Gloucester. Only a single channel was kept clear for the movement of vessels in and out of the harbor.
The highlight of the weekend was a Sunday afternoon regatta race of sailing yachts out in the ocean, barely in sight of the Lower Head lighthouse.
By custom, even the fishermen took the day away from their toil. Most of them took their boats out to the regatta course to provide guidance boundaries. Traditionally, the Fischer fishing boats took charge of setting and maintaining the course. They did so again this year, with the exception of one of the brothers, Wal, who eschewed all celebration and took his boat out at dawn as usual to perform his daily troll for cod, haddock, and pollack. In deference to the regatta—and most likely to avoid all contact with those from Shernhaven—Wal had moved his fishing spot more to the south of the approach to Shernhaven than usual.
Wal Fischer hadn't felt like celebrating in this town for nearly a year.
The race got off to a late start because so many yachts were competing in this series of races, determined by craft type, and it took them much longer than anticipated to clear the harbor. But once it started, the regatta went splendidly . . . until near nightfall, when a squall came up from the southeast during the one-man laser craft event.
The boats had been warned of the approaching storm, and the last of the yachts from the previous event had crossed the line, so they all turned toward the harbor. The laser boats were on the course, taking a practice sail, but were being flagged in to harbor because of the approaching storm. Entering the packed harbor for the yachts still at sea was as difficult as sailing out of it had been. Long before the last boat was safely inside the Lower Head spit, the townspeople of Shernhaven could have started at the shipyard and walked all of the way to the south end of the wharf across the vessels in the harbor without touching land or getting their feet wet.
The storm remained mainly out to sea as it swept by, but it had scattered the straggler sailing craft far and wide.
Sitting farther out in the ocean than the race course, Wal Fischer's storm lasted longer than anyone else's. But he'd been in high seas like this before. He rarely let the weather strand him on land when there were fish to catch in the sea, no matter how turbulent. And in recent decades finding fish along the Atlantic coast was getting increasingly difficult. He knew there would be no room for him in the harbor on a day like today, so he just battened down his hatches and rode the storm out.
Within an hour, the storm had cleared and the twilight skies were once more clear.
Fischer's catch had been slight, but he knew that it would be welcome in the fish market at Duxbury, to the south, where there would be a harbor that could accommodate him for the night, so he struck out south. He knew there was no way for him to get to his slip in Shernhaven harbor on this day.
He had barely changed his bearings for Duxbury when the hull of a flipped sailing yacht bobbing in the still-choppy waves hove into sight, and, without a second thought, Wal turned his boat toward it.
Minutes later, he pulled a semiconscious Alden Shern from where he was clinging to a rope lashed across the hull of the flipped laser craft.
Alden was sodden and unresponsive other than a soft moan, and his skin had a bluish tinge to it when Wal hoisted him into his boat. He laid Alden carefully on his back on a square-folded tarp in the waist of the deck behind the deck house, where he'd be protected from the crash of the waves. Wal's immediate reaction was that he needed to get rid of that blue tinge, so he started rubbing Alden's limbs and chest, ripping away his sodden T-shirt and shorts.
Alden moaned louder. But he also gurgled. Wal couldn't tell whether Alden was breathing or not, or if there was water in his lungs. He started mouth-to-mouth artificial respiration. As he continued, Alden was coming to life. And he was coming to life in more ways than one. His body was reacting to the attention it was getting from Wal's rubbing of his limbs and giving him mouth-to-mouth. Alden was getting hard, and, unable to avoid brushing his erection in passing, Wal was getting hard too.
This was what Wal wanted. This was what he'd wanted ever since he and Alden had been in high school together. Trevor Cole had been getting what Wal wanted from Alden. And Trevor Cole wasn't here now.
Wal had fished Alden out of the sea—saved him from peril. Emotions were running high, even Alden's, as he drifted into consciousness, realized he was safe and who had saved him, and was aroused by the massage and mouth work he was getting.
Alden swung an arm around Wal's neck and pulled him close in and the mouth-to-mouth work became a deep, searching kiss. Wal's hand went to Alden's erection and worked it as Alden's groans and moans increased in strength.
