Storm Island

"Damn it, Philip, don't be so bloody selfish. You've got three months vacation from university, surely you can spare three weeks? You know very well I can't go, I have business to attend to. Your mother can't go down there on her own."

It was strange how my father always had "business to attend to" when mother went of on her trips.

My mother is Dr.Anna Bridges, a geologist of considerable repute, working for the State Geological Centre. Even on her annual leave she could not stop working, but followed her own lines of interest.

The present point at issue with my father was my mother's upcoming three weeks stay on Storm Island. He wanted me to accompany her because he couldn't, or more likely, wouldn't.

To explain why mother should not be on the island alone require some description of the island's location.

Off the southern edge of the continental mainland is a large island that constitutes one of our seven States. Off the southern coast of that island is a smaller island reached by ferry. Then again off the southern tip of that island, and about two kilometres distant from it, is another tiny island, that is Storm Island.

Storm Island can be walked around in about two hours. It's coastline is mainly cliffs, with occasional coves. Most of the time huge seas come crashing in from the Southern Ocean, creating a constant roar audible wherever you are on the island.

In earlier colonial days, some venturesome colonist had tried to farm on the island with little success, as witness the fact that nobody tries to farm there now, but the old house that the would-be farmer had built, still stands there.

The present owner of the house lives on the coast of the island opposite Storm Island, and having modernised the house to come extent, he rents it out to people who like to spend their holidays in isolation. The only way to get across to the island is by the small boat he owns.

The crossing is often hazardous, as the strait separating Storm Island from the other island is often wild. Once on the island, the only communication is a telephone that connects to a telephone in the owner's house. It is not connected to the main telephone network.

Supplies for those stopping on Storm Island have to be ferried across the strait in the small boat. As the owner is only willing to do this once a week, it is necessary to take with you enough to last for that period, with something added for emergencies like it being too rough for the boat to get across.

The attraction for my mother is the unusual geological formations and fossils. It seems that these indicate that Storm Island had never been part of the nearby land, and the fossils were those of species unknown outside Storm Island.

The attraction for me was nil. As a languages student, geology held no great interest for me, and the only other occupation for me on Storm Island was fishing and a bit of photography. There were no girls and therefore no chances of copulating, and at twenty-one, that is a serious deprivation.

That is how the matter stood, and despite my mother's reassurance that she would be "All right on her own," I could see the need for someone to be with her. My father is a "Money Man" or what some people call, "Something in the city," and as far as I was concerned, he held a perfect trump card, my allowance.

For as long as I was a "needy student," I needed his money. True I could have gone and washed dishes for some chain fast food outlet, but having seen how some of my fellow students struggled when they had to do that sort of work, I would rather not.

So, I was stuck with the task of chaperoning mother on Storm Island.

The first leg was to fly to the State Capital of the main island. From there, we drove in a hire car to the ferry, which carried cars. That took us across to the next island. We drove down its length to finally arrive at the promontory where the owner of the Storm Island house lived.

The owner, Mr.Harper, engaged in much head shaking and statements like, "I dunno, looks like she's gonna blow up. Better wait 'til termorrer, love."

Mother got stern, and when mother gets stern, thing are inclined to happen.

Mr.Harper took us across to Storm Island in something close to a flat calm.

We off loaded our supplies, and as an excuse not to help us carry them the three hundred metres to the house, Harper said, "Better get back love, before she blows up."

Mother had made sure we had plenty of supplies, and it took us some time to cart them to the house. By the time we had finished, we could see the dot of Harper's boat approaching the far shore. It was still a flat calm, and remained so for some time.

I had been to the house once before some years ago. I think I was about fifteen or sixteen then. From my memory of it, it didn't seem to have changed much.

There was one fairly large open area that might be called a combination dining and living room. For heating, which was often necessary so far south, there was an open wood fire. Trees were not plentiful on the island, and suitable fallen timber even less so. To try to supplement this, driftwood was needed. Fortunately, there was a reasonable stock of this outside the back door.

Off this living area, three doors led to a couple of bedrooms and the kitchen.

The kitchen had an old solid fuel cooking range and a more up to date gas stove fed from a gas bottle located outside the house but just behind the stove. The gas bottle also fed an ancient gas refrigerator and hot water heater.

Another door in the kitchen led into a short passage off which there was the bathroom, toilet and finally a back door to the outside of the house. The bathroom and kitchen were supplied with hot water, again via the gas bottle to a gas water heater.

Lighting in the house was by kerosene lamps and candles. There was a tank of kerosene under a shelter against the outside back wall. We had, however, brought with us two gaslights that attached to gas bottles.

The present toilet was connected to a septic tank, but out the back of the house still stood the old toilet shed, known as the "Dunny" in Australian jargon, that had once contained a tin can. This had to be manually emptied whenever full. This shed now contained the old can, ropes, broken spades and forks and assorted other useless objects.

One of the bedrooms contained a fairly new double bed, the other a creaking single bed. Mother pretended to argue about who should have what bed, but we both knew who would end up with the double bed. I assisted mother to get her things into the bedroom.

By the time we had got ourselves organised, darkness was beginning to close in. To conserve our gas, I lit a couple of kerosene pressure lamps. We had brought fresh food with us, but having had a long day we were not inclined to spend time preparing and cooking, so we opened cans of something or the other.

Shower time followed, and as with the gas, we had to be sparing, because the water was supplied by outside tanks that were replenished only when it rained.

Mother took her shower first, and finishing, entered the living area carrying the candle she had used for light, and wrapped only in a towel, en route to her bedroom. She came to me, kissed me goodnight, but instead of the usually peck on the cheek, she kissed my lips. It was a soft, slightly moist and warm kiss.

"That was nice," I remarked.

She smiled. "Like it, did you?"

"Yes, I did."

"Then you're a naughty boy."

She gave a little giggle and went into her bedroom shutting the door.

I was somewhat surprised. My usually serious, academic mother, playing the skittish kitten? "Ah well!"

I lit a candle for myself, took my shower and cursed as I tried to shave by candlelight.

I clambered into my creaking bed, and remembering all the girls I might have had, and still tingling a little from mother's kiss, I masturbated.

Have you ever tried masturbating in a creaking bed? No matter how careful you try to be, the damn thing squawks like a duck in pain. What is more, when you get to the main event and your sperm is shooting out like a volcano erupting, you don't care about the noise.

I hoped and prayed that mother was asleep. Not that masturbation was a forbidden activity as far as she was concerned. It had been mother who in giving me some sex instruction when I was about fourteen, had pointed out that both men and women sometimes had to relieve their sexual tension in this way. Never the less, I still felt it as a bit self-consciousness being heard doing it.

Having duly relieved myself, I dropped off into a sleep induced by a long day and sea air.

I woke very late the next morning and found mother had been up for some time. She had breakfasted and was about to set off on her first rock hunting.

She was dressed in tight shorts and a T-shirt, and was in the process of putting a thermos flask and sandwiches into her rucksack. The geologist hammer dangled from the outside on a strap.

"I didn't know whether you wanted to come with me or not, darling," she said, "but I've prepared you some sandwiches."

Mother led a busy life, and when I was about fifteen she got even busier as her reputation as one of the leading geologists grew. In some ways, we had lost touch with each other. I think we both knew, and regretted this.

There were times when I wished I could be alone with her, perhaps go to the theatre or take a car drive, but she was always either rushing off somewhere, or my father was around bleating his usual themes of investments and money.

In mid-thought I pulled myself up. Here was I, telling myself I would like time with mother, and when the opportunity came, I complained about it. What contrary creatures we humans are.

Another thing was, she almost invariably called me Philip, so it was a bit of a surprise when she referred to me as "darling." She did not even call my father darling, but that was not especially unexpected, as she seemed to have even less contact with him than she did with me.

As if she had read my thoughts, when I indicated to her that I would probably go fishing, she said with a touch of disappointment in her voice, "All right, darling, but I would like us to use this time together to get to know each other again. I'm going down to Gull Point. I expect to be back about mid-afternoon."

She hefted her rucksack, picked up a couple of cardboard boxes, and left.

I ate breakfast and taking my fishing tackle I headed for a small cove I remembered from my last visit to the island.

I spent the morning fishing from a ledge of rock at one side of the cove, and actually caught a couple of eatable fish. The hunter in me satisfied for the moment, I propped my back against a rock and ate the sandwiches mother had prepared.

I hold a certain view about preparing food for people. For example, mother had made these sandwiches for me, not because I had asked her to, or because she was paid to do it. She had made them because she thought I needed them. To me, that is a little act of love.

That thought led on to my two fish. Suppose I returned that act of love by preparing and cooking them, so when mother got back to the house I would have a meal ready for her? A return act of love? Well, I hoped my preparation and cooking would prove a worthy act of love.

I gathered my tackle and fish, and headed back to the house. Meditating on mother as I walked and scrambled over rocks, I felt a twinge of regret that I had not accompanied her that morning. Then thinking I wouldn't have caught the fish and would not, therefore, be able to prepare them I let the regret go.

Back in the house I filleted and washed the fish. I prepared vegetables and brought out one of the dozen bottles of red wine we had brought with us.

By the time I had done this it was still too early to start cooking, and anyway I thought I had better wait for mother to arrive before starting cooking. I did a bit of cleaning and tidying up, and read for a while.

Mother had said she would be back by mid afternoon. That I took to be about three o'clock. It got to four and started to worry. Four fifteen and still she had not arrived and my anxiety level had risen a few more degrees.

I knew how rough and dangerous it was around the island, and I began to have visions of mother with a broken leg, or worse.

By four-thirty, I could stand it no longer. I set off in the direction of where I remembered Gull Point to be. In my anxiety, I almost ran, and when about half way there I saw mother approaching, apparently unscathed, I was ready to drop with relief.

The poor woman was still twenty metres away when I started.

"Where the hell have you been I yelled. I've been worried out of my mind. You said you'd be back mid-afternoon. I've got a meal prepared and…and…"

Mother laughed. "Darling, you're sounding like an anxious parent or a husband."

I saw the funny side of the situation and laughed with her.

"I spotted some seals basking on a rock of Gull Point just when I was going to leave, so I watched them for a while, that's all."

"You're supposed to be a geologist, not zoologist I protested."

"I know, darling, but I'm allowed to enjoy other things as well as geology. After all, you enjoy things that are not linguistic don't you?"

She knew very well some of the things I enjoyed, so I thought I'd better not respond.

We were walking towards the house, so I told her about my fish and meal preparations.

"Lovely, darling, she said. Just what a girl needs after a hard days rock scrambling."

I had noted the number of "darlings" she was using, and the continuing excitable mood she seemed to be in. I wondered what was happening to her.

I cooked the meal, but I knew mother was keeping an eye on my efforts. It turned out a reasonable success, and the wine relaxed us nicely.

There was no television in the house as there was no electricity, so we spent the evening with the battery operated radio we had brought with us, listening to music.

I lit the two kerosene lamps and placed one beside mother and one by my chair. The evening had turned cool, so I got fuel in and lit the fire.

Mother had brought back a couple of fossil specimens she had found, and spent part of the evening inspecting them through a magnifying glass. I continued with my reading.

Around nine o'clock mother put aside her specimens and lay back in her armchair.

"Darling, let's turn off the lamps and just have the firelight. We can talk."

I turned the lamps off and sat back watching the firelight flickering on the walls and ceiling. I found it almost hypnotic, and I think I was on the point of dozing off when mother spoke.

"This is lovely, darling. It makes such a change not to be rushing off here and there. For a long time, I've thought how we seem to have grown apart. I know it happens with many children and parents, but I don't think it has to be."

"No, I suppose it doesn't. Depends on circumstances a lot. I mean, with you so busy and my studies…"

"Yes, darling, but there are other things as well. I mean, some parents can't accept that their children have grown up, that they have become adults with adult thoughts and feelings. Those parents who can accept their children's maturity can begin to relate to them in a new way, as adult to adult."

"Yes," I pondered aloud. "But what about the generation gap? The younger generation often have different tastes and values, don't you think?"

"That's true, darling but that can be part of the…"

She paused for a moment as if trying to find the right word or phrase to express what she wanted to say.

"It can be part of the excitement of discovering one another. Like you and I now. We have time to discover…to…to explore each other."

"Put like that you do make it sound exhilarating," I said with a grin. "We could be in for a stimulating time."

"I hope so, darling, I really do hope so." She said this so quietly it was only just audible and I wondered if I was meant to hear it.

"Perhaps we should go to bed now," I said. "Would you like to take your shower first?"

"Yes, of course," she said. She gave a quiet laugh and went on, "Unless we shower together and save water."

I laughed in my turn and said, "I don't think that will be necessary, but I'll keep my eye on the water level in the tank. If it gets too low we might just have to get under together."

She gave another laugh and went into the bedroom.

I lit a candle for her and when she came out, in the flickering light of the fire, she seemed to be dressed in some filmy garment.

"I lit the candle for you," I said.

"Thanks, darling."

She passed between where I was sitting and the fire to get the candle, and for an instant, through the translucent material, I saw her body outlined. She seemed to pause between me and the fire, looking at me, then moved on.

When she had left the room, I sat pondering on the vision that had just been before me. I had never seen my mother naked. Sometimes she had appeared in a bikini at the beach, and on odd occasions, I had passed her going to or from the bathroom in her panties and bra. None of that had particularly focused my attention. The picture of her between the fire and me had focused me.

What I had seen were the firm breasts of a young woman and hips that were rounded, swelling out in tantalising promise of what was between them and the top of firm round thighs.

I was finding it difficult to breathe, and I was shaking and my penis began to rise.

I shook myself. "My God, what are you thinking, Philip? Your own mother and you're getting sexual feelings about her?"

Finishing her shower mother came into where I was sitting, and as on the previous night she was wrapped in a towel. It barely covered her breasts and was close to revealing her sex organ.

She stood near me. She had washed her hair and was still drying it with another towel. As she raised her arms to continue drying her breasts lifted and the bottom of the towel rose accordingly, and for a moment I saw her neatly cleft vulva, seemingly devoid of pubic hair.

Still drying her hair she moved towards the bedroom, then turned and said, "Darling, I've left my nightdress in bathroom, when you've finished your shower, bring it in to me, would you?"

I tried a cold shower to see if I could get my erection down. It didn't work, so I had to masturbate and this did help.

When I finished drying myself I wrapped a towel round my middle and obeyed orders, picking up the nightdress and took it to mother.

As far as the clothe was concerned and the size of the garment, it was close to not existing. No wonder I had seen through it so clearly.

The bedroom door was ajar, so I tapped on it and walked in.

Mother was sitting up in bed reading, her naked upper body clearly visible. She looked up as I came in, then after a moment's hesitation she slowly drew up a sheet to cover her breasts.

What I saw had me rising again.

"Thank you, darling," she said. "Just put it on the bed and come and kiss me goodnight."

I bent over her to kiss her on the cheek, but she cupped hands on either side of my face and pressed her lips to mine. They were soft and moist, and I could have sworn I felt her tongue flick over my lips.

"Goodnight, darling," she said, "I hope you sleep well."

I managed to wheeze out, "Goodnight, mother."

I fled from the room.

What was happening to me? What was happening to mother? I had never seen her like this before, but then, I had never experienced myself in relation to her like this before.

How could a normally grave doctor of science turn into a sexually exciting woman, especially as the excited person was her own son?

I tried to see mother objectively, which was not easy since sexual arousal tends to diminish objectivity. I had never seen my mother as either attractive or unattractive as a woman, she had always been just mother.