Sailing, I find, is a great way to pass time. The wind in your hair, the stillness, the sun in your face, all of those things makes a great day on the lake. Something that’s almost as nice is to get off the boat and wade ashore on a secluded and sandy beach, or just lie down on your back, on the bottom of the boat, and let the wind take you wherever it pleases. You meet such friendly people, too.
In short, it’s nothing like being on a speed-boat, doing a hundred miles an hour, splashing water everywhere. Sure, that is fun too, but sailing is way nicer.
I was lying on the bottom of my sail-boat, trying to soak up some sun, dressed in my red and pink bikini, when I heard someone yelling:
“OHOY THERE; DO YOU NEED ASSISTANCE?”
I sat up, and shook my head:”NO,” I yelled back,” I DON’T. I’M JUST TRYING TO GET A NICE TAN, BUT THANKS FOR ASKING.”
It was the (male) driver of a speed-boat, in the mega-bucks class, that wanted to know.
“ARE YOU SURE? I CAN COME OVER AND HAVE A LOOK AT YOUR ENGINE, AND MAYBE HELP YOU, IF YOU HAVE GOT ANY TROUBLE. IT WON’T TAKE LONG!”
Was he blind, or what? Couldn’t he see there was a mast and a sail on the boat, but no engine of any kind, indicating to anyone this was not a speed-boat?
Before I had a chance to stop him, he was along-side my boat, and climbing over the rails.
“Right,” he said, rubbing his hands, enthusiastically, “show me the engine, young lady. I’ll soon have it fixed for you, don’t you worry.” I had my first really good look at him.
He was about twenty years old, sun-bleached shoulder-length hair, evenly tanned body, tall and muscular, wearing yellow and green Speedos, perhaps one size too small for my liking.
By the way: my hair is a thick, brown carpet, which hangs straight down, no matter what you do to it, and stops half way to my waist. My fringe is cut straight off, just below my eyebrows. I’m quite tall for being a fourteen-year old, and slender. Earlier that day, I had painted the nails on my fingers and toes in a vivid red colour I had nicked from my mum.
He looked at my body and commented on my tanned back, beginning to look more like a sun-burned back, to him. “Oh, that’s gonno sting something awful tonight. Why don’t you come over to my boat, and I’ll put some cooling-creme on it? I’m Aaron, by the way. “
“And I’m Alice.” We shook hands, and climbed aboard his boat. He told me to go and sit in the cabin, and he’d put some creme on the burns. I did, and could hear him rummage around in various cabinets and drawers.
“Ah, there we are!” he said, and I was all of a sudden tied to the chair by a rope, tightly wound several times around my waist and tied off behind the back of the chair. He grabbed my wrists and tied them together behind my back, tied my ankles together, shoved a rag in my mouth, wound a bandana around my head and knotted it off behind my head.
“O.K; was it Alice you’re calling yourself these days?” he huffed. “About time I found you! You’re not the easiest person to locate, let me tell you. I bet you’ve enjoyed your time on the run; most likely you’ve robbed some banks, while you were at it. I’ll check when we get back. Because now; it’s time for you to go back to where you came from!”
I just stared at him. What was he talking about? I wasn’t due home for hours, and besides, my parents knew exactly where I was, so there was no need for them to go and search for me.
“I can see you’re pretending not to understand what I’m talking about, Jenny Broadside.” he said, with an evil grin. “Oh, well; have it your way. It is back to prison for you, anyway.”
What was he talking about; prison; Jenny Broadside; robbing banks? This was getting more and more confusing by the minute. I couldn’t protest, or explain anything, or demand an explanation. Aaron, if that was his real name, left me and a short while later the engine started with a mighty roar.
A couple of minutes later, the boat stopped. Aaron came down and released me from the chair. With ease, he threw me over his shoulder and carried me ashore, dumping me in the trunk of a rusty old car. He slammed the boot-lid closed and drove off, with me as his prisoner.
When the car stopped, and he opened the lid, I was half-dead from breathing in the exhaust-fumes. Once again he threw me over his shoulder, this time carrying me inside a house, which most certainly did not look like a prison to me. Instead it looked like a timber-framed hut.
He dumped me not too gently onto the floor, closed the door as he left and locked it.
Whether or not there was a Jenny Broadside I didn’t know, but one thing I did know was that I had been kidnapped.