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Sailing | Key Largo, Fl | Au Naturel

Sailing The Naked Sea — Part 6

A Damsel With A Different Idea

Enjoy an account of a romantic picaroon along the Florida coast. Morgan, living aboard his boat along the Port Largo canals, becomes entangled.

This is the story of sailing at its best. Read this standalone adventure or catch up on the story here:

[embed]List: Sailing The Naked Sea | Curated by S M Revolinski | Medium Sailing The Naked Sea · Enjoy an account of a romantic picaroon along the Florida coast. This story intertwines sailing…medium.com

“Hey, are you Mr. Scott?” a voice from the canal wall shouts down to me as I bubble to the water’s surface. I had been scuba diving under my boat to scrape off the perpetually growing barnacles. I could have the boat hauled out of the water and painted with copper based anti-fouling bottom paint every few months at great expense, or I can dive down every few weeks and spend an hour scraping. I choose the latter.

The stranger belonging to the voice is a short round, balding man wearing the most formal attire anyone ever wears in the keys: an open collar white cotton short-sleeve shirt and dark blue slacks. Whatever he’s selling, I can’t afford.

“Yes, I’m Morgan Scott.”

“Yes, great, I’m Howard Johnson,” he doesn’t pause to let me enjoy the humor of his parents naming skill, “and I heard… actually, Jack told me that you take odd jobs. I need a mate this afternoon. I’m showing a boat and the guy I had lined up for mate skipped out on me. Are you available?”

This guy’s a boat broker; like a real estate salesman, but he sells boats for a living.

“Yes, sure. I’d be glad to help you.” I never turn down an afternoon’s work, certainly not one this easy.

“Great. Sorry it’s such short notice, but how about 20 bucks an hour with a 3 hour minimum. I’m meeting the customer in an hour.” He gives me the address of a house along one of the canals. When he turns to walk away, I recognize his shape, and the shape of the bald spot in the back of his head. Howard was the man entertaining Mary that night when she was ‘tied up’. He didn’t appear to recognize me.

As the crow flies, it’s only a couple of hundred yards away, but as the man walks the address is well over a mile away. After a hurried shower, I walk to the address a few minutes before the appointed time. A Mercedes with Miami’s Dade County plates is parked in front of the lavish house elevated above the street level to protect it from the eventual hurricane. I walk around behind the house, to the canal and the berthed motor yacht. Howard Johnson is standing there with a tall, slender man wearing a black knit shirt and black pants.

“Ah, here he is,” Howard gestures toward me, “Raymond, this is our helmsman for the afternoon, Morgan.” Raymond, the potential boat buyer, is a Steve Jobs lookalike, but with a bushy mustache. He doesn’t indicate that he wants to shake hands, so I just nod toward him.

“Heather, we’re ready to go,” Raymond shouts at the boat and a stunning young blond woman steps from the pages of the Victoria’s Secret catalog and into view on the boat’s stern. She’s wearing a thong bikini with a lacy see-through top that hangs to mid-thigh. While I stare, Howard struggles to step past her, without touching her, into the boat. She doesn’t make any attempt to move aside. Raymond follows, but she takes his arm and follows him to the couch at the stern of the boat.

The twin diesel motors fire to life and Howard shouts, “The lines,” to jog my brain back into attention. Turning from my view of Heather, I untie the bow line and toss it onto the forward deck. With the engines still at idle speed, Howard puts the port engine into reverse and the starboard engine into forward; this pivots the boat’s bow to port and into the canal. When both engines are returned to neutral, I untie the stern line and jump onto the boat. Howard puts the starboard engine into forward and then a moment later the port engine, and we are off slowly maneuvering down the canal toward the open sea.

After passing the third channel marker Howard gestures for me to take the wheel.

Photo from the author’s personal creation

“Just take us on a gentle loping cruise around Mosquito Bank,” he says. Mosquito Bank is a shallow reef a few miles to the south; it’s very popular with the snorkel crowd and inexperienced scuba divers. “Keep the ride smooth,” he encourages me with a pat on the shoulder. He then opens the cooler and extracts a bottle of champagne. He pours two plastic flute glasses full of the bubbly liquid and hands them to Raymond and Heather. He then leads Raymond on a tour of the cabin. Heather remains seated on the stern couch. I command eyes to grow in the back of my head; failing that, I notice a small mirror on the control panel. Not the best view, but I can watch her while I drive the boat.

She stares at the ocean and finishes her champagne. Holding the empty glass, she walks up behind me. Pressing the glass toward me, she wordlessly indicates I should pour more. For a moment I consider calling out to Howard to assist her as I have the helm. But, I have set a heading toward an imaginary point in the open ocean south of the Mosquito Bank and I can clearly see the tower lighthouse marking the reef to port. As there are no boats along our course, I engage the autohelm and retrieve the champagne bottle from the cooler to fill her glass. Full glass in hand, I turn towards Heather just in time to see her stoop down to retrieve her bikini’s thong panty from the deck; she is now wearing only lime green finger and toenail polish — that’s all — she is not even sporting any pubic hair.

Now she smiles to me as she takes the glass, “Thank you… Morgan, is it?” she speaks for the first time.

“Yes,” I choke out, “you’re welcome.”

“Here,” she hands me a bottle of suntan lotion and spins her back toward me. She pulls her blond hair over her shoulder baring her back. Trying my best to keep watch on the water ahead of the boat, I begin to lather her up. Starting with the back of her neck and working my way down. I pause only briefly, in case she wants me to stop, at her butt crack. And then I proceed to ensure that every square inch of her backside is protected. All the way down to her ankles.

She turns and takes the lotion bottle from me and hands me her champagne glass. Again, it is empty,

“Please, if you don’t mind,” she says with a smile.

I again refill her glass while watching her lather up her breasts, belly and pubis with suntan lotion.

I return to the helm. A small adjustment directs the autohelm to turn east toward the deep water on the southeast side of Mosquito Bank; I leave the electronics to pilot the boat. With one eye I watch the ocean forward and I watch the nude sunbathing Heather in the mirror with the other eye. An hour quietly passes and I turn the boat northeast as we pass Mosquito Bank on the ocean side. Howard and Raymond reappear; Raymond’s mustache now has a few specks of white powder.

Raymond gathers the nude Heather and the three of them disappear into the cabin. Fifteen minutes later, they reappear and take seats on the stern couch behind me. With the roar of the wind, water and motors I can’t hear what they are saying. But, I’m sure Howard is earning his money. I continue to watch them in the small mirror.

I watch as Heather slips from the couch to kneel on the deck, between Raymond’s knees. She shifts to kneel between the two men, and I watch as she uses her two hands to grip the two men. I watch as her mouth alternates between them. When they are finished, the two men again disappear into the cabin.

Heather walks up behind me and gooses my butt. She taps her lime green fingernail on the mirror and asks, ”Which do you like better… watching or doing?” Without waiting for an answer, she squats down before me. Opening my shorts, she tugs them and my underwear down to the deck.

I had never known before whether the tales of deep-throating and its alluring sensations were for real, or mere urban legend — I know now it’s for real.

When we finally return to the canal and the boat is berthed behind the house, everyone on the boat is relaxed and in cheerful spirits. Howard slips me four 20 dollar bills and says, “Don’t forget to clean up the boat.” Raymond slips me a hundred dollar bill and says nothing. Heather gives me a kiss and says, “Thanks for the ride, nice driving.”

After they leave, I spend an hour erasing every hint of our afternoon adventure from the boat.

… To Be Continued

Copyright ©2026 by S. M. Revolinski All Rights Reserved

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