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“Well?” Bob demanded.“Well what?” said Chrissy with a smile.“Don’t keep me in suspense” he growled. “How’d it go?”“How’d what go?” she grinned.He grabbed for her and began to tickle her. He often “punished” her by tickling her. She went wild whenever he did so, and she did now.As she squirmed his hands fluttered across the sides of her breasts. She squealed “OK, OK, I’ll tell you!” and he stopped, feeling the old familiar stiffening in his pants begin. She was panting, and it made her breasts fill out her blouse nicely. He noticed two stiff points and realized she wasn’t wearing a bra.“It was OK” she said. “The campus was small. They don’t really have dorms there, and I’d have to rent someplace off campus to live. I might check out State later. We’ll have to see.” She took the stack of books and left for the shelves.Life went on. Three months later, Bob came in and saw Chrissy leafing through a copy of Playpen Magazine.Bob didn’t buy used magazines, but he stocked a full line of new. A small black and embryonic head bobbed near our brilliant orange marker, oddly fragile in that harsh sea. ‘Baby sea lion,’ my captain announced with wonderment in his voice. Heedless of our observation, he circled the buoy and danced in the tossing waves. Reedy bleats vacillated between amplification and near-mute in that howling air. ‘Calling for its mother.’ I could see the adult, monstrously large in the distance. She cried to her pup, too wary to approach our boat. The pup seemed to hear her cries, but could he understand? Both seemed lost, unable to determine the origin of the other’s calls. We stood on the stern of the Ginny Lee, nets piled at our feet like sweaty clothing torn off after a hard day’s work. We watched the pup play sweetly with our buoy, occasionally remembering to mewl to his mother, and we watched the adult keep pace with him at an anxious distance and beg his return. It could not have been long that this drama danced before us, but on the ocean, time is.
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