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FOUR
MEN IN A BOAT
by Nigel
Dean
“Is that it
?” Frank kind of put into words the disappointment we were all feeling.
“It’s a boat isn’t it ?” Tim defended.
“Just about but sod me it aint the cabin cruiser you said it was.”
No it wasn’t. Tim had arranged to borrow his uncle’s boat for the
week-end so we four lads could booze cruise up and down the canal. To be
fair he hadn’t promised a millionaire’s yacht out of Monte Carlo Harbor but
we had been expecting a little bit more than this. We stood there on the
tow path, each with an over night bag slung over our shoulders, a Tesco carrier
bag of food in one hand and a case of beer under the arm of the other. We
looked at that boat and I couldn’t help but laugh. It had been yellow
once but its fading and flaked paintwork now displayed a rainbow of shades which
told of a long history.
“We’ll never all fit in there,” Ricky added, “besides their aint room to
swing a cat.”
“And it looks as if it’ll sink.” Frank scoffed. “We’ll all
drown.”
“In four feet of water ?” Tim said. I was beginning to feel
sorry for him.
“I vote we all go home !”
“NO !” I said quickly. “It isn’t that bad, it’ll be a
laugh.”
The argument needed to run its course before we climbed aboard and stowed our
belongings and valuable alcohol in the small cabin. This cabin opened onto
an even smaller deck at the rear from where one drove the boat.
Drove – is that the right word ? Drove ?
Steered ? I don’t know, anyway there was a wheel there together with a
throttle and a key to start the engine.
Tim turned the key and after a few false starts, a lot of coughing and a cloud
of smoke from the exhaust the engine chugged into life. And so Frank, Tim,
Ricky and I set off on our epic voyage of discovery along the Grand Union Canal
northwards from the small Hertfordshire town of Tring. Ahead lay the
wastes of Bedfordshire and beyond that the darkest wilderness of
Buckinghamshire.
We had gone but a few yards before the first beers were cracked open and passed
round. That did a lot to mend our friendship with Tim who was soon
forgiven for the state of our accommodation and transport.
It was a warm sunny Saturday morning and there were quite a few others making
their way up and down the narrow strip of water. There were other cabin
craft, none quite so old or decrepit as ours, canoes, barges and even on one
stretch a rowing eight just like they have in The Boat Race. Our progress
up the waterway passed many a fisherman, we tried to steer as close as we could
to their lines then laugh at their rage and anger.
We actually managed to overtake one boat only to have a haughty woman on board
call out a lecture on waterway etiquette and the speed limit.
“Three miles an hour you know !”
Silly old bag !
By the time we reached the fist lock gate each one of had consumed three cans
and were well into number four. As the water poured through the open
sluice gate to raise the boat in the lock three of us helped its flow by peeing
over the gate and into the void below.
“Hey watch me !” Tim shouted up from the deck.
We laughed and waved our dicks to make the flow come dangerously close to our
friend.
Tim, Ricky and Frank had all gone to the local grammar school but I, having
failed my 11+, was consigned to a secondary modern. But as we lived in a
posh area so it was known as a High School. Anyway the point is that
although we had been great mates in primary school and the split at the age of
eleven did not change our friendship. Now in late adolescence and on the
verge of full adult manhood we were still a force to be reckoned with. We had
all kinds of adventures planned, those two days on Tim’s uncle’s boat being
one of them.
Back on the water with the lock behind us we began to decide just how far up the
canal we could go before we would need to turn round and head for home.
“There’s a good pub at The Three Locks,” Frank said.
“But that’s only a few miles away, we’ll get there in no time. How
about The Navigation by the Wolverton Aqueduct ?” I suggested.
Ricky had an Ordnance Survey map and proposed that we try to make the Blisworth
Tunnel. “It’s the longest tunnel on the British Waterway System,”
he told us. “I remember that from geography at school.”
“Bully for you, we’ll never get all that way it’s miles.”
“We could if we kept going all night,” Tim added. “It’s a
good place to make for.”
“But are you allowed to drive on the water after dark ?” I asked.
“Dunnow. Who’d know ?”
“Are there water police or anything like that ?”
It was decided that there weren’t and that the Blisworth Tunnel would be our
goal and turning point. With that fixed we made steady progress all day
before mooring up and walking to a near by pub for the evening. I guess if
we weren’t exactly pissed on the cans we’d been knocking back all day we
should have been so when we rolled back to the boat in order to begin our night
time navigation we were in less than full possession of our faculties.
I guess it was this state of our collective minds which caused the mishap.
The engine let out a groan of complaint then stalled. We drifted forwards
for a while before hitting the bank. Tim was flapping about with a torch
trying to locate the problem.
“The rope’s caught round the propeller. Which dick-head let the mooring rope
fall over the side ?”
It could have been any one of four dick-heads, Tim himself included.
We tried in vain to reach over the side and free the rope but without any
success.
“Somebody’s going to have to get in the water and do it.”
“I will,” I volunteered. God I must have been well pissed.
So it was I stripped down to my boxers and slid over the side into the dark and
freezing water. I sobered up immediately and wondered what the hell I was
doing. Urged on by the cold and fear of what may be lurking in those
sinister waters I managed to quickly free the rope.
Clambering back on board and grabbing for a towel Tim was the one who noticed
how the water was making by underclothing cling so closely to my body.
“Nice dick you’ve got there !”
“What ?”
“Your dick, it’s a bit clear through your shorts.”
“Oh !” I was a little embarrassed.
“Good job it wasn’t Ricky who went in the water, have you seen the size of
his dick ?”
No, I hadn’t.
Ricky smiled, his white teeth gleaming in the moonlight, “It’s a bit of a
monster !”
I was busy drying myself off and looking about for some dry clothes.
“Ricky can wank it with both hands holding on at the same time,” Tim
added.
“I sure can.”
I was now ready to drop my wet boxers and get dressed but with my three friends
standing about I wasn’t sure I was going to give them a floor show.
“Want me to show you ?”
“What ?”
“Well I haven’t had a wank today yet, have you ?”
Hang on, hang on, hang on ! What was happening ? Just because I had
sobered up a little by taking the dip in the water did not mean my three friends
were any the less victims to the drunken stupor which pervaded all ever since we
had downed our first few cans of beer.
Ricky was quickly void of all clothing and man what Tim had said earlier about
its dimensions were true and more so. He followed Ricky’s example and
dropped his jeans to the deck.
“Come along Frank, you up for this ?”
Frank was.
That left just yours truly who was still clad in my wet boxers now feeling cold
against my skin. Only one thing to do – take them off.
Four nude nineteen year olds on a cabin cruiser which had seen better days
wanked themselves silly that night. Testosterone loaded jizz flew
everywhere, gallons of it.
© Pants 2006
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