Frances

I want to tell you about Frances.

I had been doing some ocean survey work as a consultant and I was frequently in the Bahamas and often I would range as far south as the Turks And Caicos. This day I had begun a two-week stretch of time-off and I was aboard a friend’s boat in Georgetown, Bahamas. When you work as I do, you tend to make contacts, and whereas there is an unspoken rule that you never say “you owe me one,” everyone tends to know the score. My friend was more than happy to loan me his boat for two weeks.

I met Frances at a gathering in Alexandria, Virginia. I was with some co-workers at a meet-and-greet. After about a half hour of handshaking, smiling, and telling bold-faced lies, she walks up. She was different. I never claimed to be smooth around women, in fact, uppity, well-dressed babes tend to put me off some. I generally don’t like them.

But Frances was more than just good-looking. She had a twinkle and a mystery in her eyes that engaged me and would not let me go. I remember that first meeting and often think I must have been a complete ass. Damnit if I didn’t stutter and act all school-boyish. I remember shaking her hands and she looked me directly in the eyes. Intensity was all I saw and all I felt.

Boats rest at anchor on the east side of the narrow island that is Georgetown, Bahamas, and the runway—airport is too good a word for it—is laid out on the west side. I managed to get a ride from Charles, a local who was good at saying “no problem, mon.” For ten bucks, he’d drive me all over the island the entire day.

I remember the first time I flew into Georgetown. I counted three different hulks of airplanes abandoned in the trees that surround the runway. I never asked how they got there. I presume it’s sometimes difficult to find an unlit runway at night. I didn’t need anyone to tell me who might be landing on an unlit runway at night. That much I could figure out.

She arrived in a Beech Baron, a small but sturdy piston twin that is well-loved for over-water flights in these parts. A hot March breeze blew from the south. The smell of the ocean rode on its currents. Dust rose in swirls from the edges of the asphalt. The plane taxied to a stop and the engines stuttered until they stood still. The door of the plane was already open. In hot climates it is customary to pop the door right after landing to let some air into the un-air-conditioned cockpit. The door opened the rest of the way and she emerged first, stood tall on the right wing, placed her hands on her hips and surveyed her surroundings. I never knew her not to be in total control.

Perhaps that’s what I remember most about that first meeting in Alexandria, her total control. She organized, she directed, she presided over her surroundings. I had a difficult time keeping my eyes from following her around that room, but I hated myself for it. I was not in love, I was not in lust, I didn’t want to know this incredible-looking woman whose personality filled the room and commanded attention. I refuse to be controlled by any woman. I swore I would not be controlled by her. Now you know something about me you didn’t know before: I’m a control freak.

In Georgetown the customs officials wore ceremonial uniforms that looked hot as hell. I always surmised that it was more important for the locals to look important than it was for them to actually do any work. It could take 45 minutes to get a passport stamped here. And it was only that quick because they actually had nothing else to do.

She wore hiking boots and thick socks with a pair of khaki cargo-pocket shorts. Her white cotton shirt was aviator-style and rumpled. She dressed as one of the rugged types and was totally convincing. Of course, that was no accident.

She brushed her hair to one side with her fingers, fixing it in place with a hair clip to keep the steady breeze from blowing it back into her face.

“Hey Packer, you want to get a thirsty girl a drink? Oh that’s right, you don’t wait on women, they wait on you.”

Her words were daggers, but her eyes were all play. That first meeting in Alexandria she had off-handedly asked me to fetch her a drink. I had off-handedly told her to get it herself.

I threw her luggage into the back of Charles’ truck and we rode the bouncy ride to the marina. The Morgan was anchored about 50 yards off shore and I motored us out in the rubber dingy.

“I’ve got the boat for two weeks.”

“I don’t know if I can stay that long, Packer. I’ll give you a week.”

“You’ll stay two weeks or you’ll swim back to shore towing your luggage in your teeth.”

Francis moved toward me and stood chest touching chest, staring me down. But her smile betrayed any aura of confrontation.

“Always my tough guy, aren’t you Packer?”

In all the time I knew her, she never called me anything but Packer. I’m not certain she ever knew my first name.

I smiled back at her.

Her lips met mine in a wet, lingering tenderness that was warm and soft, inviting, teasing.

She backed away a step or two, “You know it’s hotter than the blazes here and I’m still dressed for a March day in Atlanta.”

She kicked off her boots and hopped as she pulled her socks from her feet. Unconcerned about nearby boats at anchor, she dropped her shorts and threw them down the companionway, quickly followed by her shirt and bra. She climbed down into the galley and reached into the cooler, grabbing a bottle of beer. Back up on deck she sat, popped off the top of the bottle and took a long draw from the bottle.

I stared at this marvel of a woman, wearing only her cotton bikinis, unashamed, unembarrassed, drinking a beer, no invitation or formality needed.

“Hey Packer, you just going to stand there and stare, or are you going to join me?”

“I though you might bring up two beers?”

“No, I can only drink one at a time.” She pretended to think for a moment, “Oh, you mean get one for you? Nah, you can get it yourself.”

She winked.

I informed her that a beer was not all that I would be helping myself to.


Tomorrow: more about Frances.

Faithfully submitted,
Teddy Packer