This is day 30 of @mydivathings's #365daysofwriting challenge. Every day she invites you to write a short story based on the image she chooses. Today's image (below) is a Photo by Sarah Crutchfield on Unsplash
Find out more about the challenge (you can join anytime!) here @mydivathings/day-30-365-days-of-writing-challenge
“The cave is only accessible by boat,” Kel said in hushed tones, taking a sip of his beer.
The pub was busy. Busy enough that the conversations of others drowned out our own. Kel didn't have a boat, he said. But he knew how to steal one. The stony beach wasn't used much by tourists. At any one time there were at least ten row boats chained up on that beach, he said.
“All we need is some bolt cutters, and a couple of oars and we are laughing.”
I wasn't laughing. Firstly, I was uncomfortable about stealing. OK, I know that technically what we were going the cave in order to take something that strictly didn't belong to me at this time. But this wasn't the same. For all I knew there was some poor old fisherman guy who would starve if we took his boat. Secondly, I wasn’t very comfortable in the water. I didn’t really like taking a bath. I could swim, but I didn’t like it. The thought of all those fish, pissing and shitting all around you, didn’t help either.
Kel told me to shut the fuck up, drink up, and grow a pair. Pronto.
“Unless you can think of a better idea, of course.”
I could not.
We drank up. I waved to Shelia behind the bar, and we walked the short half mile back to the rental cottage. The owner had given me a key to the shed in the garden, when took the property. She was delighted to rent it for a long let, in the off-season.
“Help yourself to anything you need,” she’d said, indicating the well stocked shed.
“Thanks,” I’d said. “But, I’m not really into Do It Yourself. Not very practical, you see.” She nodded. As if she could tell I was useless, just by looking at me.
I might not know much about DIY, but I knew a pair of bolt cutters, when I saw them. They were hanging up on the wall of the shed.
No oars though.
Kel said, no problem, he’d sort the oars, just bring the bolt cutters and a torch if I had one. He’d meet me down at the beach in twenty minutes.
I didn’t bother going into the cottage - she would be in bed by now, and I had no intention of waking her - taking instead the little alleyway at the side of the house that led to the small garden. The shed was well organised - not my doing, of course - and I located the bolt cutters and a wind up torch quickly.
The beach was deserted. Of course it was. It was November, it was cold and it was dark. There was no sign of Kel. There was some light from the half moon, and the light pollution from the town. I could make out the shapes of upturned boats on the beach. I shuffled my feet. Partly because I was cold, and partly for something to do.
“Right then!” Kel said, smiling as he saw me jump in surprise, his head sticking up above one of the beached boats.
“Blimey, mate,” I said, genuinely wondering if I had actually shat myself. “You scared the bejesus out of me.”
“Come on, scaredy cat!” Kel said, waving me over. “This one looks good,” he pointed at the chain that secured it to a hook buried into the ground below. “One little snip and she is ours.”
It took a few “little snips” and a blister in my right hand, but eventually the chain clanked onto the pebbled beach and we overturned the boat. Kel put the bolt cutters, the torch, the oars and his backpack (“Never you mind what’s in there,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose) inside and then, taking one end each, we carried the boat to the water.
“Do you know how to row, one of these things?” I said.
“I was born here, you know,” Kel said. “Unlike you rich towny twats who don’t know an anchor from a wanker, we locals know a thing or two about boats. Come on, jump in.”
I jumped in. Kel gave the boat another shove and launched himself in beside me.
“Budge up,” he said, taking hold of the oars. “Let’s go and get that treasure!”
I nodded, and smiled at him, as he pulled on the oars.
I felt a little bit bad about lying to Kel. But I got the feeling that now wasn’t the time to come clean about the “treasure”. Instead I tried to think of a suitable nautical expression of encouragement.
“Tally ho!” I said, cheerfully.
Kel looked at me, blankly.
“You are a right fucking muppet. You do know that, don’t you?”
I did know that.
After all, only a right fucking muppet would have got himself into this mess in the first place.