"Brennert, Alan - Man Who Loved" - читать интересную книгу автора (Brennert Alan)

languid pace of life here take hold again. . . my thoughts drifting back to the
ways I used to pass the time, things I hadn't done in twenty years. 'Signing'
for clams -- poking a long, two-pronged stick into the tiny keyholes in the sand
where innocent shellfish fell to my youthful appetite. Rashly trying to pet the
wild ponies which ran free here on Assateague (and narrowly avoiding being
kicked in the head by one particularly testy little foal). Bicycling through the
refuge, learning to spot and name all manner of animals and birds unknown in the
city: heron, ibis, deer, tree frogs, geese. . .

The water gently rocked me back and forth, tiny waves tickling the backs of my
legs, elbows, neck. I was wearing a loose-fitting swimsuit; the water flowed
through it, seeming almost to caress me with each rolling motion of the surf. I
smiled, remembering the times I'd skinny-dipped here as a boy. I lay there,
feeling happy and oddly aroused, the touch of the waters feeling almost like
that of a human hand --

A hand which now, slowly and gently, began to. . . stroke. . . my genitals. . .

Startled, I yelped, kicked out of my floating position, tugged on the waistband
of my shorts and peered inside, looking for. . . what?

Of course, there was nothing there. I laughed, embarrassed: Helluva riptide. And
in fact the current had carried me, unknowing about a dozen yards from shore. I
paddled back to the beach, toweled off, and went back to Chincoteague for
dinner.

The funeral was well-attended; the island, even now, is a tight-knit community,
and Evan was particularly well-loved. A few of his fellow watermen spoke of
their days together on the island, before the bridge was built connecting it to
the mainland -- back when boats were more than a livelihood, they were the
life's blood of the community. His best friend, Ben Sanders, who owned the
Channel Inn, said a few words. The minister read from Psalms. And that was about
it.

We buried him in a small cemetery about a quarter-mile down Church Street, and I
threw the first handful of dirt onto the coffin, saying good-bye to the uncle I
had cared so much for--the uncle who, with his wife, had showed me that men and
women could love each other, that people could make a safe place for themselves
in the world. My marriage to Rose may have ended in divorce, but I took pride in
the fact that it was a quick, amicable parting, nothing like the pitched battles
my parents engaged in for so long; and I like to think I had Evan and Dierdre in
part to thank for that.

When Aunt Dierdre asked me to stay the weekend, I agreed gladly -- as much to
assuage my guilt over my long absence as to comfort her. When she suggested I
take Uncle Evan's boat, the Sea Breeze, out onto the channel, I was both
surprised and flattered. She knew how much I loved the old tub, and knew as well
that I had never piloted her without Evan at my side. I protested (not very
strongly, I admit) that it had been at least six years since I'd been at the
helm, but she dismissed that with a wave. "Your uncle thought you'd make a good