I Love Nibbles

34. I Love Nibbles

I was on a passage up the east coast of Florida, having started in Tampa Bay. After a stop in the Florida Keys for provisions and to jettison the mother/daughter sex toys that had hitched a ride, I was on my way again. But I ran into a serious problem. Not with my Love Boat. It was working just fine.

An absolutely gorgeous, horny, 20-something year old slut named Vista had stowed away on my boat before I left the Keys. So, what’s the problem, one might ask? Hot young horny cunt, boats, bikinis, unlimited sex, drinks with little umbrellas. What’s wrong with this picture?

She thinks she’s in love with me. That, my friend, is the problem.

You see, I did the whole “get a job, get married, have kids” thing. Most unfortunately, I became a widower before old age. I decided to take my fortune, buy a boat and disappear. Live off the grid. Turn my dreams into reality. I became an itinerant vagabond, no ties to people or places. Anywhere there was 5 or more feet of water I could call home. A full-time live aboard slut did not fit into my plans. I had to find a humane way to get rid of her.

We hoisted anchor from our overnight stay offshore of Key Largo. I headed toward Miami. I was hopeful that I could offload young Vista somewhere in Miami. As we got farther offshore I had to keep an eye out for freighters and cruise ships. Although we weren’t in the shipping channel, dozens of these behemoths all headed to the same Miami inlet that we would use: Government Cut.

I used my free time out at sea to search for a marina in Miami that hosted mega-yachts. My modest 40 footer is certainly no mega-yacht. My thought was to turn pretty little Vista’s head in the direction of a sugar daddy. Move her from my tiny stateroom to the luxurious penthouse on a 300 footer.

I found what appeared to be a suitable facility just north of Government Cut, less than a mile from the ocean inlet. Critically, it was still south of the damned Julia Tuttle bridge where Interstate 195 crosses Biscayne Bay, connecting Miami Beach to the mainland. The Julia Tuttle bridge is damned because all bridges crossing the Intracoastal Waterway have to be at least 65 feet high OR open up. This single bridge is fixed and only 56 feet high. The vast majority of sailboats my size have 60 foot or higher masts. My Love Boat has, alas, a 60 foot high mast.

Anyway, this marina looked perfect. But how would I convince them to allow my miniscule Love Boat into their mega-yacht marina? As we motored into the busy Government Cut, dodging freighters and tugboats, I called the marina on the VHF radio. I told them that I was having mechanical troubles and requested emergency dockage. They reluctantly agreed much to my delight.

The marina was filled with jumbo yachts. My little Love Boat looked tiny in comparison. They had me tie off to their dinghy dock, reserved for small tenders and such.

Vista was nearly out of her mind. “Look at these boats! They’re huge! There’s so many of them! Where does all this money come from? Oh, my God! I think I just came in my panties!” This was the reaction I was hoping for.

I had my work cut out for me. There was nothing wrong with my boat but I had to make it appear so, and keep the ruse going long enough for Vista to get an invite aboard a big boat.