I told him about Erica. I told him how lovely she was and how exuberant. I told him that she was as professor of nuclear physics, working in Leipzig. When that shut down she became a professor in microbiology. I added that she is now engaged in researching the development and the dynamics of love.

      "In East Germany the people are apparently not as stupid as we are," he replied. "They are not being brainwashed as intensively by the media than we are in the West, to become stupid. They also appear to be more honest in their approach to science and to sex, as if the two were the same. That's what Heather told me. Apparently, they are far from the primitive fundamentalist's approach that we have unfolding here in our country that caters to raw greed and calls the fascist stealing that happening in the markets, a benefit to society. They wouldn't allow over there what we hail here. It's too destructive to society." He said this as though he totally deplored the fundamentalist trend to raw greed. He finally came right out with it and said that he loved our idea of a nudist beach, a project "that inspires honesty and openness," as he put it.

      Moments later, to show his support, he suggested that we initiate the project right there and then.

      I looked at him in disbelief, Tony too, as he, the priest, started taking his clothes off.

      "OK," said Tony when the shock wore off. Moments later he proceeded to do the same as the priest. We all did. What else is beach for but for swimming?

      Unfortunately the water had become quite cold. Swimming that late in the year was like swimming in an ocean of ice cubes. After a while, though, a lovely tingling sensation set in and the water began to feel great and one's skin as smooth as silk!



      After we dried off in the in the sunshine by walking around, the priest invited us to his house for a cup of coffee. "By the way, my name is Ross, Ross Jacobson," he said.

      So we introduced ourselves at long last and shook hands.



      Ross told us on the way that he and Heather lived in a log cabin built on a ridge at the far side of the bay, the bay that we evidently shared. He said that his place was about a half-hour's walk distant. He pointed to it.

      The house could barely be seen. He had to describe its location before we could see it. It seemed well hidden at the far end of the ridge, right at the entrance point of our bay. He told us that his place was overlooking both the ocean and the bay, with also a wide western exposure. He said that he could oversee everything from his balcony as if the world lay at his feet.

      As I expected the trail to his house started way past the end of the beach, cutting through low vegetation, gently leading up to a rocky tree-covered ledge. That's how I would have built the trail, and it was well built.

      When we got to the cabin, WOW! I was impressed. The place was huge. What looked like cabin from the beach was a log house two stories high. On the side facing the ocean it featured an enormous porch. And behind the house Ross showed us another porch with a Jacuzzi.

      "The place isn't easily seen from the shore," Ross explained, "it blends in with the landscape when you look at it from a distance." He had vines growing right up to the roof, covering the entire front wall facing the beach.

      Both Ross and Heather showed us around. Heather sometimes spoke of the house as if it were her own place too. "We really love it here," she said at one point. Of course her enthusiasm was justified. It was a delightful place, indeed. That she was living there with Ross became obvious when Ross asked me to join him in his office. On the way he showed me the bedroom of the house that was adjoined to a corner room that was evidently his office. Both rooms were facing east towards the ocean. In fact, we had to walk partly through the bedroom to get to the office part. As expected Heather's distinct feminine touch prominently evident throughout the bedroom. The walls appeared to have been newly decorated. Color coordinated curtains graced the windows with patterns of wildflowers and an almost matching bead spread. The bed was angled slightly north, facing the window, exactly the way we had once rearranged a bed in a hotel room to make it possible for us to see the first light of the day from our pillows without getting up.

Next Page

|| - page index - || - chapter index - || - Exit - ||

Stories about War from novels by Rolf A. F. Witzsche