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Between Llanbedrog and Abersoch, in North Wales, was a long golden beach, a part of The Warren Caravan Site, or so it was back then.



My brother was about three or four, or so I recall and already, been heading toward a colour that suggested he was from somewhere in Australasia: he had browned so fast, in just a day or so, whilst I’d retained my usual pale complexion.



I’d kept pale, in part, as I stayed in the caravan reading, when the folks’s went out.



That day had been different though. We’d been out for a walk, ‘as a family’, as my father had insisted. “Join in, for a change,” I remember being told.



So we’d been out together, the four of us, my stoic, seemingly humourless Father; my jovial, attentive Mother; and my somewhat outgoing, younger brother.



I recall those holiday days, as always sunny, with perpetually blue skies.



The beach was long and we’d started our walk by ‘the rocks’, near the Llanbedrog headland, a pile of granite workings, the remnants of nearby mining, from years gone by.



We’d then headed down the beach towards the first of two outcrops, before Abersoch and the Abersoch headland: passing ‘the ice-cream shop’. Just before that first outcrop.



My parents had walked hand in hand, with me trudging slowly behind them, my brother running ahead, occasionally kicking at the water’s edge.



We plodded on, as the tide moved out.



“The ice-cream shop!” He’d shouted excitedly, running yet further ahead, much to our Mother’s chagrin, little legs going ten to the dozen, totally heedless of her call to “come back.”



Then, I’d watched my parents talk closely a minute or so, before my Father had called us both to heel and begun telling us a story.



“A bay like this…” he began, with a sweeping gesture, to illustrate his words as he spoke, “is where they’d come to bury their treasure.”



Ian and I had heard his story spellbound, my brothers mouth falling open as he listened.



At the word ‘treasure’, his eyes had opened wide.



Ahead of us, there’d been the aged, seaweed-covered ribs of a boat, exposed by the receding tide.



“If you dig over there, you might just find some of that treasure,” My father had suggested with a light smile, as he pointed to the ‘wreck.’



My brother had run ahead.



He had got to one of the ribs and began digging with his hands, into a small pool of water at its base.



I too had reached the remains of the old boat and begun to copy his actions, at the base of another rib, near to where Ian dug ferociously away.



He had dug, for minutes, enlarging the pool, as he dug deeper and deeper.



Then after several minutes, he’d shouted, “Treasure!”



He’d looked over his shoulder toward and towards my folks, who smiled for him, as he shouted again and again, “I’ve found treasure!”



I recall he’d found a thrupence, a couple of pennie’s, a sixpence and I’d found a few coins as well.



For awhile, we had dug together, to try and find more ‘treasure’, before my Father had suggested that we take our money, and visit the ice-cream shop.



And, just a short while later, we’d sat on our tall stool, before a white counter and we’d counted our treasure onto small palms menu’s before us, then ordered our treats, Ian a banana split and me with sundae.



Then recently, I heard the rest of the story. What we’d not realised then, had been that our Father had paid for the ice-creams, by pitching coins overhead, and into the holes we’d been digging into: for us, his junior treasure-hunters.

COMMENTS

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Drakontion
03:43 Dec 29 2008

That is a fabulous story dear :)

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Contains some Adult themes.



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Coal black jeans and barefoot, he plods to the front door, to check on his mail.



He goes back to the front-room, drains the remains of his cup of coffee, and stands to stare at the phone, for several, long drawn-out seconds.



Running fingers through his bed-head, he wills it to ring.



Nothing.



He stares at the clock on the fires hearth mantle-piece.



“Still early,” he muses, picking up his tin of smokes, the black one, with the Yin Yang design on it.



He opens the tin and digs in his rear right-hand pocket, for the lighter he’d filled the previous night.



Thumbing the wheel, he sparks up a light and brings it to the tip of his rollie.



Drawing the warming sweet smoke deep into his lungs, the fellow sighs deeply, recalling the series of events that had led to his current state of self-loathing and regret.



It had begun when he’d got in from work and locked the door onto the world.



With a glass of whiskey in hand he’d gone through to the backroom and turned the PC on and a he’d waited a minute, as the boot-up procedure ran it’s course.



Then, he logged into Yahoo Messenger: and, noticed a message flash up on the task-bar, telling him he had ‘one off-line message.’



Click…



“Who is it?” He’d puzzled and smiled, as he read the message.



Kevin hadn’t heard from ‘Young’ John for some time.



“Have you been watching ‘Heroes?’”



Of course he had.



They had met at community based learning centre, across from a sports centre, with a school at the rear.



He’d been doing teacher support back then, ‘Young’ John had been Admin Support.



And, through a few common interests shared, a friendship had grown.



Once the centre closed, which it had, Kevin and John had remained friends, enjoying the odd evening together, with a smoke and the odd dink, or two, watching scifi on .avi download; or, occasionally a blue.



John would get ferried to Kevin’s by a protective father, who found it curious, that his son hung with an older man, like him.



‘Like what did they do together?’ He’d quizzed of himself and his son, many times.



But, the answers never satisfied him.



Yet, for quite awhile, John had called round; and, it became apparent that each were quite comfortable with the others company.



Needless to say, the bluey’s had mutually opened their eyes.



It had started when ‘Young’ John had noticed a few of the titles on Kevin’s DVD collection, one blue-grey-hazed, glassy-eyed evening.



“What’s this?” He’d asked, with a knowing smile, as he picked the box out of a pile and checked out its title, ‘She-Male tales’.



Kevin, sitting cross-legged on the floor, hadn’t blushed, as he might of any other time, he was just way too stoned for that.



“Will you put this on?” John had asked, with an eyebrow raised.



John had known his friend was bi. It didn’t bother him. As far as they were both concerned, he was a slut; and, he was surprised he’d only had the two scares, since he generally rode bare-back.



And, ‘yeah sure,’ he knew about Kevin. ‘But, there’s a few secrets I’m not sure I want him to know about, yet,’ he’d considered just that night on the way there.



He’d handed the DVD to Kevin with a smile, and waited with expectation, to see what might happen next.



Heroes had been forgotten.



Then, just about he was about to push the disc home, Kevin turned his head.

“Are you sure?” Kevin had asked.



In response, John had just grinned and said, “Why not?”



So the DVD had gone on and Kevin had sat, with his back to the bed, that John lay upon, watching as a couple of scenes played out on-screen.



“Not bad,” John had opined, as he rolled a three-skinner.



“I have better,” Kevin had assured him, getting onto all-fours, to root amongst his discs.



Finally he’d sat up, having found what he’d been looking for.



Kevin had passed the empty box to his friend to look at, as he inserted the disc into his machine.



‘Joanna Jets Jet Set’, he read.



The film was British and had production values that ‘She-Male tales’ hadn’t had; and the gender mixed porn soon had John entranced, while Kevin had sat with an occasional eye turned to his young friend.



Wide-eyed, John watched the blonde, with ‘bits’, entertain her friends and finally toward the end of the movie, it was apparent from the bulge in his jeans, that he was interested in the films subject matter.



“Glad you like it,” he said to his young friend, his own erection growing in his trousers, as he considered telling John, exactly how much he liked the subject himself.



And then, the phone rang. John’s father was outside and ready to pick him up.



That was all, two days ago.



Now it was Saturday and Kevin’s friend was due round tonight, or so he had hoped.

The message he had read confirmed his expectation and now, as he padded through the house to his bedroom, he wondered what to wear to please his young friend:



“A short tartan-skirt, with hold-up’s, or a little black dress?” he considered, with a light smile.

I'm an ex-policeman of 11 days, who served time, for selling weed and had five attempts on his life: It transpires that when you get inside, they don’t like coppers, even those who were only in there for eleven days, like me. That said, the best bit of my time with Greater Manchester Police was seeing Spiderman, for real, as I looked out of the window in my first week of training. But then there’d been my reason’s for leaving, all of which had been cited for Bruche, the training centre I went to in Warrington being closed down about fifteen years later.

Just one of those reasons I had for leaving, during training, as many of our class did, was the attitude of some of our tutors, for example, Sgt: Broughton: -

"Don't expect any help from the public. It's you against them and they’re not going to win." He’d said, in a gruff voice. So I left the police, after eleven days.

But, back to Spiderman: We were in the classroom environment & he was on the flat-top building across from ours, Central A Division Manchester. It was only months later that I found out why Spiderman was having his picture taken, in all the traditional Spiderman poses, when the comic was released. It turns out Manchester was being the backdrop for the publicity work, as it's one of the few cities in England with New York style buildings.