Date: Tue, 16 Jul 2002 20:56:20 -0700 (PDT)
From: mattyjohnson <MattyJohnson@ziplip.com>
Subject: Tournament Loser's Prize   part 1

	The following story is a work of fiction. This is a story involving
inter generational male/male graphic sex and it's not intended for reading
by minors. If you are underage, or this type of material is illegal where
you live, please stop now, and go read something else! If you choose to
ignore this warning because you wish to be titillated, you are, and then
become angry. Don't take it out on me! Any correlation to actual people,
events, or places is purely circumstantial. The author is not responsible
for anything that happens to you. Whether you door is kicked in by men with
guns, or your mom who proceeds to tan your bottom with her favorite twelve
inch dildo. This is a completely fantasized story meant only for the
purpose of very pleasurable reading. If you like my story, would like to
read the other chapters, or some of my other works, please send your
comments to: MattyJohnson@ziplip.com

If you don't like my story, and would like to comment about it. I would
suggest you lock your self in a full port-a-potty and roll it down a
hill. However; if you choose to send your bitching session to me, I shall
gladly sit down with a glass of wine and laugh my ass off reading it.

Author's note: I would like to thank my long term, good friend John, for
proof reading and and minorly editing my story.

Tournament Loser's Prize
by Matt Johnson

	I remember it like it was yesterday. I was sitting on the fly
bridge of my dad's brand new 48 foot Buddy Davis. The wind was wiping
through my shoulder length ash blond hair. Bouncing up and down as we were
making our way to Islamorada for the annul Dolphin Rodeo. It was pretty
much the maiden voyage for my dad and his new sports yacht. He looked so
proud sitting behind the wheel, autopilot set, with a cold beer in his
hand. He had reason to be proud. We had suffered a long time for this dream
of his to be realized.

	I grew up in a middle class neighborhood. I would defiantly say
that we lived like just about the poorest people there. Sure we had always
had a boat. The same Donzi we had for my whole life, and dad had a Corvette
parked in the driveway, but that was just for show. Our other car was an
eight year old van which we used most of the time. Dad only had the
Corvette for work. "Fake it till you make it!" was his motto. He ran a
business and he ran it very well! We all knew he was making a fortune, but
you never would have known from our life style.

	We got our clothes from Goodwill. Bought all of our food in bulk
from the wholesale stores. If we didn't need it, we didn't buy it. Except
for alcohol. Yes sir, every night there were two new twelve packs of beer
and a gallon of cheap wine in the fridge. Every night mom and dad got
plastered and fought until early in the morning. Finally, they got a
divorce when I was about 10. Dad got the best attorney in town and mom got
just about the worst. Mom finally gave up fighting and settled for the
house and child support till I turned 16.  Dad got everything else.

	We hadn't lived the way we did for nothing.  Dad had a plan. All
that excess money he was making was going into investments. Then a year
ago, it exploded just as he planned. He bought him self a Porch, two
duplexes which he immediately rented out, a four bedroom house on the
water, and of course, his new boat.

	It had been delivered not three weeks ago. We had taken it over to
the Bahamas for five days and down to the Dry Tortugas last week. The first
fish we caught was an eight-teen pound Red Snapper which he called his
million dollar fish. Probably because that is about what he had spent on
the boat.  Now we were heading for our first big tournament.

	I wasn't really excited about going. To be honest dad had ripped
the fishing jeans out of my DNA a long time ago. I was basically the boat
bitch. I was responsible for rigging all the rods and bait. Setting all the
lines for trolling, flying the kites, cleaning the fish, and washing down
the boat after all our trips. He would say, "Ok, let's clean the boat!"
After about five minutes I was cleaning and he was supervising while
nursing a beer.

	Never the less, we were on our way. His girlfriend, Sherry, was
down below fixing sandwiches for my dad, Jason, and me. Wile Jimmy and Dan
were driving down so they could have a car parked at the Holiday Inn where
they had booked a room and we had booked a slip. These guys had known my
dad since they were kids. By 7th grade they had bought a little Boson
Whaler and went fishing every day.

	If luck was removed from the equation, and skill was all that
mattered, we would have swept the tournament, but that just isn't the way
it is.

	The tournament was scheduled for Saturday and Sunday. The Captains'
meeting was Friday. It was Wednesday and we had gotten up at about 3:30am
to get bait and take the boat down. We first ran out to the Whistle
Buoy. We arrived just before sun up, just in time for me to get the bait
rods ready. Not a big job, we bought pre-rigged dazy chains and all I
needed to do was tie them to the rods. We loaded up on Pilchers and Goggle
Eyes, filling all three bait-wells. Sherry and Jason caught all the bait
while dad maneuvered the boat from up stairs with all his fancy
fish-finding, depth sounders. This was probably the most critical and
technical part of the whole tournament. The key is to not let the fish
touch anything but the hook. This was my job! When a line was pulled up
with two to four fish on it, I had to get them unhooked and dropped into
the bait well with out touching them wile dodging a wiggling line with six
hooks on it. If you grabbed the fish to dehook it, or it fell off the hook
onto the deck, some of the slime they are coated in would be removed and
then would be prone to getting sick and dying. This is why we had to leave
on Wednesday. So the bait could cure in the wells and the sickly ones could
be thrown out before their official sacrifice.

	We got to Key Largo in the mid afternoon. It was tradition for dad
to stop at the Daiquiri bar and get hammered on the way down to the
Keys. We came up the river and had to wait about twenty minutes for the
bridge. During the week, it is on a 30-minute schedule. In the old boat we
would just go right under it, but dad's new boat was way too big. So we
sat, idling, until the clock ran down and the bridge opened. We then
anchored in the cay and took the tender into the bar. I had about 3 virgin
Pina Coladas wile my dad, Shelly, and Jason went with the hard
Daiquiris. As I sat on the dock, watching all the activity in the harbor, I
saw a blue and red trawler pull anchor and pass me as they went out the
bridge. It was a big boat. Four stories I assumed with the decks below and
I guessed about 60 feet long.

	It had defiantly been around a wile. As it got up to speed, the bow
wake displayed the barnacles growing below the water line. It rumbled with
the sound of an engine that needed to be rebuilt. Salt was caked on the
sides of the hull and the teak wood trim was faded and jagged like it
hadn't been refinished in years. As it passed by I couldn't even read the
name on the stern. It was covered in thick black smut from the old diesel
engines that powered it. I member thinking to my self "what a beautiful
boat, so mistreated. The owner should be tied to an anchor and thrown over
board." Little did I know that this boat housed the most the most precious
gem I could ever see.  And would soon be host to the greatest experience of
my life.

	Finally, after my fourth virgin pina colada, and all the sugar, had
sent my stomach to doing hula-hoops around my ass, dad announced that it
was time to get on our way. They fumbled around the dock and I watched,
amused, as they tried to make the four-foot step down to our nineteen-foot
flats boat we were using for a tender. The first try was made by Jason. 28,
drunk, and reckless, he leaped off the dock on to the bow. Causing the boat
to rock to the port side, sending him flying into the water, and stirring
up considerable laughter from the rest of us. Next was Sherry, who sat down
on the dock, grabbed firm hold of a cleat, and then slid down onto the
deck. Jason, by this time, had swum around to the back of the boat and was
trying to climb up the outboard engine. Dad was now making his attempt to
get on board. He squatted down on the dock and made the big step. This sent
the little boat rocking and rolling. He did his best bull ridding
impression until he finally slipped and fell on his ass! This sent the
front of the boat down and bucked the stern, sending Jason once again into
the lagoon. Sherry exploded into song... "It's raining men! Hallelujah!
It's raining men!" Everyone busted out in laughter. Finally, I simply
hopped down on deck in between the bow and the center console. After Jason
got back on board I started the engine and drove the four of us back to our
boat.

	After securing the lines and prepping the tender for tow, dad fired
up the engines. He let them warm up for about 5 minutes wile he got him
self another beer ready and Jason dried off and clipped the anchor puller
to the anchor line. Dad started his slow half circle around the massive
Bruce anchor wile slowly using the electric wench to wind up the line a
chain. We watched the orange buoy drag around the stern then disappear
under the water. As soon as it popped up again we knew the anchor was
free. Dad winched in the rest of the chain and Jason guided the anchor into
place, keeping it from crashing into the bow as it emerged from the
water. Then he locked it in place and stowed the anchor puller. We hit the
bridge just in time to not have to wait. Then as we headed out the river
dad announced that we were going to have to make good time if we were going
to make our dinner reservations.

	As soon as we exited the "No Wake, Manatee Zone" dad yelled "Ahead
full!" as he slammed the throttles down. We headed south east straight out
to Hawks Channel. Then we changed our course to south, southwest and kicked
the autopilot back on. The boat barely bounced in the water as the shallow
reefs had knocked the waves down to a tiny two-foot chop. "Look at that!"
dad yelled over the roar of the engines and pointed to the G.P.S., "22
knots! What did I tell you boy, you always get the biggest damn engines the
boat can hold. Then change out the piece of shit factory props as soon as
you can." I just smiled and nodded at him to confirm his ego trip, then
went back to staring at the approaching Florida Keys sunset that was slowly
making it's way from the starboard side of the boat towards the bow.

	We pulled into Sun Downer's right on time at 9:30 sharp. After a
very nice four star dinner, we piled back onto the boat and headed back
north about an hour to our final destination. We idled down the channel and
contacted the dock master on the radio. He told us we were assigned to slip
43 on the right side. We backed down into our temporary new home. We
secured the bow and stern lines, set the spring lines, hooked up the shore
power, and were ready to finally crash for the night.

	Jason grabbed all of his stuff and headed over to the hotel. I was
so glad that he wasn't going to be sleeping aboard. Not that I didn't like
him, but the boat only had two staterooms. If he had stayed aboard, I would
have had to sleep in one of the fold down bunks in the down stairs hall or
on the pull out bed in the salon.

	After we all got settled in and had showered, dad and Shelly
cranked up a Jimmy Buffet CD, busted out the blender, and proceeded to make
them selves Margaritas. How they could consume so much and so many
different kinds of liqueur without getting sick is still, to this day, is
beyond me. I was dead freak'n tired having been up since 3:30 in the
morning and with no alcohol fueling a party for me, I went down stairs,
locked my self in my room, and got ready to go to sleep. If there is one
thing that I love it is sleeping on the boat. The gentle rocking motion,
the sound of the wind swept water ripples hitting the hull, and a soft bed
in an air conditioned state room complete with down pillows and a down
comforter. It was divine.

	The next morning I was awakened at about 10am to the smell of
coffee and food. I put on a clean pair of baggy shorts and headed up stairs
to the salon. Dad was in the kitchen making Eggs Florentine, Shelly was
reading the paper the dock master had thrown on the deck. As I looked
around through my half opened puffy eyes Shelly looked up at me and said
"Sleep good stud?" I thought to my self what did she mean by that?

	"Like a rock!" I replied still confused by the tone of her
question, as she preceded to giggle away. Then you dad turned and looked at
me.
	"That's my boy! Girl pleaser extraordinair!" Then I realized I was
having an attack of morning wood.
	"Ahhhh!" I screamed totally embarrassed. "I... I gotta go to the
bathroom!"
	"I bet you do." My dad exclaimed as I ran down stairs for my
morning lizard draining.

	I stood in the bathroom trying to will my boner to go down so that
I could empty my bladder of the daiquiris and sodas I had consumed the
night before. Finally relief. I tucked my self deep into my tight undies so
not to embarrass my self again. As I re-emerged up the stairs Shelly was
serving breakfast. We sat there eating away, talking about our strategy for
the tournament. After breakfast and clearing the table, dad pulled out his
charts and started charting our courses through the shallow reefs should we
decide to go this way or that. We wouldn't know where we were going until
we got our "Fish Fax" the morning of the tournament.

	Finally, dad and Shelly announced they were going to go be tourists
and asked if I wanted to come along. I told them no, I was too tired. Dad
said, "Suit your self" As the two of then pilled their stuff on the flats
boat.

	After they took off, I stood on the bow looking around the
harbor. Only about half the slips were filled but I knew that would
drastically change over the next 18 hours, as the tournament got nearer. As
I looked to my right, there it was. That ugly old trawler I had seen the
day before. It was the essence of mistreatment. Not two slips away from our
gorgeous floating fish catching decadence.

	I studied the boat for a moment and then the door flew open. Out
busted a sight that made my jaw hit the deck. The most beautiful 12 year
old I had ever seen. Tanned from head to tow to a perfect golden brown. His
eyes shined a stunning emerald green, slanted as if he was half oriental.
His hair was a sun bleached golden brown. Parted rite down the middle and
tucked behind his ears as it flowed to his shoulders. His legs were long.
His body was slender and well built. He turned around and bent into the
doorway giving me a great view of his behind, round like peaches. When he
stood up, he ran to the back of the boat. He leaped off onto the dock
carrying a pail and a little shovel. By this point I had to readjust my
self as my cock had kicked into overdrive as it throbbed in my shorts. He
ran towards the playground of the hotel and out of my view. I just stood on
the bow of the boat in total awe as to what I had just seen.