So on the tip of the tip of the Istrian Peninsula, Verudela, the strawberry shaped rock that juts out of the arse of Pula into the Adriatic, we decided to swim home. Just Scrote 1 and me. Scrote 2 and bird chose to walk. It's not far. Half a mile perhaps. Actually, maybe a mile. Not far.
For over half the way all we encountered were bigger waves. We stayed close enough to the shore and didn't get far enough out to get a decent look at the yellow hotel and all beyond, the private subject of my early morning runs while I listened to a Catch 22 audiobook. We basically doggy paddled around the bay. Just as our starting position, the little bay filled with inflatables, an Iceberg of a climbing wall etc, got small and then vanished around the corner and we had something of a home straight to deal with... from out or nowhere... Jugs.
Jugs. Eight of them... Sirens... on the rocks. Four 17 year old hotties with perpendicular knockers defying Newtons laws, and stuck with sublime craftsmanship onto slender, pert, tanned bodies. The gypsy girls you hear about. The one, the really stupidly fit one, Keira Knightly in ‘The Jacket’ transferred her filthy rustic beauty onto the other so even the frumpy one had fire in her eyes. But their keeper, Vlad, let’s call him Vlad, had a dog. A horror movie husky with deep penetrating blue eyes. It gazed at us hungrily and jumped in to swim for us. More wolf than dog, I looked from it to Vlad, and he just looked on with a knowing smile. Vlad, with his abs and his 30 years and his long dark hair and his goaty had won this game. This life thing. Battered it on extreme.
As we moved on the dog swam back to shore, and above us we could see the locals jumping from an old shrine maybe a hundred foot into the water. It had my attention and I started wondering about chances of survival if you fell out a plane at a thousand feet. Two thousand feet. What are the rules? Are there any?
We continued not much further, maybe a hundred yards, far enough that the fitties were no longer within perv range, you couldn’t tell it they were clothed or not... when... the blob. The fucking blob.
I was swimming toward a grey white thing a few feet long. I thought it was a plastic bag or something and continued to approach it, but it turned towards me and I saw the flesh and solidity... It was maybe three foot long and two foot wide and fat, and coming at me. It touched me. I completely fucking shit myself. I turned around, Scrote 1 was a couple of yards behind and I said ‘shit, shit, fucking shit, there’s a... thing’. He didn’t look scared. He looked a bit shocked that his dad was going mentals but not scared. He said ‘dad, you’re freaking out, there’s nothing there, it’s just the bubbles you’re making because you’re freaking out.’... but then he saw it too. The Blob.
Instinctively we belted it for the coast at a zillion miles an hour and when we reached the stinging volcanic rocks that were our apparent saviour we bounced out of the water, cutting our knees and shins on the scabby coastline for fear of The Blob.
The next day we heard that dolphin and rays are common in that water. So are plastic bags. Whatever.
For over half the way all we encountered were bigger waves. We stayed close enough to the shore and didn't get far enough out to get a decent look at the yellow hotel and all beyond, the private subject of my early morning runs while I listened to a Catch 22 audiobook. We basically doggy paddled around the bay. Just as our starting position, the little bay filled with inflatables, an Iceberg of a climbing wall etc, got small and then vanished around the corner and we had something of a home straight to deal with... from out or nowhere... Jugs.
Jugs. Eight of them... Sirens... on the rocks. Four 17 year old hotties with perpendicular knockers defying Newtons laws, and stuck with sublime craftsmanship onto slender, pert, tanned bodies. The gypsy girls you hear about. The one, the really stupidly fit one, Keira Knightly in ‘The Jacket’ transferred her filthy rustic beauty onto the other so even the frumpy one had fire in her eyes. But their keeper, Vlad, let’s call him Vlad, had a dog. A horror movie husky with deep penetrating blue eyes. It gazed at us hungrily and jumped in to swim for us. More wolf than dog, I looked from it to Vlad, and he just looked on with a knowing smile. Vlad, with his abs and his 30 years and his long dark hair and his goaty had won this game. This life thing. Battered it on extreme.
As we moved on the dog swam back to shore, and above us we could see the locals jumping from an old shrine maybe a hundred foot into the water. It had my attention and I started wondering about chances of survival if you fell out a plane at a thousand feet. Two thousand feet. What are the rules? Are there any?
We continued not much further, maybe a hundred yards, far enough that the fitties were no longer within perv range, you couldn’t tell it they were clothed or not... when... the blob. The fucking blob.
I was swimming toward a grey white thing a few feet long. I thought it was a plastic bag or something and continued to approach it, but it turned towards me and I saw the flesh and solidity... It was maybe three foot long and two foot wide and fat, and coming at me. It touched me. I completely fucking shit myself. I turned around, Scrote 1 was a couple of yards behind and I said ‘shit, shit, fucking shit, there’s a... thing’. He didn’t look scared. He looked a bit shocked that his dad was going mentals but not scared. He said ‘dad, you’re freaking out, there’s nothing there, it’s just the bubbles you’re making because you’re freaking out.’... but then he saw it too. The Blob.
Instinctively we belted it for the coast at a zillion miles an hour and when we reached the stinging volcanic rocks that were our apparent saviour we bounced out of the water, cutting our knees and shins on the scabby coastline for fear of The Blob.
The next day we heard that dolphin and rays are common in that water. So are plastic bags. Whatever.
