Summer Stories: A Collection of Short Stories

By Douglas Dilley

A glimpse back in time with stories of a young man's summer memories. Set in the not-so-long-ago past, these stories tell of more simple times, genuine relationships, new experiences, and a young man on the verge of decisions that will set his life in motion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Douglas Dilley
• Release date: Sep 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781088043721

Douglas Dilley

Doug spent his career of over thirty years with Carrier Corporation and Lockheed Martin. He graduated from Washington State University studying Business, and received a Bachelor of Arts Degree in English Literature. He lives with his wife Irene in the Pacific Northwest, spending their time between their Washington Coast and Puget Sound homes.

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Summer Stories

Summer Stories

Summer Stories

A Collection of Short Stories

Douglas Dilley

Jackson and Associates

Contents

1 Ibiza Summer

2 Oops

3 The Accident

4 Special Boy and the Squid Fisherman

5 Pear Orchard Harvest

6 Walking Man

7 Liverpool Pullup

8 The Irrigation Dance

9 Summer River Return

10 West Fork Flop

Copyright © 2022 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First Printing, 2022

1

Ibiza Summer

The warmth of the early morning sunlight was felt through the thin green sleeping bag he had purchased on a day trip to Manchester seven weeks earlier.  Jim sat up slowly and leaned his back against the trunk of an almond tree he located the night before in the moonlight.  Yesterday was Sunday when he arrived from Palma, Majorca on the weekly transport ship to the Island of Ibiza.  After spending the afternoon walking the ancient stone streets and alleys of the port town, he met a British traveler while having lunch at a small street-side café who told him about a village called San Carlos located about eight kilometers away on the main road heading north around the port bay. 

He decided to hitch hike out to the village since evening would arrive in a few hours, and possibly he could find a good beach for swimming the next morning.  The thought of locating a good swimming beach gave him a comfortable feeling knowing he now had a worthy destination.  Last night in San Carlos the people he drank beer with told him that Aqua Blanco, the White Beach, was just about five kilometers down the road to the north.  He knew he would need to head out soon before darkness covered the island, so he finished his beer, threw his backpack over his shoulders, and departed San Carlos trying to cover at least a couple of kilometers before dark and find a tree to sleep under.  Before he drifted off to sleep that evening, he could feel his body mold itself into the dirt and weeded cushion of the ground.  Thoughts drifted through his mind of the last four years; the university, graduating, job offers, his old girlfriend, escaping a future that almost imprisoned him.  Part of him felt guilty for passing on a secure future, but it seemed so ordinary, so planned and so exact; graduate, marry, career and then a family.  So defined, the way it was for many.  A canned, stamped-out, molded future.  He fell asleep with a pleasant thought that he had somehow escaped a prison that might have killed his spirit.  This new traveling life of simple day-to-day, place-to-place being only concerned with simple nutrition and shelter pleased him.  Meeting people along the way who were doing the same was a bonus.  He had started his journey on the sixth of June when he arrived at Heathrow Airport.  Six weeks or more had passed and now he found himself here on the Island of Ibiza in an almond orchard eating a breakfast of bread, cheese and water.

The western horizon was gradually turning brighter with the approaching sunrise over the hills of scrub forest, small knotted oak trees, almond orchards, and sunbaked greenery.  He washed down his breakfast from the bottle of water he carried along with all his other possessions that were crammed into his North Face backpack.  He put on his Levi's jeans that he used as a pillow under his sleeping bag, tied on his Converse tennis shoes, put on a cleaner t-shirt, shouldered the backpack and walked through the orchard to the dirt road that would take him hopefully to Aqua Blanco beach for a day of sun, swimming and whatever.  First, he had to get there and all he knew was that it was down this dirt road.  He walked through more orchards divided by stacked-rock fences and hidden small farmhouses where roosters crowed.  He passed an open air cafe where a few locals were drinking their first morning coffees.  He stopped for a moment and looked out over the island valley watching the new day awaken and then continued on his way.  He made a mental note that this would be a good place for an evening meal.  After leaving the cafe behind him and reaching a rise in the road he could finally see the blue waters of the Mediterranean and as he walked further down the road tropical, arid vegetation and the sandy beach of Aqua Blanco started to appear with cresting and rolling waves curling upon its shores.  He felt as if he found the place of sun, sand, and waves to spend the rest of the day.  The road ended right at an outdoor drinking establishment with a patio overlooking the deep blue water of the Mediterranean.  It was so early the tables were all vacant so he made his way down a well-used pathway through the rocky shoreline to an area close to the water and removed his backpack from his shoulders and sat down on the most comfortable surface he could find. 

The rocks were still warm from the day before.  His mind was clear and calm with no lingering thoughts or memories.  He just took in the view and sounds of the scenic bay.  To the west end of the beach rose a rocky outcrop covered in tropical plants.  The sand on the beach was a soft tan color.  The waves rolled in, curling and crashing onto the shore.  He cut another piece of bread from the loaf he purchased in the port the day before and spread some peanut butter on it with his Swiss Army Knife and watched the waves roll onto the shore.  He looked out over the watery horizon and noticed a small wooden motorized boat making its way across the water heading in his direction.  There were two people in the boat, a man and a woman.  He wondered where the boat had come from.  There were no marinas to be seen, just rocky shorelines that nestled up against the rising terrain, except the beach of Aqua Blanco.  The boat rode over the soft, smooth swells of the water and soon rode