Desmond Dekker, his wife Margaret and niece Charlotte liked to get their tops off and crispen their skins down Lowestoft way. Big ships and little ships vied for attention on the horizon but Desmond liked to watch Margaret’s flattened torpedo breasts pointing towards his niece’s surfboard back. Her young skin was firm yet supple and Desmond thought if he was a killer whale he might mistake his niece for a seal and eat her.
A seagull hovered above and Desmond Dekker imagined himself a miniature Israelite carried away to the Holy Land on the back of silken wings.
‘What you looking at?’ Margaret asked Desmond.
‘Your breasts, my darling,’ replied Desmond.
‘Good reply but what are you thinking about?’
‘Das Boot,’ replied Desmond, and the sun tipped a little on its axis and the sky went all of a sudden very dark.