Erith Enchantment
"Boat builder Chiamaka constructs Thames barges at the Erith yard. When marine artist Marcus comes to paint her work, she shows him that hulls aren't the only curves worth appreciating."
The Erith boatyard was Marcus's favorite subject—Thames traditions surviving against the modern world. Chiamaka was its heart.
She was Nigerian-British, built powerful from years of shipwright work, thick curves visible even in her work overalls. She swung mallets like they were feathers and spoke to wood like it could answer back.
"You paint boats," she observed, watching him sketch. "But do you understand them?"
"I understand beauty."
"Beauty isn't understanding. It's appreciation." She set down her tools. "Stay after the yard closes. I'll show you what understanding looks like."
At dusk, the yard was silent except for the Thames lapping at the slipway. Chiamaka led him into the half-finished hull of a barge—a cathedral of wooden ribs and the smell of tar.
"This is where the magic happens," she said. "Not the finish work. The bones. The foundation."
"It's incredible."
"It's intimate. Building something that will hold people, carry them, keep them safe." She moved closer. "I want to show you another kind of building."
Her kiss was strong—she tasted of sawdust and river—and her thick body against his was solid, certain.
"I don't do this," she said. "But something about you. The way you see. The way you care about craft."
"Chiamaka—"
"Don't talk. Just feel."
She pulled him down onto a pile of canvas sailcloth, and he felt.
Her body was incredible—muscles under curves, power and softness combined. She took what she wanted with the same confidence she brought to her building.
"Yes... there... that's it..."
The hull echoed with their sounds, the wooden ribs witnessing something primal. She came with a cry that bounced off the planking.
"More. Show me your stamina."
He took her against the curved ribs of the boat, her thick legs wrapped around him, the wood smooth against her back.
"Yes! Like that! Build something with me!"
She came again, and he followed, both of them collapsing onto the sailcloth.
"Now you understand boats," she gasped. "Now you can really paint them."
"Come back tomorrow," she said, walking him to the gate. "I have more to show you."
"More boats?"
"More everything." She kissed him softly. "You wanted to understand. Understanding takes time. Repetition. Practice."
"How much practice?"
"As much as it takes to get it right." Her smile was a master craftsman's pride. "And I never settle for less than perfect."
His Erith enchantment had taught him more than technique. And Marcus had found a craft worth dedicating himself to.