An Island Away, Excerpt 2

The second excerpt from my novel, An Island Away, posted here for those who would like a peek. A synopsis and more info is available at my website. The book is available at Amazon.com.

Chapter 5: Captain Nathan Beck has been adrift for more than five days. At last he has come ashore in Aruba…

Finally, he was head and shoulders out of the ocean. Only a few inches of water skirted the sand. The place he wanted to go was amidst a grove of low trees. He took another rest. It felt wonderful to be on solid ground. Looking at his bare feet, he wondered what the other parts of his body looked like. He had to be a fright for whoever was going to see him first.

He sat up and stared in the direction of the music. Between the trees he saw shapes dancing. A man leaned over a bar. Beer bottles clanked as two guys toasted one another. Just a few more feet and he would be there among them. He would be safe, alive to tell the tale.

Forgetting his previous failure at walking, he tried to get up again. He heard voices, a man and a woman, very close. He looked up and there they were, a couple dancing on the beach. They stopped and the man turned the young lady to face him. He kissed her. They were so close Beck could hear their lips smack. Why couldn’t they see him?

He wanted to find out. He struggled against the all-powerful force of exhaustion that pressed down on his shoulders. His vision blurred as he wobbled upright. A screeching roar filled his ears. The distorted view before him tilted one way, then the other. He went light-headed, dizzy to the point of retching. He put his arms out to break the coming fall.

He collapsed on the beach with his feet in the water. He caught a glimpse of the moon before it went black and took all the stars with it.

“I didn’t drown,” he whispered into the darkness.

Published in: on June 30, 2008 at 11:19 am  Comments (1)  
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An Island Away, Excerpt 1

Chapter 1: Charlie and his cat, Screwball, are on his balcony, looking over the town of San Nicolaas, Aruba, the principal setting for my novel, An Island Away.

Charlie lived in a place where the illegal was legal, where the immoral was moral, and where some people’s fantasies were other people’s realities. So, he lived every day in anticipation of the fantastic. And why not? It was the night before his birthday, the start of another year in a place where anything could happen.

…a little further on….

A car rolled beneath his balcony, flashed its signal, and turned right. Charlie watched his lifelong friend Sam park at the end of the block. He couldn’t help but smile at the man’s reliability and persistence. No one but Sam took the time to make his birthday a grand affair. Unfortunately, and despite Charlie’s constant warnings, Sam fell prey to indomitable emotions with regard to the girls working in San Nicolaas and frequently found himself miserably heartbroken, a condition Charlie studiously avoided.

“Thanks to Sam, we’re in for a nice time,” Charlie said to Screwball. “Unless something else comes up. You never know. Eh? Let’s hope we have a party and something else.”

The cat shifted on the parapet, licked his forepaw, and once again put his head upon it.

Something else? Charlie asked himself. What could it be? Well, this town was named San Nicolaas and not for the Jolly Old Saint Nicolas the Americans called Santa Claus. Nonetheless, the town gave its gifts (such as they were) to one and all, Charlie included. Christmas was every night of the week, every day of the year, with the exception of the actual Christmas Day, New Year’s, Carnival Saturday, and Easter Sunday. And on those days, too, an enterprising man need only walk the lane known as Rembrandtstraat, peek into the caged halls leading to the rooms upstaris, and call out. Someone would unlock the door, lead the man  inside, and provide the service of the oldest profession. The experience could be another meaningless act, or it might change somebody’s life. As he knew, the outcome depended on the man, the woman, and the people in between.

Charlie stubbed out his cigarette and looked over the street one more time. “Welcome to San Nicolaas,” he said, “We’re open for business.”

Published in: on June 28, 2008 at 2:08 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The Greatest Travel Writer

In my humble opinion, the greatest travel writer I’ve read is Mr. H.V. Morton. Morton’s original claim to fame was as the journalist who broke the story of King Tut’s tomb back when Howard Carter was poking around the Egyptian desert. He went on to write an entire shelf of books about various countries, cities, and regions, all in the context of a travelogue.

Before discussing Morton’s work further, I’d like to say that most other travel books I’ve read are either the romp-through-a-place-kind, or the guidebooks that have about twenty words for each stop. Both of these serve a purpose. The first type are vicarious fun. The second give practical information and pointers in the right direction when assembling an itinerary. Almost without exception I’ve found these books quite thin on the type of information I’m looking for.

Thus, H.V. Morton. Morton synthesizes history, culture, geography, all sorts of things into an integrated travel experience. In the course of his books, he relates these facts through a series of encounters with whatever subject matter is at hand. It might be a hidden gem of a church in a back street in Rome or a pawnshop in Venice. Each gives an opportunity to inform the reader of an incredible array of details, each more fascinating than the one before it. It is this type of presentation that offers the reader a sense of “knowing” a place. Morton sleeps in monasteries and run-down hotels. He eats meals that give him stomach troubles. He rides on mules when he has to. And he doesn’t hesitate to let the reader know that all does not go well when traveling, a reality that too many other writers ignore.

I read A Stranger In Spain between my second and third trips to that country. Upon my third and several trips thereafter, I found myself recalling much of what Morton had written. Astonishingly, many of the places he visited are still there, some in the same condition as he found them. The same could be said for In Search of London. I read this before a trip to that city and while in the Temple area remembered Morton’s stories about the Knight’s Templar and the lawyers that operated there in his time.

Anthony Bourdain said, “Be a traveler, not a tourist.” This certainly holds true for Morton. Who is your favorite travel writer? Do you have a favorite book about a place you’ve visited or would like to?

Published in: on June 28, 2008 at 12:23 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Numbered Days

For the ships in the back basin at what remains of the Philadelphia Navy Yard, the days are numbered. These vessels are on the inactive list and subject to sale, scrapping, or another fate, that of an artificial reef. Before I became a novelist full time, I used to sink ships to build artificial reefs. Yes, it’s a long story from there to here. Anyway, I sank several small tankers like the one pictured below.

This little tanker is what the navy used to call a “yard oiler.” It carried fuel of various types to top off ships or other floating equipment. They were mostly built in 1944 and saw limited service until the end of World War II. In the end, they landed in places like this, moving no further than up and down with the tide. I sank three of these off the coast of New Jersey. They became great dive and fishing sites. However, it was a sad sight, watching them sink. Anyone who has lived and worked aboard a sea-going vessel knows that you become attached to your boat. You learn its foibles, the noises it makes, the noises it doesn’t make, and just where you fit in among its bulkheads. Thus, when you know all hope is lost and it’s destined for the bottom, you can’t help but feel a sadness others might not appreciate. Imagine your house, your job, your car, and all the times you’ve spent there, everything… disappearing in a matter of minutes, never to be seen again, except by the fish and the occasional scuba diver. There’s no rebuilding, as in the case of a hurricane or a tornado that knocked your house down. This was your boat, the specific one you knew. Gone.

Nonetheless, the fish need houses, too, and if the vessel is destined for nothing better than the scrappers, better it finds a home among the creatures of the sea.

And here is the demise of an old yard oiler, off the coast of Manasquan Inlet, New Jersey, USA. The first photo below shows the ship at anchor. I’ve just opened a series of valves and removed plates in the hull to let water in.

A local beer distributer helped pay for the cost of sinking this ship. Thus, the Budweiser sign. In the next photo the ship is well on its way to the bottom.

It rolled to the port side and took a nose dive toward Davy Jones’ locker. Finally, it’s all but under the surface, belching air as water finds its way into every space.

In the back of the last photo, you can see a fishing boat. Once the ship settled onto the bottom, he cruised over, logging the exact position on his GPS so that he can come back and reap the benefit. The States of New Jersey and Delaware promote reef construction as much as possible. It helps the environment and provides a renewable fishing resource for sport fisherman. These wrecks last about fifty to eighty years.

Still, it’s sad to put a good ship down. I’ll post one more separately, a former US Coast Guard buoy tender named the Red Oak.

Published in: on June 27, 2008 at 4:36 pm  Leave a Comment  
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