Tuesday, June 16, 2015

Crystal Bridges Museum, Where Literature Met Art

Most people have no idea of the gem that sprung up in a little Northwest corner of Arkansas. (I know, you are not one of them--but I was, even though I have lived around here now for quite some time.)

Ms. Alice Walton (yes, of the Bentonville Waltons whose empire is known as WalMart), envisioned, created, and at last birthed an art complex so fabulous it easily holds its own among the world's most renowned treasure houses. And what's best about it is that is is exclusively American Art (hence the name).

To pull me out of the house after having slaved over Book 4 of the Legends of the Winged Scarab, The Crystal Curse, friends suggested I join them on the three-hour drive to visit the CRYSTAL BRIDGES Museum of American Art.
(Another "Crystal" -- get it? How providential was that? If I believed in my own fables, I surely would think it was a sign...)

Reproduced under the "Fair Use" law from Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art website  http://crystalbridges.org/about/
During my long life, I have traipsed through most of Europe's grand museums, and even worked at the renowned Boston Museum of Fine Arts (did you get that in "Sirocco"?); so one might assume I am a little jaded.

Well, let me tell you: Crystal Bridges can not only hold it's own but, in my and every one else's book, it is right up there with the most prestigious collections. However, what impressed me personally the most was the modern architecture blending into a seemingly natural setting. Soaring ceilings, concave and convex beams defying gravity as glass and steel melded into each other, the vista tumbling down into the pool.

Walking trails encircle the acreage leading you through a soothingly natural and seemingly monochromatic landscape. But don't be deceived. The work to produce this serenity must have been monumental. Stone slabs of almost ancient Egyptian proportions line the easy walkways, suddenly thrusting you upon babbling brooks. A closer look through the foliage reveals the bronze sculpture of a fat and quite contented pig; then a bear exposes his enormous backside as he munches on a salmon.

Despite its grandeur and splendor, Ms. Walton not only gave the Crystal Bridges collection, its buildings and grounds, together with its enormous upkeep, to art-lovers, but she declared it "Admission-Free." Permanently! We saw seven-year old kids on a field trip with their teacher, young people with babies, families who might think twice about visiting "a museum" where the admission fee exceeded their weekly food budget.

Art and Literature cannot sprout from the dust of hunger or neglect. Young souls must be exposed to them, they must be taught. CRYSTAL BRIDGES is Ms. Alice Walton's and the participating donors' gift to imbuing future generations with the seeds of their own culture.

Now, do yourself a favor and visit the beautiful website of Crystal Bridges. You may want to schedule a trip to Bentonville.

KHAMSIN - Deeply Discounted

To show my appreciation to my readers -
especially those of you who read

I have


KHAMSIN, The Devil Wind of The Nile,
Book 1
Legends of the Winged Scarab

down to $0.99 from $4.99
(you save $4.00)

But it's only good through the end of June

The Book also got a new Cover.

     This is a sprawling saga about Ancient Egypt. Hence, woven into the multi-layered action are the ancient times, the land, its people, the Nile and that devastating devil wind, the khamsin.
     Besides enjoying the drama of warfare, court intrigue, forbidden love and, lastly, hope for eventual redemption of an ancient ba, a sinner's soul, readers might even learn a few things they didn't know.
     And it all happened 5000 years ago.

Links to Buy:

Barnes and Noble
iTunes (Apple)

And if you want to add your review also on Goodreads:

Friday, June 12, 2015

The Birth of a (print) Book

    As far as book-births go, preparing THE CRYSTAL CURSE for its print version was a breech birth! Or -- in Edvard Munch's rendition -- it was a SCREAM.
    You’d think after the lot I had done before, it should have been a piece of cake…well, sometimes the best bakers forget the yeast…maybe it was “the curse.”
   However, at last, The Crystal Curse is now UP and running (I am just waiting for the “Look Inside” to appear on both Kindle and Print versions); and KHAMSIN (in its drastically reduced state) is already selling well. With the upcoming promotions through BookGorilla and ENT, I am hoping for “hot cakes.” (What is it with these bakery metaphors today?)
    If formatting for Kindle, the Nook and iTunes are different animals with bookmarks and hyperlinks, this print version turned out to be as cursed as The Crystal Snake.
    Sized at 6x9, different font, different line spacing, mirror-margins, correct pagination – the computer’s page 1 doesn’t start at the book’s Page 1, alternating headers, main Parts must start at the odd page—you get the idea. I had wrestled and tweaked for the last two days.
    Finally, I was happy with it and uploaded the print manuscript to CreateSpace, Amazon’s Print-on-Demand arm. One last check on their screen: Oops, a tiny mistake. Three asterisks to denote a scene change were not centered…Corrected my manuscript; clicked SAVE so I could re-upload.
    “No can do,” the computer said.
    “What! Give me a break!” (Or "kak," as Cornelius, the South African in The Crystal Curse, would have said.)
    “There may be a problem with your hardware,” the (fairly new) computer blared (just so I would get it). I did. When I finally managed to open my document, it had turned into complete gobble-di-gook. No recovery. If my house had more than one story, I might have jumped out the window.
Instead, I contacted the good people at CreateSpace.
    “Boo-hoo-hoo. Can you PLEASE e-mail the Word version I just uploaded back to me?”
    “No can do.”
    “Boo-hoo-hoo.” (Or "mat" as Alexei, the Russian in The Crystal Curse, would have hissed.)
    “Don’t cry, lady. I can make it so you can down-load it yourself from your dashboard. Will that work for you?”
    “You bet-cha!” (CreateSpace has not let me down yet when I boo-hoo-hooed before with one or two other problems—always my own doing).
    I dried my tears and saved the darn thing six times all over the place. Usually, when I make corrections/changes, I save that version as a new (dated) document. But for three asterisks? Who knew?
    I sure will - for Book 5!
* * * (those were the culprits)

Thursday, May 28, 2015



* * *
Read the First Reader Review here -
(with an interesting observation about Amazon's "algorithms"
that sensor reader reviews)


* * *

     When they reached the door to Lorenzo’s ill-gotten treasure stash Jonathan turned and smiled at his guard while poking a finger at his own chest. “Jonathan.” Putting on his best boyish grin, he motioned the plodding man to follow him in. When the man shook his head, he pointed again at his chest, “Jonathan,” and then added, “Your mother’s a whore.”
     After what felt like forever, the pardoned killer from Isla Margarita shrugged his shoulders and nodded receiving a grateful thumbs-up in return. …
… Despite her delight of seeing her husband come in Naunet looked up from her notes and calmly waited until Jonathan reached her desk.
   “How nice to see you,” she said. A quick sideways glance at B. Stiff hunkered down on one of the packing grates warned Jonathan they were not alone.
   “I just wondered how you were getting along. Anything on these tablets about Crete?” Jonathan asked emphasizing the last word.
     “I gleaned some hints about it,” Naunet answered with slightly arched eyebrows. “Though definitely not Minoan.”
     “I remember something from the Book of Samuel.” Again Jonathan pronounced the last word slowly. “It spoke about hope being afloat. Or, as we say in Spanish,” he grinned as if he were saying something funny, “La esperanza está a flote.”
     Naunet stared at her husband guessing more than seeing him nod. She ventured, “I don’t think Samuel wrote anything about Crete. As I recall, he wrote about the Arc.”
     “Good old Samuel,” Jonathan nodded, this time openly. “It is possible he followed the Arc to Crete.” He saw Naunet’s eyes grow wide and answered her unspoken question with another slight nod.
     “What are you two blabbing about?” B. Stiff was working his way toward them when the ship suddenly lurched forward. …
     The sudden movement threw B. Stiff off balance. To prevent from brushing against a large painting to his left, the little man grabbed onto the nearest handhold. It turned out to be the protruding penis of one of the prone Greek statuary he was supposed to be looking after—besides spying on Naunet. With an audible crack, the shiny marble phallus detached itself from its curly base.
     “Oops,” Jonathan grinned, “I guess even the magic of your name won’t put Humpty-Dumpty back together again.” …
     “You clumsy oaf!”
     None of them had heard Jabari slide into the huge room. “What have you done! This is a priceless relic!”
     The look on the man’s face as he held the ancient artifact at arm’s length was priceless in itself and both Jonathan and Naunet tried hard not to burst out laughing.
     Jabari, on the other hand, found no humor in the situation and continued to berate the man. As with his former self, Dr. Jabari El-Masri’s explosive anger produced the desired effect. The grinning guard had just time enough to step aside as a terrified B. Stiff, clutching his precious penis, yanked the door open and fled out into the corridor.
   Jabari motioned to the Wilkinses. “What a lucky break, if you pardon the pun.” He bent over Naunet’s desk pretending to look at some of the photographs. “We need to talk. As you know, we are all in the same boat …”
     “No kidding,” Jonathan challenged.
     “We need to trust each other and exchange ideas how we can survive this ordeal together.”
     “Sure we do.” Jonathan’s sarcasm was not lost on Jabari who chose to ignore it.
     “I mean it, Jonathan.” He waved an impatient hand at the handsome American wondering how best to tell them what was on his mind. “We need to trust and help each other, and protect each other’s back. You have to back me up.”
“Against any wall in particular?” Whatever scheme the Egyptian had in mind, Jonathan was not ready to let him off so easily.
“Jonathan! We don’t have time for your jokes. I beg you. Please, both of you, listen to me.” …
“It’s about Crete.” Jabari said. “Or rather what I told Lorenzo about the Ideon Cave.”
“Are we back to your belief you sprung from Zeus’s loins?”
“Jonathan, this is serious. And, no, I did not tell him about that. Well, not all of it, anyway.” Jabari turned to Naunet. “It’s about the crystal you wore around your neck when you boarded this ship.”
“I would hardly put it that way, Jabari. I didn’t exactly board this crate voluntarily,” Naunet snapped.
“I am truly sorry, my dear. But tell me. Do you recall anything special about the crystal when you handled it? Perhaps when you touched it for the first time?” …
She decided not to say anything until she found out what Jabari was up to. “Special? In what way?”
“Perhaps peculiar would be a better word. A certain property. A strong light or a variance in temperature.” Jabari too was testing the waters before giving too much away.
“I think you better let us know what you have in mind. No telling how long we’ll be left alone in here.” Jonathan glanced at the guard leaning against the door. He gave the man one of his thumbs-up and called out, “Your mother’s a whore.”
The guard nodded happily before going back to looking bored.
“I beg your pardon!” Jabari stiffened.
“Just making sure the guy doesn’t understand English,” Jonathan grinned, not altogether displeased with himself despite Naunet’s quiet ‘Jon!’  …
* * *
For once, Jonathan itched to get back to the tunnel to tell Bill about the new developments.  Before he did so, he felt the need for fresh air. He had always done his best thinking staring out at the sea. Through sign language he made his ever-present burly guard understand. Once outside, he leaned over railing and gulped salt air into his lungs. It took him a moment to feel the guard behind him standing so close they almost touched. Good God, don’t tell me this prison rat has designs on me. He turned to get his rear end out of its danger zone.
Now, the two were face to face and the guard poked him hard in the chest. “Jonathan!” Then the man touched his own chest. “Vergil.”
“Vergil. Well, what do you know. The man has a name,” Jonathan grinned. As pleasantly as possible he added, “And your mother’s still a whore.”
The guard grinned back. “That maybe so. But next time I’ll throw you overboard.”
If there was ever an oh-shit moment, this was it. Jonathan was so shocked to hear an unmistakable New York accent all he could manage was, “Brooklyn?”
“The Bronx.” Vergil was obviously enjoying the moment.
Not for the first time, Jonathan noticed the height of the man, unusual for someone he had taken as a native Venezuelan; still, there was a swarthy Latin look about him.
“So why were you in a Venezuelan prison?”
The man’s lips stretched into a wide grin. “For raping my mother.”
Jonathan pushed himself away from the railing and inched his back against the peeling superstructure. “Shit, man. You might have told me.”
”That I’m a rapist? Or that I know what’s going on?”
“Preferably both. By the way, what is going on?” It was worth a try. Anything to stave off real or imagined attention from a sex-starved jailbird.
“You’ll find out.” The man put his dinner-plate hands on Jonathan’s shoulders and spun him around as if he were a child’s dreydel. Sphincter-clenching time again! To Jonathan’s relief, his guard laughed, “Relax, man. I only do women. Besides, we wouldn’t have time to enjoy it. I need to get you back to your tunnel before we both get in trouble.”
When they reached the vault, the guard ratcheted the lock. Before he pulled the heavy door open he stabbed a hard finger into Jonathan’s chest. “Jonathan,” he grinned and nodded in the imbecilic way he used to. “You were right. My mother was a whore. From Puerto Rico. Perhaps that’s why she named me Vergil. She told me it means rod bearer. I am sure her interpretation and mine are quite different.” He gave his hips a couple of forward thrusts. “But I didn’t rape her. Lucky for me, she died before I got interested in sex.”
“That’s comforting,” Jonathan coughed. “So, what were you in for, really?”
“You could call it bad timing. Being too impatient.”
Was there a wink? Jonathan couldn’t be sure.
“We were getting so good at stealing, me and my buddies got sloppy. That’s how we wound up in that shithole of a jail.”
Jonathan tried to figure out why Lorenzo might have had this guy released from Isla Margarita’s notorious San Antonio prison. He decided to take a stab at it. “So, you were stealing art for Lorenzo?”
“No, man,” Vergil laughed. “We let him think we were ruthless killers. Well, sometimes, you could say we were. He hired the lot of us.”
The man stepped again uncomfortably close toward Jonathan who expected anything but what came next.
“We weren’t stealing art. We were stealing ships. Containers, trawlers, yachts, even a tanker or two. Twenty-five years we got, for what their crappy court called piracy on the high seas. And here we are, stuck on another stinking rats nest without women.” A disturbing gleam stole into the man’s eyes. “Say, how would you consider giving your new friend a break?”
“Afraid I don’t do men,” Jonathan said through his teeth.
The guard broke into laughter as if he had just heard a great joke. “Not you, dummy. I was thinking of your woman.”
It took all of Jonathan’s willpower not to hit the insolent bastard in the face. Instead, he gave the door such a violent push that he literally tumbled into the ballast tunnel. Half embarrassed and five times as furious, he shoved the heavy steel shut with his foot slamming it into the guard’s face. At least, the swine had the decency not to follow.
Bill stood in front of their work table delicately filing away at something he kept turning around in his hand. Jonathan assumed it was a new thick bolt for the metal frames. As he went closer he saw it was B. Stiff’s guillotined piece of marble. At that instant, what had just transpired outside the tunnel hit him squarely in the nuts.
“God-damn-it, Bill! Stop playing with your dick! We’re sitting on a powder keg here.”
The imperturbable Dr. William Jefferson Browning gently laid the exquisite penis down. He then carefully positioned his flat file in front so it would not roll off the table. Looking over the rim of his bifocals he put an arm around his younger colleague’s shoulders.
“In that case, my friend, I strongly suggest you get a longer fuse.”
* * *

Wednesday, May 27, 2015


Cover Reveal:

The Crystal Curse

Book 4 - Legends of the Winged Scarab

(scheduled for publication in June)


Deep beneath Hawara, a site near the Fayum Oasis, there sleeps an enormous complex known as The Lost Labyrinth of Egypt. While the mysterious compound is said to have once been comprised of over three thousand rooms, the origins of this ancient palace are shrouded in the mist of time. Some believe its builders came from an ancient civilization and those ruins predate Egypt’s earliest cultural awakening by several millennia.
     Swirling on the winds of the khamsin are the legends about a mythical beast living deep within these tunnels. As the dunes shift under the capricious updrafts, the remnants of a chamber might be laid bare only to be reburied by yet another layer of sand.
     A few even tell of wondrous crystals growing within this complex, insisting that gold and precious stones await those who brave the stifling maze. For a brief moment, awestruck whispers turn into speculation. But thoughts of plunder are quickly doused as the legends warn:
No one escapes the crushing coils
of El-Hanash, the Crystal Snake.
For such is The Crystal Curse.

* * *

Saturday, May 16, 2015

Christoph Fischer’s Newest Novel

Cover Reveal

Writer Christoph Fischer has turned Gambler!
At least, with his newest novel

Coming June 1, 2015
Ben is an insecure accountant obsessed with statistics, gambling and beating the odds. When he wins sixty-four million in the lottery he finds himself challenged by the possibilities that his new wealth brings.

He soon falls under the influence of charismatic Russian gambler Mirco, whom he meets on a holiday in New York. He also falls in love with a stewardess, Wendy, but now that Ben’s rich he finds it hard to trust anyone. As both relationships become more dubious, Ben needs to make some difficult decisions and figure out who’s really his friend and who’s just in it for the money.
Look for The Gamblers on June 1st

The book is available on Pre-Sale now on  Amazon: http://smarturl.it/TheGamblers

Reading Fischer's Books is one Gamble that'll make you a Winner!

Friday, May 1, 2015

Kay Hadashi’s Hawaiian Island Breezes

Back in 2013, I introduced Kay Hadashi’s start of a new historical thriller series of Old Japan.

Kay tells me that Bugeisha Dreams has since evolved into a
stand-alone book with a new cover.

However, Kay’s delightful heroine, June Kato, was much too good to let go. Kay came up with the new Island Breeze Series. These novellas follow June in her transition from top LA neurosurgeon to Maui transplant (no pun intended I am sure as June Kato is, after all, a neurosurgeon).
     Among tropical flowers and old legends, June finds a husband and starts a family. Of course, nothing is ever simple for this exotic beauty; she finds life on the tropical island of Maui comes with a price. Even though her life has become simpler in some ways, there is plenty of adventure around orchids and pineapple plants, and Pele, the fiery goddess of Haleakala.
     The stories include Hawaiian legends (and maybe a few ghosts), promising to be smashing hits with Kay’s readers who, I think, will be as fascinated by these exotic fables as I am.

Kay has written many other exciting novels, novellas and short story collections.
Check them out here:

Monday, April 27, 2015

I Feel Vindicated

Excerpted from Ancient Origins http://www.ancient-origins.net/

“… Memphis once carried the name Ineb-hedj, meaning ‘White Walls’…”

  Artist's depiction of the white walls of the Great Temple of Ptah at Memphis. (Public domain)

Way back, in the early 90s, when I started my research for KHAMSIN (without the help of Google-search), I had a devil of a time to find the earliest name for Memphis. Even a museum curator (or his assistant) replied to my query with a disappointingly obtuse answer.

At last, glancing through some old accounts of Manetho, I think (it coulnd’t have been Flinders Petrie or Howard Carter because they wrote about Memphis as Menefer, etc.), I settled on Ineb-hedj, City of White Walls (and have often since wondered if I was wrong in doing so).

Then, I subscribed an the excellent blog entitled Ancient Origins. It has all sorts of astounding facts about our history. But today, it featured an article that made me grin all over my face: Russian Archaeologists Unearth Legendary White Walls of Memphis.

Writing about Ancient Egypt is tricky if you want to adhere to the original names without confounding the lay reader. After all, a historical fiction novel should be entertaining; but if one learns something in the process that is based on fact (provided it is well researched), the better, I say.

I think I’ll sleep well tonight knowing I got at least one thing right.

Saturday, April 4, 2015

James M. Hockey, Author of Dark Age Novels

Launch of Edith Fair as a Swan
(Book 3)

James M. Hockey was born in a Ham Stone cottage set on the side of an Iron Age Hill Fort. This is known as Ham Hill and bears the evidence of ancient British and Roman occupation. It is in the west country of England, King Arthur country. In other words, his birth put him smack into the middle of his stories – it just took him a few years to find his inspiration to write 

The Tales of Bowdyn series:

The Axe the Shield and the Triton (Book 1)

The Axe the Shield and the Halig Rood (Book 2)

Edith Fair as a Swan (Book 3)

I pressed him for details how he came to write his trilogy, and he told me this:

I had always thought I would like to write stories but everything I wrote was pretentious claptrap and ended life in the bin. Until I became tied to a particular area of the west country of England that is steeped in history. However, it took nearly sixty years when, on a nostalgic visit, I came across the story of the Holy Rood. I decided to write the story of a cross of ill omen and how it came to be buried on St. Michaels Hill.

What I didn't know was that as the story developed I would not only write The Axe the Shield and the Triton, Bowdyn Volume 1, 450+AD but then found myself writing The Axe the Shield and the Halig Rood, Bowdyn Volume 2, 500+ADfollowed by Edith Fair as a Swan, Bowdyn Volume 3, 1066+AD.

As if that weren’t enough, I am now working on Atland the Lost, Bowdyn Volume 4, 6500 BCE; with the final volume Wothans Army, to be Bowdyn Volume 5, covering a period from the Dark Ages up to the 17th century.

The series spans the history of a people over eight thousand years. Of course many scholars would consign it to the bin but it is just fiction after all. The research would have taken a lifetime if I had to rely on libraries and written works. Fortunately we live in a golden age for the writer of historical fiction, for we have Google, dare I say it, Wikipedia and, through my library card, the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography not to mention the Oxford English Dictionary for finding words for the earlier volumes with an Old English origin.

For book descriptions, reviews by his readers, and purchase options,
visit James Hockey’s 
Also check out his website: http://wyrdsisterspublishing.co.uk/

Read Historical Novel Society Reviews of all three books on their site:
Tales of Bowdyn-HNS Reviews

Sunday, March 29, 2015

Write What You Know

     If they mean, what you have experienced personally - Yes, and No.
     Just think how poor literature would be without the boundless imagination of writers. I have always been fascinated and grateful to be able to escape to exotic places with larger-than-life characters. So what if I have to look up words and places? It’s a wonderful way to learn and grow, as I have with the great writers.
     On the other hand, personal experiences inevitably do slip into our own writing. You can’t help it, no matter how brilliant your research or how faraway a setting is. People we know, love–or don’t love quite so much–find their way into our characters, changing to our whim like chameleons.
     After I published KHAMSIN, The Devil Wind of The Nile, a novel about Ancient Egypt, some people did ask me if I had been “there.” In 3080 BC, nobody’s been there. Everything else can be gleaned from pouring over the many great archaeological outpourings. In weaving it all together, of course, we are on your own.
     Then came SIROCCO, Storm over Land and Sea. Now, here I did draw on my own sailing/cruising experience and the intimate knowledge of life on a sailboat. I also vividly remember the not-so-pleasant times when our metal mast was the only thing sticking up—in a lightning storm. Suddenly, a dark shadow looms high above you riding on the crest of a monster wave—all you want to do then is to run home to mother!
     When I wrote After the Cataclysm, I imagined a huge steel monster almost running the little Esperanza down and I remembers how my skipper loved to blast Wagner’s powerful music of The Flying Dutchman over the outside speakers when things got rough.
* * *
    Read the excerpt while listening to the music; it’s powerful—it certainly spurned my imagination.
     Fritz Wunderlich (pictured here as part of his life's story-which you will not hear), was an incredibly gifted German tenor, who, after a tragic accident, left us much too young, wanting more.
     The music you hear, of course, is the Sailors' Chorus taunting the Dutchman to leave his watch and come celebrate with them on shore.
     The images of ocean life are beautiful; however, at about 6:16 of the 7-minute tape, you will surely forgive that a terrified young Sam makes nine letters of a not-so-polite expression that usually is said to be a four-letter word.

Excerpt from After the Cataclysm -Part III, Chapter 8
 © Inge H. Borg

     The panic-stricken shout from inside the wheelhouse was followed by the cough of the ignition being turned over time and again. The starter didn’t catch. The wheelhouse door was ripped open. “The bastard’s going to run us down,” Sam cried into the dark cockpit.
     Jonathan pushed Naunet away and jumped up, almost crumpling into the well. His left leg had fallen asleep as he had held Naunet, comforting her, assuring her that everything would turn out all right. “Get on the horn!”
     Sam had already flipped the switch of the shortwave. He grasped the mike and pressed the ‘transmit’ button so hard he was afraid he would embed it into the surrounding plastic.
     “Sécurité, sécurité, sécurité,” the youth cried into the mike as if the higher volume of his voice would make a difference. “This is the sailing vessel Esperanza.” He shakily gave their coordinates and heading. “Large ship bearing down on us, please alter course to west-northwest. We are unable to move out of your way.” He depressed the button. Jonathan and he held their breath for an answer hoping the other guy on watch wasn’t dozing.
     Panic transmits itself quickly throughout the confines of a small boat. By now everyone crowded into the wheelhouse. They did not dare to say anything as they waited for a reply to Sam’s urgent transmission, imagining what would happen if it did not come. Too many large ships never knew they had run down a sailboat. Not until, by daylight or in the next port, they found tattered rigging dangling from one of their bow anchors. In his mind, Jonathan ticked off the steps required to release their lifeboat canister strapped down on deck in front of the main mast. Oh God, he prayed, let the damn thing cross in front of us just this one time.
     “Sailing vessel Esperanza,” a pleasant, nonchalantly professional voice boomed back at them. “We have you on radar. Passing to your starboard now.”
Suddenly, the slapping of their luffing mainsail, deprived of its breeze, was eclipsed by an overwhelming rhythmic pulsing. Jonathan engaged the autopilot. It would hold the Esperanza steadier than any human could; especially since her humans did not feel steady at all. Despite the terror in their hearts, they rushed outside.
     “Shiiiiiit!” Sam hollered again as he gawked up at a wall of steel towering above them, obliterating the moon. Its passage seemed to last forever. There was only the faintest of light coming from the high bridge.
     Jonathan suddenly remembered that the ship had not identified herself during her last transmission. On top of it, not running any navigation lights at night was a definite no-no in any sailor’s book. “Bastard,” he breathed, and then remembered they themselves were running dark. As the moon re-emerged, he knew they would now be bounced around from the propeller wash.
     “Hold on!” he shouted.
     The radio in the wheelhouse crackled to life again. “God speed, sailors,” the voice said and then added, “Sorry about the wake.”
     “Bastard,” Bill echoed Jonathan’s sentiment.

* * *

Dramamine, Anyone?