A to Z Challenge - "H"

H - as in "Hurricane"

One "devil wind" I never want to have to face - neither on land nor at sea - is a hurricane. After friends lost their beautiful sailboat (yes, a Valiant-40; the one I used in SIROCCO) during Hugo, I wrote a short story what it must have been like for the two, alone at sea, in a hurricane.

Hugo, the Atlantic’s Misbegotten Child

Excerpt from Moments of the Heart, A Book of Poems and Short Prose

*

Sometimes, I did wonder where and how I would die. This night, it seemed, held the answer, my murderess not the Atlantic but her misbegotten child Hugo, screeching its dirge over our pristine cutter, ripping our topsides bare. We were sailing miles offshore, likely beyond the saving reach of the Coast Guard.

A dripping figure swathed in stiff foul-weather gear slithered down the companionway, bringing with it the deluge of a following sea.

“Pouch! GPS! Water! Flares!” the bug-eyed monster screamed into my ear.

“Move, Move, Move!” the yellow apparition shouted and shook the diving goggles from his head. Wham! The boat’s death-shudder ripped away another strand of my badly frayed nerves.

Suddenly, it seemed that the noisy freight-train had pushed past us, leaving behind a sudden eerie calm. At least, we were still afloat. Oily water sloshed over my ankles and I shivered with cold. I could not move. My teeth hurt from uncontrolled chattering. There was a searing pain in my right temple. I watched Richard dig for something under the splintered chart table. The stove had wedged itself on top of it, its oven door hanging open like a village idiot’s uncomprehending mouth.

“Christ!” Richard said and laid his gloved hand against my face. “Did the stove hit you?”

“I don’t remember.” I began to dry-heave.

“Hang in there, baby,” he said softly. “Can you help me?”

Help him? How? I couldn’t even move. I wanted to lay my head on his chest and cry my heart out; for me, for him, for our surely doomed Artemesia, our Nevada Tumbleweed, that had helped us forget our desert origins and carried us over thousands of miles of benevolent seas; until this awful night.

“Are we a-b-b-b-abandoning?” My teeth still chattered violently.

“Not yet. We’ll wait,” the lover I had followed into his dream said gently while hurriedly stuffing things into plastic bags.

“Wait for what?” I whispered again.

“We can’t launch the life-raft until after,” Richard said and pulled a foul-weather jacket over my head, careful not to scrape against my blood-encrusted temple.

“Until after what? The water is getting higher in here. Why not now?”

The man I knew to be such a capable sailor didn’t look at me. He smiled with lips that formed a crooked apology. “We are in the eye of the hurricane.”

All of a sudden, I felt myself propelled forward. Pouch! GPS! Water! Flares! I grabbed the long flashlight from under the companionway stairs and practiced:
"Dit-Dit-Dit -- Da-Da-Da -- Dit-Dit-Dit."
Three Short, Three Long, Three Short. S.O.S.

* * *

A to Z Challenge - "G"

G - as in "Gauguin"

 

Paul Gauguin's exile, beautiful Tahiti, was one of my dream destinations. Alas, we did not sail there but saved precious vacation time by imitating migratory birds.

It was glorious.

A to Z Challenge - "F"

F - as in "Falucca" (also Felucca)

The Nile is the lifeblood of Egypt. Without it, that astounding ancient civilization we still seek to comprehend could not have risen from the sands of its surrounding deserts. The river was - and still is - Egypt's major highway. But, one had to have something that floated.

The falucca (also spelled felucca) is a narrow fast lateen-rigged sailing vessel, often equipped with oars for traveling upstream. Its design has changed little over time.

I quite copiously availed myself of it in KHAMSIN, The Devil Wind of The Nile, as I had to ferry an important messenger from the south down to Ineb-hedj (Memphis). Later on, a party of supposed pilgrims sailed and rowed their way up the Nile, through the dangerous 'narrows' and past marauding bands of desert bandits. Because of the early falucca, a royal bark, and ponderous war and transport barges, I was able to sail the early Nile in my imagination.

Hence, I am thankful for the gift of the Falucca.

A to Z Challenge - "E"

E - as in "Eeyewww..."
who's going to clean those?

That second Wahoo filled the whole cockpit (look at the gloves. The gloves, I said!)

Have you ever cleaned fish this big, or any for that matter?

When I pleaded that I had nothing to protect my hands against the scales, my darling (and broadly grinning) skipper produced this hideous pair of black rubber gloves.
(I had a suspicion he used them to clean the head!)

Eeyewww...

A to Z Challenge - "D"

"D" - as in DAWN

(see that little bump sticking up left of the backstay?
That's my head)



Some boats are squirrely, zigging and zagging through the waves, sails strapped taut, intent on winning that race, upsetting but the most iron of stomachs.

Others - round-bottomed and plump like a Rubens painting of a voluptuous woman - make slow and steady headway through the sloppiest of seas. Those are the ones you want to go cruising with (plus, of course, a good-looking skipper).

Her name was DAWN, a Valiant-40. And I loved her.

A to Z Challenge - "C"

"C" -  as in Choice

A to Z Challenge - "B"

B - as in "Boats" (all shapes and sizes)

I love them – 

except when they make my stomach heave and have me clutching at the mast for support. 
Some boats are squirrely, zigging and zagging through the water, sails strapped taut, intent on winning that race, upsetting but the most iron of stomachs. Others, round-bottomed and plump like a Rubens painting of a voluptuous woman, make slow and steady headway even through sloppy seas. Those are the ones you want to go cruising with (plus, of course, a good-looking skipper).

Here, at the venerated San Diego Yacht Club,

you have your choice of boats to look at;

unless you meet "a man with a boat."

Pacific Ode

Having been raised a nimble mountain goat,

I felt amiss around this small-hilled Finest City.

With so much ocean ev’rywhere, I thought it was a pity,

not to be known by an experienced man who sailed a boat.

With great resolve, dressed to the nines,

I slipped into its oldest venerated Club-de-Yate

where I pretended to belong, and drank cafe-con-latte

before I click-clacked down those loose-planked chines.

'Hey, Sailorman,’ I said with my considerable charm.

‘You have a spiffy little ship. And I can see you care.

With these thick ropes strung ev’rywhere

you have to be quite good, lest you do yourself some harm.’

'I am the Skipper,’ said the gray-locked gent.

‘And this here is my bristol vessel.

The ropes you’re standing on are lines around my cleats

which, once aboard, turn into sheets.’

'What are you saying, Sailorman?

I can assure you that I speak se English good.

But thrash me with your sailor-lingo,

it goes beyond my ken.’ My assertiveness by now unglued.

'Come on aboard, my pretty lady,’ the handsome hunk invited.

His sun-burned hands extended down; he pulled me up to roam.

He briefly stopped to smile, however,

when my stiletto heel bit into closed-cell foam.

He swallowed hard but remained calm, still not averse,

and pointed out clew, tack, leech, vang, and boom;

then handled me quite pleasantly down his steep stairs

where I plopped into a seemingly all-purpose room.

He proudly showed me his salon and gimbaled galley,

then squeezed me forward through a narrow alley.

‘And now, my dear, the time has come to show you my forepeak.’

Whence I suppressed a panicked female shriek.

'Why, Sailorman, I am a stocking’d lass,

and it is much too soon for you to show your—peak to me.’

Kissing me soundly on the lips, he laughed with glee:

‘Soon, you’ll sail her like a champ through the tightest pass.’

Once ready to assist in docking the well-waxed double-ender,

I stood a-port, right elbow hooked around a shroud for sole support,

the bowline at the ready in my nerve-iced left

when, for whatever reason, I unwound my right-hand bender.

Despite blue-blazered grace, the inevitable then took place,

which much confounded hot-shot Sailorman of IOR-dimensions.

Yes, indeed, as you have by now surmised,

this mountain goat turned mermaid, San-Diego-Bay-baptized.

Of course, I quit my job and gave my scrawny cat away

to move aboard with a brand-new French pressure-cooker pot.

Equipped with Dramamine, assorted spices, and the lot,

I was prepared to stay.

Boot-stripe immersed, we journeyed through Nirvana,

not even loathe to share the odious cleaning of the head.

We kissed and laughed, and baked fresh pressure-cooker bread

chock-full of ripe banana.

Until, one raging night, quite unexpected,

I was struck down by Neptune’s vengeful ax.

While I lay felled by this debilitating mal-de-mer,

head-splitting Wagner chants supposedly helped him relax.

I could have died, I felt so bad.

Insanely hating those black squalls,

I vowed to stay alive if only with the last of my remaining strength

to cut off Flying Dutchman’s valiant ... toes.

The thought of this kept me a-gag; secretly, I planned the lot:

Without the called-for proper juice,

I’d throw them into my French pot

where, within pressure-cooker time, to powder they’d reduce.

The morn’ arose with brilliant hues.

Dawn brought with it a tranquil sea.

I instantly forgot my inner-ear unbalanced blues

when Dutchman had hot java and a toothy grin for me.

I was so grateful then that in the throws of my malaise

I had not done the ugly deed

and, quickly, I assured myself that ever-dancing Skip’

still sported pink appendages which he and I would need.

I kissed those rosy toes, excitedly a-mutter

with great enthusiasm, new resolve, and ease.

As Dutch’s Senta I would follow him along the path of stormy seas

through whatever Neptune had in store for his well-found cutter.

Alas, one day, my Sailorman, he sailed amok

with a young steel-bunned looker.

Which left me standing at the dock

with useless lingo, and an empty pressure cooker.

* * *

Excerpt from my Moments of the Heart, A Book of Poems and Short Prose

A to Z Challenge - "A"

 

A - As in "After the Cataclysm"

Hello everyone.

I don't want to gloat right off the bat (or the boat) - but since this Challenge starts with "A"

my latest release easily comes to mind (at least to mine).

(Think of it as an exercise for this Challenge;

as we go along, I'll be learning from the veterans on here.) 

What does the eruption of a supervolcano have to do with ships or sailing?

Not so fast. There is a connection.

A ghost ship, the real Lyubov Orlova, still haunts the Atlantic. http://whereisorlova.com/ No crew; just cannibal rats on board.

I gave her a new name and a new life - for a while...

As the North American continent lies in ruins, buried under volcanic ash, it is good to have a way to escape. This former cruise ship is just the ticket for a seedy South American collector of antiquities. But all that glitters is not necessarily gold.

That’s all I am going to tell you for now.

A to Z Challenge - Theme Reveal

THEME REVEAL for my A to Z CHALLENGE 

And what a challenge it will be.

I Choose: Boats and Sailing

(Don't worry, there will be minimal doses of Dramamine involved -
because Pasha doesn't like the water)

But I do and I hope you do too

So, let's set sail together in the A to Z Challenge

Review of Retirement Clock: Poems 5, by Jim Bennett

We have all dabbled in "poetry." Don't deny it. It was okay. Because it came from deep within us - even though much of it was lousy as far as the correct pentameter, rhyme, or all the other rules about the real thing were concerned.

Well, I just read some poems of real-life, present-day Canadian poet, Jim Bennett.
I was even presumptuous enough to write "a review" of his latest volume, Retirement Clock: Poems 5. My only excuse for such arrogance is that I put down what I felt; because that's how I enjoy poetry; it's personal.

And here is said personal review:

* * *

A Book of Haunting and Powerful Poetry

Retirement Clock: Poems 5

On my shelf, a heavy bookend holds treasured volumes tight against intrusion. There, they reign, my poets: Goethe, Schiller, Grillparzer. I grew up with them. Carl Sandburg, too, amuses; while Maya Angelou accuses. I love Poetry. It sings to me and stirs my soul.

Today, I shifted the heavy marble, for Jim Bennett, Canadian Poet, to take up residence among my favorites.

After several re-readings, Bennett’s fifth volume: Retirement Clock: Poems 5 was not an easy read, hitting home on so many fronts: Retiring from ‘being somebody,’ wilting away like autumn leaves, ashamed of our cruel world. Among the pages, there are four inter-connected poems in particular that made me stop and grieve; powerful beyond the thirteen years of passing.

If the poet will allow me to quote from The Path Now Taken. A misguided fanatic justifies his unthinkable act before Allah: “the path now chosen absolves your path behind.” Not until the following Burning “I am the flame,” did the imminent threat quiver, then horrify in Executed “can’t get out.” The last of these four poems, Speech to the Statue of Liberty “I saw the flame of freedom fail” ends with the pledge ‘we must prevail.’

I did not check pentameter, nor rhyme, which are technically perfect. I simply felt what I read. Some words swept over me at first, like that unexpected breaker on an unknown shore. But as I came to anticipate the next wave, moved back not to be swallowed up, followed it out into the surf to be taunted, I glimpsed precious pebbles underneath, watched blue-footed boobies soar above. This is today’s Poetry in all its glory, its depths, its bared feelings; haunting imagery of life passing...

Jim Bennett’s preceding four volumes are equally as powerful. I strongly recommend you spend some stirring hours in their company.

* * *

Be sure to visit Jim's blog - I recently asked him some pressing questions in connection with nominating him for the "Liebster Award" (nobody ever gets to be the finalist). His answers are  interesting, if not as terse as his poetry.

I am sure he held back in deference of this pearl-wearing lady. http://jim-bennett-Blog

Find Jim’s Books at Amazon: Jim Bennett, Poet