A to Z Challenge - "K"

K - as in "KHAMSIN"

Can't let this little self-promo opportunity slip by without showing off 

Book 1 of my "Legends of the Winged Scarab" series...

after all, the Khamsin (or Khamseen these days) is a devilish wind that plagues eastern Africa, from its deserts to its shores.

I was  pleased indeed when this Historical Fiction saga was selected an

Editor's Choice at Historical Novels Review, Quarterly Issue, August 2012

If any of you would like to read (and review) this novel (450 pages),

I'd be more than happy to send you a free mobi-file,

or e-pub if you prefer.

Just let me know on my contact page.

Here - to wet your whistle - is the Prologue:

Rih al-Khamsin!”

It was an eerie howl rather than a cry. It multiplied, and it traveled fast. The urgency of the warning sent the inhabitants of the far-flung settlements scurrying. In great haste, children were collected, drinking wells covered, and home sites secured. All against the onslaught of the feared wind whose turbulent airs had gathered strength from far away.

Its father, the Sirocco, was spawned over the hot desert. Before it abandoned its cyclonic origins to reach across the vast stretches of the Great Green Sea, clawing young islands along the way, racing toward the densely forested virgin coast of the primitive Northern Continent, it gave birth to its unbridled son Khamsin, the Devil Wind of the Nile.

This new turbulence then grew into adolescence over the desolate sandy expanses of the great desert, gathering strength and hot dust, reaching merciless maturity as it slammed into the broad Valley of the Nile. With the Khamsin’s arrival, the populace knew to expect accompanying sand storms; and swarms of vermin covered the ground bringing widespread devastation to the already parched land.

Only when the Great Wind’s hot fury was spent, did its evil spirits seem appeased, and the land and its people could breathe anew, and anticipate the life-giving flooding of their river once again.

Just as once again, the principles of Ma’at would be adhered to. It was their cornerstone of all life, of all culture. Its teachings were to suppress all chaos stemming from ones emotions, feelings and reactions. To keep life in absolute order. No deviation was permitted. Those who offended its strict laws were severely punished—often by a cruel death.

But during those enervating days when the incessant wind raged, Ma’at was often breached; usually calm tempers flared; violent crimes were committed. And it was said, that people vanished without a trace.

* * *

Also available in Print (from Amazon)

*

And in this novel are plenty of boats, from the falucca to temple boats,

to the royal bark;

supply and war barges were rowed up and down the Nile, even in 3080 B.C.

Metropolitan Museum of Art

A to Z Challenge - "J"

J - as in "Jamaica"

When I was still young, wholesomely round and adventurous, I flew to Jamaica (shortly after that country's independence; things were a bit dicey for tourists). Staying at a small Jamaican run hotel in Montego Bay, I signed up for a bus tour.

"You are lucky. You the only one today," said the native driver as he honked the horn of his small car. Too embarrassed to say 'no,' I got in. Off we went, chicken and children fleeing in panic across the road.

"Do you mind if we drive into the hills? I need to visit my old school for a certificate." What does one say? These hills, by the way, were called "You no come, me no see." I was a little apprehensive, I grant you that.

After an hour's drive, an open air structure appeared around a bend -- fifty little children stopped their recital of the alphabet. When I sat down among them, we all giggled and recited our tables together (it wasn't easy - I only know them by rode in German).

They 'did see' and 'I did come back.'

It was a most delightful day that included hiking way up into the waterfalls of Ocho Rios, stopping by a family road stand and other sites that I would have never seen on a bus. Things back then were still fairly undeveloped and all there was on Negril Beach was an old lighthouse.

What - no boat story?

That evening, treating myself to a nice dinner out, I met the captain with his executive officers from the aircraft carrier Independence. 

And, yes, one of them was a handsome Top Gun pilot. So there! A most delightful evening.

A to Z Challenge - "I"

I - As in "Interludes"

Sometimes, my curiosity gets the better of me and I reach for stories that are usually out of my comfort zone. True - but, oh so funny and (again) so true.

These are short satires about love, lust and life told with humor - but do they hit home (been there, done that).

There are several other titles, all of which depict the sadly funny side of romance.

I am glad I found this author - who incidentally is also from Austria (which made me curious in the first place) - even though she writes in such a different style than I do; as well as on different topics, to say the least.

I am still grinning - forgetting all about boats (besides, the "I" post I had planned was REALLY boring--unless you were an ocean racer - which I am not).

PS: I stumbled upon this author on Goodreads - but here is the Amazon link to the author page:

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=node%3D154606011&field-keywords=ida+tornovski

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