Alive and Well

Last night Dad told me that Robin expressed concern that I had not written a blog in over a week. Was I okay? He assured her I was fine.

I am fine.

I wrote a short couple of paragraphs for a magazine called Remarkable Woman Magazine. They were looking for stories about remarkable dads. So I wrote about mine. I immediately got an email from the editor saying she was touched by what I wrote. She asked for a photo of dad. If it gets published in the June issue, I’ll let you know.

I have been writing a short story for a contest. First prize $3000, a trip to NYC and a meeting with a few agents and publishers. 2000 word limit. I plan to read it to the writers group tomorrow and get some feedback. If you want a copy, I’ll email it to you. Since it is a contest entry, I’m not going to publish here until after I am rejected.

I have also continued to plug away at The Kayak, developing a few of the characters and conversations.

Last weekend, Melissa and her brother stopped in for a couple of nights. It was great to see a Peace Corps friend and catch up on what we have been doing since Micronesia. She took a teaching job in Korea for fifteen months, saved a bunch of money and paid off her school debt. Yahoo! Now she can travel about the country. She started in Wisconsin after the first of the year and plans to make her way to Seattle. No rush, no plan. Well, maybe one plan. She and Jody might join the carnival in Louisiana. Carnies! What a life!

Cockroach

It was a big freaking cockroach—I don’t care what they call them in Florida. A palmetto bug is still a cockroach—that hid from Phoenix under the bathroom rug after she chased it from God knows where. The thought of her eating it was too repulsive for me. So I smacked it with the only magazine in the house—Womens’ Health—and then unceremoniously carried the carcass outside. Flashbacks of Micronesia filled my head. I saw my Peace Corps host mom coming to my rescue when I found a roach in my room. Like a fox terrier after a rabbit she hunted the blasted thing down and managed to pick the bug up—ick—and toss it outside. I am sure it eventually returned to my room or went to the outside bathroom to lurk in the shadows while I nervously peed in the middle of the night. Every once in a while they would jump on me…for the fun of it. After sixteen months of living in the jungle and having these things everywhere, I got a little use to them, but never tolerated the ones that crawled into my bed. Once I had one tickle my face with its antenna. Shivers.

When I was in Kona, Hawaii, I’d find cockroaches every once in a while in the condo. There they seemed to run in packs probably escaping the spray of a neighboring condo owner try to eradicate the pests.

Writing

I have written, read to an audience of writers, solicited their critique and have rewritten 1788 words in the past three weeks. While the rate of progress has been slow and what I have is good, I don’t know why I am writing it.

My objective in Florida was to write about what happened after I left the Cosmic Muffin. I’m not writing about that. Instead I have been writing about my father’s kayak. The truth about the origins of the canvas boat was shared last summer when a boyhood friend of my Dad’s came to Mom’s memorial. After the service Dad, his friend and my uncle were telling stories of their boyhood home back in Ogdensburg, New Jersey. Dirk, my father’s friend revealed that he had stolen the kayak.

This piece of information surprised all of us. My mother always accused Dad of stealing it and he never denied this nor offered any other defense. Never hearing any other details but knowing that my parents lived in Saranac Lake many years ago and the kayak being quite old I assumed Dad found and took the boat from some unsuspecting mountain man in the Adirondacks.

I have begun the new tale using the few facts I now have. My story however is fiction. At my present rate, it will take three years before it is completed, but I want to share the beginning. Enjoy.

Dirk Salazar looked up to see the sun sparkle through the maple leaves. Under the tree’s massive branches the day did not seem as stifling and if he stood still long enough he could feel the slight breeze that tickled the leaves. The cooler weather of autumn and shorter days had yet to turn the leaves a brilliant red, but the dry summer had tinged the foliage a dirty yellow and caused the tree to prematurely begin to lose its cover. Had he been listening he would have heard the squabble of blue jays disturbed from their roost when the two boys dropped the kayak in the shade. Instead his attention turned to his brother’s deep sigh.

Dirk looked back at his younger brother, three years his junior and acknowledged him with his quick smile. Alonzo slumped next to the maple feeling its bark press his sweat stained t-shirt against his back. The wet cotton felt cool, but offered little relief from the late summer heat or the chore in which his brother had enlisted him. Alonso still carried traces of his chubby baby fat at age thirteen, the result of his Mexican mother’s pride to see that her two teenage boys were well fed and greatly fussed over.

He wanted to complain about being tired and hot. He rubbed his aching muscles while he watched Dirk dig a crumpled cigarette out of the front pocket of his jeans. Alonso knew his older brother would not tolerate his whining. He acknowledged his brother’s smile with his own then he closed his eyes and wished they were closer to their destination. His belly growled with hunger as he thought of the dinner his mother would have waiting for them. He imagined her in the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour from making tortillas. He hoped she had made his favorite meal—tamales.

Dirk had gently awakened Alonso before sun rise, whispering softly a promise to swim at Lake Mohawk seven miles away near the town of Sparta. As the sun rose over the cow pastures and corn fields of northern New Jersey, the two teenagers caught a ride sitting in the back of a dairy farmer’s 1937 pickup. The smell of hay and manure filled the truck, a familiar odor to both boys although their father made a living as miner employed by the local zinc company. The thin fog that collected along with banks of the narrow stream that paralleled the windy road between Ogdensburg and Sparta burnt off as the sun rose higher in the sky. Before long, Alonso dozed off resting his head on a couple of bales of hay.

Despite his eagerness to get to the lake Dirk patiently enjoyed the ride through the little valley. A week early he had discovered the kayak. It appeared to be abandoned. The canvas covered boat had been sitting in the tall cat tails near a deserted footpath. When he had turned the boat over the two man cockpit served as a home for a family of field mice and one rather homely possum that snarled at Dirk before seeing a quick escape as a wiser strategy. Upon inspection he noticed a few of the wooden ribs had been cracked and while the canvas remained in tact the summer’s sun had weaken the covering. There were no paddles. He had never seen a boat like this before, but he knew it was a kayak. In his social studied class he had learned about the Eskimos who used a similar boat for hunting seals. Dirk planned to return to get the boat and unknown to Alonso he had been recruited to help carry the nineteen foot long boat back to Ogdensburg.

The farmer rapped the side of his truck indicating that he reached his turn off and their ride came to an end. As they scrambled out of the truck Dirk slapped at a few pieces of straw stuck in Alonso’s thick black hair. It brought an opportunity to pick a friendly fight with his brother. The morning dew soaked the legs of their jeans as they chased each other across an open field toward the lake, still quiet from the night resembling a silver platter. The boys flushed a covey of quail from the low bush which momentarily surprised them bringing them to a quick and quiet halt as they watched in awe the birds appear and disappear as quickly as a dream.

“Come on,” Dirk directed, bringing Alonso out of his struck wonder. Dirk preferred to go directly to where the kayak laid in the weeds, and begin the long trip back home before the day became too hot, but he had promised Alonso a swim and he would keep his word. Alonso had been here before and knew where the best swimming hole hid, yet he relied on his older brother to lead the way as if Dirk took him there for the very first time.

By mid-morning they reached the short rise. Just beyond, a deep pool tucked under a rock cliff made a perfect spot for diving. The outcrop would not shade the shore until late afternoon. The rocks below bathed in the sun’s rays were known to be the best place to dry and warm up after spending hours in the cool waters offered by the northern lake. School had not started but, they had the place to themselves. The Salazars were sons of a miner, not a farmer and did not spend their summer days toiling in the many fields and barns of Sussex County. This did not mean the boys did not have chores and responsibilities around their home—chickens and pigs were kept in the back yards of nearly every family living on Bridge Street and their family was no exception. Before leaving the house, both boys tended to the needs of the animals.

Noontime hunger and the cold water chased the two teenagers out of the water. They took refuge on the marble rocks. If the two boys could have been seen from the sky, their cinnamon-colored bodies naked except for tee shirts modestly draped over their lower waists would have looked like two crucifixions spread-eagle on the smooth rocks. From a small paper bag Dirk tucked inside his tee shirt before leaving the house that morning, Dirk gave Alonso a tortilla. When they first arrived at the swimming hole, he placed the bag on the rocks to allow the bread to absorb the sun’s warmth. Dirk quickly at his meal while Alonso slowly ate a series of holes in his flat bread. As he chewed each bite he held the bread to the sky using it like a flat telescope and stared at the clouds gentle passing over head. The flat bread quelled their hunger.

Dirk knew that if they were to reach home before dark, they needed to get the kayak and begin their journey. Unsure if the boat would be where he found it he decided to check before telling Alonso about what he found. His brother continued to play with his food. “Stay here,” he commanded as he wiggled into his jeans. Alonso acknowledged Dirk’s order momentarily interrupting his cloud-gazing to meet his brother’s eyes. No other words were needed. Alonso instinctively knew not to ask where his brother was going, or to ask if he could tag along.

When Dirk returned he found Alonso sleeping right where he left him. Using the end of a thin stick, he gently brushed the brown skin of his brother’s ribs, stirring an unconscious swatting from his Alonso’s hand. Again he ran the stick lightly down his side mimicking the light touch of an insect. From his slumber the young boy became aware of the intrusion and thinking it might be a spider he hastily sat up swiping away at the annoyance. Dirk laughed. His brother’s slight irritation suddenly vanished when Dirk announced, “Put your clothes on. I found something.”

Alonso silently followed him around the perimeter of the lake on the narrow footpath wore down by boys, fishermen and hunters who seldom used the trails at the same time of year. Where the land leveled off and became marshy the path split off in different direction, avoiding the wettest parts of the swamp. The late summer and dryer year allowed Dirk to follow the path closest to the lake’s edge. There he found the kayak, just as he had left it.

Alonso’s eyes widened. “A canoe!”

“It’s a kayak,” Dirk corrected without acknowledging his brother’s mistake.

“Like the Eskimos.” His statement had more of a tone of wonder than question. Alonso’s mind raced as he thought of how the Eskimos got to New Jersey and where they were at that moment. Despite the summer day, he imagined the men dressed in heavy seal skins their hoods pulled up over their heads. He looked toward the marsh expecting to see them, but all he saw were the dried cattails every so slowly dancing in the slight breeze.

Alonso had never been on a boat. He had been on several home-built rafts constructed by Dirk with the help of his friends. The assemblage of barrels salvaged from the mine and scrap lumber pilfered from various construction sites became imaginary pirate ships launched on Heater’s Pond. His water bound experiences had not been pleasant, for as the youngest, but not always the smallest, he was never the captain or mate and usually one of the first boys tossed off the ship when war broke out.

He wanted to go out on the lake in the kayak, even without the paddles, but he would not suggest or ask. However, he never anticipated Dirk’s plan to take the boat and his excitement turned to reservations. He looked back over the marsh waiting for the Eskimos to return. Alonso rarely challenged his brother and Dirk had not foreseen his younger brother’s protest, but he laughed when Alonso blurted, “what about the Eskimos when they come back?”

“There aren’t any Eskimos.”

“What are you going to do with it?” Dirk had known about the kayak for week, but he had not thought that far ahead. His plan had been nothing more than an urge to take the boat because he reasoned anyone who wanted it would not have left it there. Nevertheless, he looked around to be sure the owner did not lurk in the marsh and then he ordered Alonso to take the bow while he picked up the stern and they began to carry the boat home, stern first, Dirk lead the way. By the time they reached the maple tree, both boys were exhausted and the afternoon sun would soon disappear behind the ridge.

Daylight

I must plug Latitude 38, a popular sail magazine from the West Coast. You might recall the editors mentioned my book, The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin in the December issue when it was suggested as a gift for the sailor who has everything. Well, maybe not everything, because I don’t think it is possible for a sailor to possess all the things he/she needs, as illustrated in some of the interesting and too funny letters responding to a man who lamented the fact that his female companion wasn’t as enamored with sailing as he was. What to do, what to do? Find out. Visit the link to read those letters and see my little blurb appear waaaaaay down the page.

I hate it when the clocks change. It messes up my routine which is based on daylight, not the time of day. The cats pester me to feed them at what is now 6 am, but was 5 am the day before. After I feed them I can snooze until 6:30 instead of 5:30 because I can’t go running in the dark for the fear of not being able to see the cracks in the sideway and I could trip in the drink as I explained in blog dated March 8, 2007. Instead of being the only one out at 6:30 running, there are others out running, strolling, walking dogs and even outrigger canoeing at 7:30. The school bus parade which rumbles out from the nearby schools is over by this time of the morning, so the roads are quieter. And there is that extra hour of daylight at the end of the day, which actually makes me feel guilty for not getting out to enjoy it, because that wasn't part of the routine. But it will be, until the clocks fall back and the cats wake me up at 4 am, which was 5 am.

Book Reviews

Glenda Larke responded to my comments left on her sight.

She writes…

I am fascinated by this whole concept [of bought reviews]. I want to know if it really works, because I honestly doubt it. I have the uncomfortable feeling that authors who use the service are being ripped off. (Please note that I have not made any comment about your writing,or your book, merely about the review and the whole idea of a paid review).

To give you some examples:

as I said earlier, my Amazon/Barnes & Noble reviews/ online/magazine reviews generally have been great, five stars all over the place. And yet I don't seem to be selling like the proverbial hotcakes. The inference seems to be that reviews really don't make that much of a difference.

Look at The Da Vinci Code for the opposite. I haven't read a good review of it yet and we all know how well it sells!

And I am not sure that buzz always works either. Janine Cross's "Touched by Venom" sure got a lot of buzz in the sff world generally, and on Amazon and other review sites, but I don't see a corresponding surge in sales.

Have you any evidence to suggest that your book is selling because of that review? Would you do it again? Do you feel you have been ripped off? Do you think the review was an honest assessment by the reviewer?

I dunno - the concept makes me feel uneasy. Anyway, good luck with the book. Anyone who would call a boat the Cosmic Muffin deserves to go far!!

My reply: The question is do book reviews work?

What about book signings, radio interviews, blogging, e-books, etc. How about belonging to a writer guild and attending conferences? Or how about donating books to public libraries? Publishing an article in a magazine, being a guest speaker, book tours. What about promotional items like book markers, post cards, key chains? Does standing on the corner of a busy intersection with a sign “Starving Author’s Book Sale” help sell three books before getting arrested for being a nuisance?

If a new author is taking the time to create a solid marketing plan to promote a book to a community relations manager or book buyer, reviews should be included as part of the package. How does a new author get a review in a competitive market where professional reviewers are overwhelmed with book choices as are the chain book stores? They focus their resources on the proven big named authors. A review from a subject matter expert or a well-known author is more credible than one from a good friend.

But a bought review? If a writer belongs to a guild, a book review may be exchanged for one done for a fellow member. Let’s be realistic, that too qualifies as a bought review.

With thousands of manuscripts floated by agents, publishers, and book buyers every week a review is a valuable tool for getting attention. As for getting the attention of the reader, for a new author I find that face to face contact and a 25 word pitch to capture the interest is the best way. And when one of those readers buys a book and writes a review, I’m grateful.

The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin’s review by Ellen Tanner Marsh was a fair and honest review, later supported by media and readers. Unknown to the general public the book’s initial reviews were so honest that when the captain of the Cosmic Muffin was described as arrogant, single-minded and eschews commitment, I changed his name and a few other details when he threatened to sue. (When you throw a stone into a pack of dogs the one that yelps is usually the one you hit.) Character development--a good description of an ornery sea caption-- is one element of solid writing.

Perhaps I was lucky to end up with a good book and a good review. Surely, the concept of “paying” for it can’t be that novel.

By the way, The Last Voyage of the Cosmic Muffin continues to get more play about this. Here are are two more sites: The Gawker and the Slate.

Manatee

It has been at the crack of dawn when I leave the condo to go running. At that time of day the lawns are usually wet from the sprinkler systems that blast on about 5 am. Low tide leaves the canal outside the condo resembling a drainage, but the bay looks like a mirror of glass. Across the water there is a church with a huge tiled cross on the roof and it catches the first rays of the morning sun.

I run down the bay front to a town park where a side walk follows the water’s edge. There is about a five foot drop into the water and there is no protective railing. I’m waiting to stub my toe on an uneven seam between two slabs of concrete and take a header into the shallow water. If I survived the fall, I don’t know how I might be able to get back on dry land unless this unfortunate event takes place near on of the boat docks.

The other morning a bright red splash of color reflected off the clouds in the east while a full moon sat suspended in a hazy pink sky to the west. Between the two horizons sat the quiet inlet where the waters are clear but dark. I was on my return when I saw a disturbance in the water. A large dark object broke the surface, snorted and ever so slowly disappeared. There was no fin. It was not a dolphin.

I stopped to watch three very large manatees browse the bottom of the inlet. Incredible. My first sighting of this endangered animal.

I want to be in the kayak and see one.

Photos are from Bob Terbush.

One Rainy Day

There is a little produce stand just down the road from my condo. It is housed in an old gas station and owned by a Greek couple. Lots of things in Tarpon Springs are owned by Greeks. Tarpon Springs is notable for having the largest percentage of Greek-Americans of any city in the U.S. The first Greek immigrants arrived to this city during the 1880s, when they were hired to work as divers in the growing sponge harvesting industry. In 1905, John Cocoris introduced the technique of sponge diving to Tarpon Springs. Cocoris recruited Greek sponge divers from the Dodecanese Islands and by the 1930s, the sponge industry of Tarpon Springs was very productive, generating millions of dollars a year. (info found on Wikipedia).

I didn't need a sponge, but I needed a couple of avocados. In Publix, the local grocery store, the avocados were ninety-nine cents a piece, while at the produce stand a dollar bought two.

The owner, a heavy-set Greek with wavy sliver hair and mustache, who had never seen me before, asked if I was married. Despite his heavy accent, I completely understood him when he went on to say, “A beautiful woman like you should be married.” Oh, boy.

His audience was a slim middle-aged Greek, shamefully single in the eyes of the owner. “Why aren’t you married,” he needled his friend, "with such beautiful women around?" Embarrassed, his friend walked away and if not for the rain, I am sure he would have slipped outside. As the owner took my dollar, he told me his friend was shy. He suggested I should call him and he handed me a business card for a Handy Man named John.

With this much meddling in my life from complete strangers in this Greek town, I’ll be married and living in Greece before the end of the year.

He Flew Beneath Me

Here in Florida we got the tail end of the monster storm that swept across the nation that dumped every imaginable form of precipitation and spawned numerous tornados that killed and destroyed. If you have been one digging out from a mountain of snow or a pile of debris—I pray for you.

The high winds that have been blowing for two days diminished after a brief shower past. The skies remained gray and low, but not threatening, so I dropped my kayak off the dock at high tide and went out the canals to the Anclote River which runs through Tarpon Springs and out to the Gulf of Mexico. In the bay outside the canals the water turned to glass.

Bob and I were talking about dishwashers when less than three feet before the bows of our kayaks a dolphin surfaced, exhaled and disappeared beneath our boats. My mouth fell open in disbelief, if not concern with the possibility that the rather large animal might tip one of us over. I did not get a good look at the dark gray mammal and was sure the opportunity wouldn’t present itself again.

Except, it did. Not only did the magnificent animal continue to surface just beyond reach, he swam under my kayak so close I could see him looking at me. He turned on his side to get a better view of me his white belly exposed to the white belly of my kayak. I extended my hand out over the water and tried to coax him to the surface. In his watery world he seemed to be chatting with me, and I could see tiny rows of teeth in his long mouth. He continued to surface. Sometimes to my left. Then between our two kayaks. On Bob’s right. He disappeared to only to resurface either right off our bows or behind us, his whereabouts given away with his exchange of oxygen.

He was easy to identify. Three notches on his dorsal fin and several white scars behind the fin told a tale of hard life at sea. As we reached shallower waters in the river, his wake extended out like wings of an angel floating across the glassy surface. When he completely surfaced and exposed the fluke of his tail I accused him of being on break from Sea World.

I was amazed and blessed on this gray day on the Gulf-side of the Disney State. Sorry, Ra. No photos.