tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40064577794465258982024-03-12T16:38:21.882-07:00IronwoodwindDouglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-74447799164220088572011-09-24T01:20:00.000-07:002011-09-24T01:27:33.196-07:00Horse LatitudesA brief digression from my endless procrastination on the Road to Vestmanna.<br /><br />Here follows a short story from a distant, clouded past life. I've written it for submission and consideration by member of #FridayFictioneers and any others that stumble upon it.<br /><br />Enjoy.<br /><br />HORSE LATITUDES<br /><br />The indifferent sea extends unbroken to the horizon and melts into a white hot sky. After nine weeks of hellish sun and no wind our barrels of drinking water are consumed, as are we. The Captain orders that our cargo of forty horses be driven overboard, a questionable but necessary mercy to all as talk has turned to drinking their blood for sustenance. <br /><br />As Horse Master I helped round them up on the rolling hills of Andalusia and herd them aboard at Cadiz and care for them on our journey to outposts in the colony of Florida. Blinking at the light, nostrils flared, each seems to know their fate after two months in the stifling hold. It takes but minutes for them to stamp and hesitate and then leap into the water. They pump their legs and hold their proud, confused heads high and swim to nowhere. <br /><br />The screams cut deeper than any blade.<br /><br />My work finished, I join my charges. A cruel wind stirs my hair and cools my face as the sea rushes up to greet me.Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-17509525771090193072011-04-25T04:28:00.000-07:002011-04-28T01:01:56.235-07:00The Road to Vestmanna<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0guoPV5KGtcesxDCmAzVpQ9Jo1OsiHECUg_tTwNs9imMsj9dz5gAN4_9nWhz6I_Zeo_fHV3ao0ABNmD_82tKAmw5TIoLNTInfrCmh8dLPHJnkf_uNFOfrX99CsbWBQiZ9qj11BaqbbJ4/s1600/upper+road+to+vestmanna.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0guoPV5KGtcesxDCmAzVpQ9Jo1OsiHECUg_tTwNs9imMsj9dz5gAN4_9nWhz6I_Zeo_fHV3ao0ABNmD_82tKAmw5TIoLNTInfrCmh8dLPHJnkf_uNFOfrX99CsbWBQiZ9qj11BaqbbJ4/s400/upper+road+to+vestmanna.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5600437945838656386" /></a><br /><div>Past Leynar and the entrance to the Vagar tunnel the road climbs to several hundred feet above sea level and passes above the picturesque village of Kvivik. Tucked into a valley on either side of the river Stora, Kvivik sits like a dream against the breathtaking backdrop of Vagarfjordur, the body of water that framed our view of Vagar from the house in Leynar. In the distance Koltur rode at anchor and somewhere in the mist beyond lay Sandoy. Kvivik was one of the oldest villages in the Faroes and was the site of an early Viking settlement. Something about it called to me, inviting me to explore there and possibly find a home among the hundred or so houses that nestled against the hillsides on either side of the river. A small sheltered harbor had been built snug and high walled where the land met the sea and I could just make out a few boats moored there before we swept around a curve and the Kvivik disappeared behind us. Little did I know that a year later I would finally enter the village proper as we observed the end stage of a grindadrap. Nothing would change in my mind because of what we observed. The town would remain beautiful despite the immediacy of the kill and the bloody asphalt and the hundred or so dead Pilot Whales neatly lined up near the harbor. In fact, I would come away from that day feeling a link with the past more profound than that instilled by ancient mounds and relics. </div><div><br /></div><div>But that day lay far in the future and was not our destination on this day.</div><div><br /></div><div>The road led up onto a grassy plateau and swept northeast along the shoulder of the land. In the middle of this empty landscape a pair of black dots appeared and then resolved into two geodesic dome homes, each roofed with bright green turf. They were a mix of modern and traditional architecture where one least expected it and seemed both in place and out of place. We passed them long before I thought to take a picture. Another mental note. Another strange sight. My mind was wide open to the newness.</div><div><br /></div><div> To our left and many hundreds of feet down, Vagarfjordur had narrowed between the steep side walls of Stremoy and Vagar to become Vestmannasund. Here and there along the shore we spotted arrangements of circles in the water and realized that these were fish farms where Salmon were raised for commercial markets abroad. Closer examination revealed many of these fish farms as we continued toward Vestmanna. The road turned right and gradually descended into the small village of Valar which sits opposite Vestmanna on one side of a small arm of Vestmannasund. A huge swath of glistening rock and tumbling white water appeared on the right. Children clung to handholds in the midst of the cascade and watched us as we passed, then resumed their play in a vertical swimming hole on a Summer's day in the Faroe Islands.</div><div><br /></div><div>We swung to the left and passed a series of huge pipes that climbed up into the hills above Vestmanna's outskirts and disappeared into some low clouds a thousand feet upslope. They dove under the road and into a hydroelectric plant near the shore to our left. I checked the map and saw a huge lake with a dam indicated on a plateau several miles inland. Oil might be hard to come by in the future but with a setup like this on every island the Faroes would be energy independent as long as the rains didn't let up.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bonnie turned down a side road and found her way to a small boat harbor a few hundred feet from the power station. She was looking for Gunnar Skuvadal, a gentleman who owned and operated the excursion boat Barbara that took passengers to the Vestmanna bird cliffs. Gunnar, like Pall, had answered the ad Bonnie had placed in Sosialurin requesting help for our expedition. Bonnie wanted to connect with him right away to thank him and to talk about her filming schedule.</div><div><br /></div><div>Gunnar's office was a sturdy metal trailer that sat on a concrete foundation next to a moveable boat ramp that led down to calm water in an empty berth. The trailer was wide open. A note on the door invited anyone to come in and have coffee and said the boat would be back in about an hour. We must have just missed Gunnar. Bonnie took out her notebook and wrote a brief message for him while I looked around. At each corner of the trailer sturdy 3/4 inch steel cables angled down from the roof to large eyebolts that were driven to their necks in the hard packed earth of the parking lot. The cables went over the top of each end of the trailer and were equipped with large turnbuckles at all four corners. I tested the tension on the cable closest to me. It was as taut as a bow string. I pointed out the arrangement to Bonnie.</div><div><br /></div><div>"You suppose they get some high winds around here?" I asked. </div><div><br /></div><div>Bonnie took it all in and grabbed her video camera from the car. She filmed the trailer and the surrounding area and then we got in the car and left the same way we came. Our navigation skills now included how to get to Vestmanna. Not the town proper but the boat harbor. We knew we'd be returning. The bird cliffs were high on the list of things to do on Stremoy.</div><div><br /></div><div>As we turned on to the main road for Leynar we saw a Texaco station across the street and pulled in to gas up. Inside there was a convenience store with all that hungry travelers could wish for in the way of victuals. We stocked up and when I went to pay I noticed that behind the wide counter there was a big grill of hot rollers turning an assortment of hot dogs. Cheese filled, chili filled or regular. Mustard, ketchup, mayonnaise and relish for inside the bun. The choices were endless.</div><div><br /></div><div>I got one of each. </div><div><br /></div><div>On the way back home we stopped on a bluff high above Vastmannasund and Bonnie filmed Larina with the smooth blue surface of the water far below as a backdrop. Shaggy black sheep grazed on the fenced in hillside above the road. The sun was still high in the sky but it was almost dinner time. When Bonnie was finished filming we beat feet for Leynar all the while drinking in the views that changed with every curve and filled my heart with a contentment I'd known only in the Hawaiian Islands. </div><div><br /></div><div>Another link? Subliminal island panoramas? Or was it more...?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>(To be continued.)</div><div><br /></div><div>(As always, thanks for reading. If this half-baked blog site will let you leave a comment, please do. If it won't, I'm sorry. Might have to go blog site hunting. Call the moving van. Alert the media. Aloha, D.) </div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-38494265185208024292011-04-24T21:35:00.000-07:002011-04-25T10:29:58.656-07:00Explorations in the (only) Mall<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI1teT8w3XcazaX5qNDhSlYZxvigzslS-JxSf26bzcXgu5XL3MUBN8ELEWWcvrqdp2JD-8v_1xq45A6HXtkquj1OnHi8719iNYt9LQDxlO1MsGytrn9EOz3YyIcoPGhjCqUM0emNd32fM/s1600/SMS+MAll.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI1teT8w3XcazaX5qNDhSlYZxvigzslS-JxSf26bzcXgu5XL3MUBN8ELEWWcvrqdp2JD-8v_1xq45A6HXtkquj1OnHi8719iNYt9LQDxlO1MsGytrn9EOz3YyIcoPGhjCqUM0emNd32fM/s400/SMS+MAll.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599574541450586642" /></a><br /><div>The mall was named SMS, a moniker we could make no sense out of because we were not schooled in the Faroese language. We immediately transformed it to S&M in our minds and it stuck somehow. From there on out we always referred to the mall as S&M and though there was no reason for it, we derived a great deal of amusement from saying, "I'm going to S&M" or "Let's go get something at S&M." It was not the first mental gyration we'd perform with the language, nor would it be the last. We were beginning to make the place our own. Was this how languages and places evolved over time. Probably not...... but maybe.<br /><br />The SMS shopping center was about four hundred feet long and a hundred and fifty feet wide. It had two levels with a central concourse and was spacious and well lit, a perfect location for upscale establishments. There were clothing stores, a well stocked music outlet, a grocery store on the bottom floor and all manner of people strolling up and down, talking animatedly, pushing baby carriages, smoking cigarettes and enjoying themselves. We spread out and each performed our own exploratory surveys. I found an ATM and withdrew some money then contemplated a bank of pay phones that lined a wall. The phones were of the European variety, with signage in Faorese. I was unable to intuitivley grasp the dialing procedure and decided to cross that bridge when I got to it. There was nothing I needed except for groceries, which I would purchase just before leaving, so people watching became the order of the day.<br /><br />Five facts became apparent after just a few minutes of observation. First was that there were very few fat people, and by very few I mean none. And by fat I mean of the corn fed American variety. Were I in an airport or a mall in middle America at least thirty percent of the people would be overweight. Here maybe one percent of the people in the mall had a BMI in the high range. Second was that there were very few tall people. Bear in mind that I'm six foot three inches tall so anyone taller than me was 'tall' and anyone shorter than me was 'short'. I saw one person taller than I. On the whole the men seemed to average about 5' 10" and the women an inch or two shorter. Third was that fifty percent of the people were smokers. A blue haze in the sunbeams let in by wide windows in the walls testified to the amount of secondhand smoke in the air. This was definitely a departure from what I was used to in Hawaii and would turn out to be a price I would have to pay for seeing the Faroe islands as if I lived there. Fourth was that a favorite hair color of brunette women was deep magenta, either in highlights or in a wide band somewhere in their hair. Fifth was that only twenty percent of the people were blonde and only five percent were what I would call the full on Scandanavian type. Blue eyes and straw blonde hair existed but were not as prominent as I expected.<br /><br />Since I'm describing things with broad brush strokes let me add that I saw several people of Asian or Indo-European descent (in my opinion) and one of African descent. Safe to say that the predominant race was Caucasian. This is indicative of nothing, except perhaps that the Faroes are, indeed, a bit isolated from the rest of the world, and my mentioning it should not be interpreted by readers as anything other than a report of what I was seeing that afternoon in the mall in Torshavn.<br /><br />Next stop was the grocery store where I roamed the aisles and perused the labels of all the products. They were all of mostly European origin, I assumed, but it was easy enough to select rough approximations of items I was looking for. Bread, cheese of many types, cold cuts, fish, snacks and candy were all there to be found and I stocked up and got in a checkout line. The person at the cash register spoke to me in Faroese and smiled. I smiled back, looked at the total on the register readout and handed her the amount in Faroese bills. She gave me change and I spoke my first words of Faroese. "Takk Fyri," I said, which means thank you very much. In her eyes I registered awareness that I was a foreigner and also an acknowledgement that I'd spoken to her in her home tongue. Only 558 words to go until I'd be able to have a rudimentary conversation. </div><br />Everyone collected outside and we piled into the car for the trip to Leynar. Clouds were beginning to accumulate around the peaks and the temperature was dropping. Offshore to the southwest wind whipped up whitecaps between Stremoy and the small islands of Koltur and Hestur. We had experienced beautiful weather for two days but I felt this was bound to change. I was reminded of the old saying, 'climate is what you want, but weather is what you get.' This would hold true for the Faroe islands, in spades.<div><br /></div><div>(To be continued.)</div><div>(Please join my blog and comment. It's great to know you're reading. Mahalo and Aloha, D.)<br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div></div>Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-78029390850632707392011-04-22T23:02:00.000-07:002011-04-23T16:13:52.570-07:00Tabula rasa.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEMWiWUBJr5RmQ7rYuvEDTelskpTha5oxOhAWXhSD4-aELaargCFMf3YoTrv4DjDvuBT8kDA8ku1xGWVUIqZHQ7Fo5q7P-xI55AYLAmgelwGHKm0bTDQqUvo673Zbvs8bD4Zz7n8aHcbI/s1600/Tinganes.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEMWiWUBJr5RmQ7rYuvEDTelskpTha5oxOhAWXhSD4-aELaargCFMf3YoTrv4DjDvuBT8kDA8ku1xGWVUIqZHQ7Fo5q7P-xI55AYLAmgelwGHKm0bTDQqUvo673Zbvs8bD4Zz7n8aHcbI/s400/Tinganes.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598872238870691058" /></a><br />Just as we finished the arm wrestling match the reporter from the newspaper walked in the door and joined us. Seems his office was just a few blocks away and he'd heard we were at Cafe Natur for lunch. How this happened is anybody's guess, but in this case I think Pall called him, assuming that the tavern was comfortable environment for all parties involved. Introductions were made and Bonnie spent the next forty minutes answering questions. I think it was disconcerting to be the subject of an interview, but she soon found her sea legs and was explaining our intentions in terms of 'promoting cultural exchange' and 'global education'. When asked about why she chose the Faroe Islands she made a joke about throwing a dart at the map. Her answer mimicked a feeling widely held among Faroese that their country is often overlooked in the world. By responding in this fashion she was able to side step revealing that our trip to the Faroes was, in fact, an expedition. We wanted to learn and did not want to be fed 'party lines' because we'd been pigeon-holed in the minds of the Faroese by repeating the mistakes of others that came before us. We wanted a clean slate.<div><br /></div><div>When the interview was over we walked across the street and down a winding lane between the buildings of the Tinganes until we reached a rocky peninsula upon which the ancient council originally met. Careful examination of the rocks revealed petroglyphs, runes and symbols carved long ago by inhabitants of the islands. Here was another striking similarity between the Faroes and Hawaii. I added it to the list as we posed for a series of photographs, thinking about our place in the long line of visitors to this storied place.</div><div><br /></div><div>What had life been like here 1200 years earlier? How did people survive? What did they eat? How long was the growing season? I tried to imagine a long, wet Winter, dark as a coal sack and cold enough to crack bones. How did one grow and store enough food to last until Spring?</div><div><br /></div><div>Families and villages must have had to work hard, day in and day out for as long as plants could grow. They would have fished and dried their catch, salted or pickled it, anything to make it last. Sheep would have been a welcome staple, both for wool and mutton. And Pilot Whales? Their appearance offshore in pods large and small would have seemed like a gift from God.</div><div><br /></div><div>We parted company with the reporter and Pall, who lived close by and said he would walk, and gathered at the car to decide what to do. We had most of the afternoon remaining and lots of light. I broke out my map and opened it up on the hood of the car. After a few minutes discussion we decided to find the shopping mall in town, then return to Leynar to drop off Gabe, Louis and Cristof. Then Bonnie, Larina and I would drive out to Vestmanna, a town far up one of the islands fjords. </div><div><br /></div><div>All around us life in Torshavn proceeded apace. We were part of the landscape now and as long as we didn't open our mouths we fit right in. Kind of. We piled in to the car. Bonnie drove and I navigated and we drove off in search of the largest shopping mall in the Faroe islands. </div><div><br /></div><div>(to be continued.)</div><div><br /></div><div>(Thank you for reading. It means more than you know. Aloha, D.)</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /><div><br /></div><div> </div></div></div>Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-12799380761104467052011-04-22T04:35:00.000-07:002011-04-22T04:55:08.214-07:00Interlude<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMbm-QoULsHRHDdFrRDVze_1985X1AUn3sCmtY_Ch8gOzNNa4PYSe2WghnSAn4ibeuDVlidm_SR57Qgi2UJ4Q3iI9UP3mVLEzRBtcaWqQF1fQkNQkhFmNBPn88xLnqTYNEZSLwkvoTQg/s1600/P1010021+smoky+haze.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMbm-QoULsHRHDdFrRDVze_1985X1AUn3sCmtY_Ch8gOzNNa4PYSe2WghnSAn4ibeuDVlidm_SR57Qgi2UJ4Q3iI9UP3mVLEzRBtcaWqQF1fQkNQkhFmNBPn88xLnqTYNEZSLwkvoTQg/s400/P1010021+smoky+haze.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598374936415379874" /></a><br />Before we walked to our appointment with the reporter for Socialurin I was challenged to an arm wrestling match by one of Cafe Natur's patrons. He was a fisherman fresh off of a two week stretch at sea and was friendly and curious about us. We probably stood out like sore thumbs and even if we didn't, all one had to do was listen to us talk and we were pegged as foreigners. <div><br /></div><div>When told that we were a film crew from Hawaii we were asked a question we would hear many times. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Hawaii? Why would you come here from Hawaii?"</div><div><br /></div><div>Somewhere in the middle of our explanation the gauntlet was thrown down and I found myself the representative of our table in an arm wrestling match. When they could not beat me right handed we switched to our off arms and went at it again. More beers were consumed by the participants. We were learning that the people of the Faroes were friendly to fault and good natured as a rule.</div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't want to leave.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>(to be continued...)</div>Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-66025637170619114442011-04-19T05:24:00.000-07:002011-04-23T15:56:28.189-07:00Torshavn<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnP5vGJhwUgCXg1fToW2X9vhbtQvqs93TurZlbzELmXiRnxVSMmGowLD0LC_7zl-m7pQ2ISMOUu_nhsnpw3h6Osp9f1aLeL9NpSsiG3e1qy-mJmyEQMBEryLqkSzFMrqNoBnOL5-sbUbE/s1600/Torshavn+eastern+harbor.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597592711287881458" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnP5vGJhwUgCXg1fToW2X9vhbtQvqs93TurZlbzELmXiRnxVSMmGowLD0LC_7zl-m7pQ2ISMOUu_nhsnpw3h6Osp9f1aLeL9NpSsiG3e1qy-mJmyEQMBEryLqkSzFMrqNoBnOL5-sbUbE/s400/Torshavn+eastern+harbor.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh929KwjvMjt6TX8jzQAN54I0Psrybzg5smoL96NlBQiAgArJE2LZFN-jOzvp3OwPtYLr7XBUv6-8jrQknpeqv3CbNjm20-2Of2YJZp8eeYX31Je77XMU3-_bg0OvnvQ_9oCR7IFRsjSP8/s1600/4821413512_0c201c8890.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 154px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597588664953143634" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh929KwjvMjt6TX8jzQAN54I0Psrybzg5smoL96NlBQiAgArJE2LZFN-jOzvp3OwPtYLr7XBUv6-8jrQknpeqv3CbNjm20-2Of2YJZp8eeYX31Je77XMU3-_bg0OvnvQ_9oCR7IFRsjSP8/s400/4821413512_0c201c8890.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>I woke warm and cozy in my sleeping bag and listened to the watercourse that had sung me to sleep. The house was quiet and there was a stillness in the air as I rose and dressed. The waters of the fjord between Vagar and Stremoy were smooth as glass and reflected Vagar's bulk perfectly. To the west, framed by the mouth of the fjord a small island rose from the cobalt sea beneath the blue morning sky. I realized then that the first thing I was going to have to find was a good map. I wanted to know where I stood in the landscape, to learn the names of every village, peak and promontory, and to be able to find myself by looking at the topography. The land and the sea were speaking to me and I wanted to be able to return the favor.</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>I am, as a hard and fast rule, a night person. I've always said that the best way to see a dawn was to stay up for it. The quiet house made me realize that something strange was afoot. 5:45AM and I was wide awake and by all appearances the first one up in our little household. The Faroe Islands are eleven hours ahead of Hawaii Standard Time. 6AM in the Faroes was 7PM at home. Perhaps my body clock was simply still running on Hawaiian time. I would have to keep track of when I woke see if the time changed in the weeks to come. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>The kitchen had a small table and two chairs and I set up shop there with my computer and notebook. Hot chocolate and toast with melted butter and cheese was my breakfast while I recalled and documented as much as I could of the previous day and of the feeling I had right then, in the early morning stillness as the sleepers began to wake.</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>First to rise was Bonnie. She walked into the kitchen with a big smile on her face and began to make coffee. We sat and talked and drank in the view and shook our heads in amazement. We were in the Faroes! I still get chills up my spine when I remember that morning. Three long weeks to do exactly as we wished and an infinity of possibilities open before us.</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>"What are you writing?" Bonnie asked. </div><br /><div><br />"Everything." I replied. Bonnie smiled.</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>That was how most mornings would start for the duration of our stay. Up in the stillness to write about the previous days adventures and occurences and then a hearty breakfast as we planned the new day's activities.</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>Pall arrived shortly thereafter and we roused the gang, fed them breakfast, then crammed into the car for the ride to Torshavn, a city of about 20,000 inhabitants located on the northern side of the south-western tip of the Island of Stremoy. Larina sat on someones lap in the back and Bonnie crowded in between Pall and I in the front. The trip lasted about half an hour and took us along a route close to the coast. On one side several bodies of water were visible and on the other the land rose to an ever changing view of mountain tops wreathed in clouds. The weather was marvellous. Blue sky and bright sunshine combined to show us the islands in all their green clad splendor. Waterfalls appeared regularly as white cascades that wound up into the hills and disappeared among the crags. We passed through two small towns and gradually turned west until we crested a small hill and saw the capitol of the Faroes laid out before us. As we approached the outskirts of town Pall pointed out a dense thicket of tree surrounding a few buildings. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>"That is our forest," he deadpanned with a ghost of a smile that would come to characterize him.</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>It would have been funny if it were not true. These were the first trees of any note that we had seen besides a few in the river valley that led to Leynar. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>"Why are there so few trees?" I asked.</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>"Sheep," Pall replied. "And cold winters." The answer made perfect sense.</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>One translation of Faroe Islands is Sheep Islands, supposedly bestowed upon them by Irish monks who used the islands as a hermitage in the 8th century. Whatever the case, the name was fitting. On every hill and Hamrar edge on the way to Torshavn, sheep could be seen in abundance, each wearing a numbered tag to identify them prior to shearing or in the unfortunate event that a motorist hit one. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>We made our way along the seaward side of the town, past a ferry terminal and into a parking lot next to a small boat harbor that abutted a much larger harbor that serviced cargo ships. The town came right down to the water, buildings neat and tidy and painted in bright colors. Pall pointed out the Tinganes, a group of older red buildings situated on a rocky peninsula, site of the oldest functioning parliament in Europe. We strolled past the innermost boats, small fishing craft very reminiscent of the classic Viking ships of old. They looked well maintained and seaworthy, lines properly stowed, bumpers positioned carefully and all hatches battened down. Here and there large jellyfish undulated slowly through the shallow water.</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>One of the first buildings that caught our eye was a two story tavern, black sided with a brilliant green turf roof. Painted in bold letters across the seaward end were the words, 'Cafe Natur'. This establishment was to become one of the unofficial headquarters of our expedition. It was closed, but I knew we'd be seeing its interior later in the day. </div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>Pall led us inland and uphill through narrow streets toward the city center. No building I could see was over six stories high and the majority were mostly one and two story edifices. Old and new mingled without clashing in a spacious yet Old-Worldly arrangement around plazas and squares. Pall pointed out a kiosk, gaily painted in red with white trim.</div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>"My grandmother works there," he said. "She sells newspapers and magazines and has owned and operated it for almost thirty years."</div><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><div>The town was a delightful mixture of modern and old buildings, with sculptures throughout and an endless amount of shops to explore. I found a bookstore with a great section of maps and chose two. The first was a good road map and the other a large folding topographical map that would serve me well when I wandered far afield. We spent the morning wandering and photgraphing and drinking in the sights and sounds. Summer in the Faroes is tourist season and we fit the bill. You have to start somewhere to get to know a place and Torshavn was perfect for our first day. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Around noon we walked down to Cafe Natur and had lunch and some very fine Faroese beer. If I could have figured out a way to stop time I'd be there still. It's that nice. Our meeting with the reporter from Socialurin was scheduled for right after lunch and I felt somehow that the tables had been turned. Why on earth anyone wanted to interview us was a mystery. But, hey, when in Rome...</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>(To be continued.) </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>(If you stopped in with us at Cafe Natur, please leave a comment and I'll buy you a round.)</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>(Especially you, Eric!)</div></div><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div>Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-6852755749542924182011-04-16T00:05:00.000-07:002011-04-23T15:55:10.785-07:00Grindadrap, Groceries and the Midnight SunI'd known of the Faroe Islands through stories my father told me when I was young. He spoke of fishermen he'd known during two summers spent as a deck hand aboard a trawler that worked the waters off the coast of New Jersey. From him I got the sense that the Faroes were a proud, seafaring people whose island home was somewhere in the North Atlantic. I heard about the Faroes again in the late eighties, this time in association with the killing of Pilot Whales as depicted in lurid news releases by radical environmental groups. Of the two, the impression left by my father is closer to the truth, but how I found that out is what this story is about. Must not get ahead of myself.<br /><br />I felt the killing of hundreds of Pilot Whales each Summer in the Faroes didn't have to happen, but my feelings were not the issue. My job, and the job of our group, was to be objective. We had to observe and we had to listen in order to avoid being labelled as activists or troublemakers. Our thoughts had to remain hidden, or at the very least, be carefully articulated, if we expected to walk among the Faroese without a curtain of silence being drawn around us. It was decided after much debate that we were to remain quiet on the subject of the Grindadrap unless asked point blank. At that point it was up to us to try to explain our feeling honestly and in the context of being from Hawaii, an island culture on the other side of the world.<br /><br /><br /><br />There it was again. Island culture.<br /><br /><br /><br />Hawaii and the Faroes were linked. Isolated in their pre-history in the middle of vast oceans, reliant on sea life for sustenance, the two archipelagos shared a common bond. The Sea and Pilot Whales.<br /><br /><br /><br />I knew the sea, having spent many years on or beneath it on surface ships and submarines, but I knew little of Pilot Whales. Why were they used for food in the Faroes and not in Hawaii? Despite a growing list of similarities between the two island groups, here was a curious difference. Did it have anything to do with the fecundity of Hawaiian waters. Were there so many other types of marine life that the Pilot Whales there somehow missed out on being placed on the Hawaiian's menu? If this was the case then how did the Faroese come to use the Pilot Whales of the North Atlantic as a food source?<br /><br /><br /><br />There was much to learn, this much was clear. As we talked things over hunger began to set in and the urge to get out of the house and explore a grocery store took precedence over protocol.<br /><br /><br /><br />Pall offered to take a few of us to the nearest store and I called shotgun. Bonnie and Louie needed to buy food for the gang and thus our provisioning crew was set. As we hiked down to the road I noticed the sun in the western sky above Vagar and looked at my watch. The time was 6:30PM but the sun was still high above the horizon. So this was what the midnight sun was all about. At 4 degrees below the Arctic Circle, the Faroes would see the sun for almost 22 hours of every day of our stay. It was going to take some getting used to.<br /><br /><br /><br />We drove out to the main highway and turned right. The road was modern and well maintained. The only difference of note was that all major intersections were roundabouts, a traffic management solution that I soon became a fan of. At a gas station near the end of a long and narrow body of water called Kollafjord we piled out and invaded a small convenience store. I purchased food from three of the four 'C's' food groups: Coke, candy, and chips. I also bought some cheese and packs of sandwich meat, some locally baked bread and four large Cadbury milk chocolate bars. Heaven. Bonnie and Louie were more restrained and tried to shop intelligently, as we had to make dinner and breakfast before we headed out the next morning. One of their purchases was from the fouth of the four "C' food groups: coffee. I think I was the only non coffeee drinker in the bunch but could not brag as caffeine from soda was my drug of choice.<br /><br /><br /><br />Back at home base in Leynar Pall (who had taken the bus to meet us at the airport.) said goodbye took our rental car and headed to Torshavn, where he lived with his wife and parents in their traditional house in the middle of town. Louie cooked a fine meal of baked fish, vegetables and fresh warm bread with melted butter. The sky remained clear and the sun slowly pretended to set. We ate and talked and marvelled at the view from our lanai. A cold wind blew in off the fjord and up the steep sides of the hill upon which our house sat.<br /><br />Careful study of the hills and mountains around us revealled a curious step sided effect to the slopes. there would be a grass covered incline that ended in a steep cliff of stone that rose for a hundred feet or more, then another grass covered slope that again met a higher cliff face and so on until the summit of the peak was reached. I learned later that these rock steps, or divisions in the hillsides were called Hamrar and were a clear sign of the Faroes volcanic origins. Another link between here and home. Another sign to pay attention to.<br /><br />We talked late into the night, which never became night, until it was clear we'd better get some sleep or pay the price in the morning. I commandeered three cushions from the back of one of the sofas in the living room and arranged them along the inner wall of the lanai. My sleeping bag went on top of these and I climbed in and looked at my watch. It was two in the morning and bright as day. Tomorrow was already here.<br /><br />I rolled over to face the wall, closed my eyes and fell asleep to the soft music of rushing water and the strange and beautiful calls of birds unknown.<br /><br /><br />(To be continued.)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div></div>Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-71091671611596231772011-04-13T05:59:00.000-07:002011-04-15T08:16:15.946-07:00In what world?<div>After a few minutes Pall hung up the phone and motioned to Bonnie who was still trying to console Larina about the loss of her purse. Bonnie raised her eyebrows in an unspoken question.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"The purse, sweater and camera were found and turned in to the airport authorities. They have given them to a police officer who is going to meet us at the toll booth on the other side of the tunnel so that we don't have to pay for another crossing. Would anyone like to go with me to pick up Larina's things."</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>You could have heard a pin drop.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"You've got to be kidding," I said, giving voice to what everyone in the room with the exception of Pall was thinking. I laughed out loud at the realization that we Americans were not in Kansas anymore. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>"What is the matter?" asked Pall, clearly unaware that we had pretty much written off the purse, money, tickets, camera and sweater. When we explained it Pall replied in a matter of fact voice that there was very little crime in the Faroes. Bonnie and Larina and I went with Pall down the switchback trail to the parking lot, got in his car and headed for the Vagar tunnel.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I went along because I could not get enough of the scenery and knew I'd see more of it on the road than sitting at the house. This was to become the default decision of choice for Bonnie and I throughout our stay. If there was a vehicle available, we were in it and on the prowl. True to Pall's word, a police officer was waiting at the toll booth when we arrived. Larina retrieved her items and thanked him and we zipped back through the tunnel and took the turnoff to Leynar. On the way through the tiny village I noticed a road leading down to the beach and decided to go check it out as soon as possible. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Back at the house Louie had moved his and Bonnie's things into the one bedroom and Cristof and Gabe had staked out the livingroom. Nobody wanted my spot on the porch. In short order we'd settled in and were planning the next days activities. Pall had scheduled an interview with a reporter for Socialurin for the afternoon. Turns out they wanted to write an article about us, the film crew from Hawaii. We gathered around the coffee table and began to hash out responsibilities and the do's and don'ts of our crew during our stay.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>First and foremost was the question of how to answer when asked what our stance was on the Grindadrap, the Faroese practice of herding pods of Pilot Whales onto a beach and butchering them for food. I couldn't speak for the others but I was determined to keep my mouth shut one way or another until I had learned more about the citizens of the Faroe Islands. This afternoon I'd learned that my ideas about people's behavior, their actions and how they lived their lives was colored by my experience living a world apart from the land we were there to learn about. First day on the job and I had let who I was interfere with seeing who the Faroese were. </div><div><br /></div><div>I vowed not to let it happen again.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-13751395118451693462011-04-08T03:19:00.000-07:002011-04-23T15:52:36.665-07:00Leynar and Home<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi26bLADFznx5pJ8cosKwYHmV3Bo7cN-F1kQCP_-8ECJ21cgVkUbN5laCfYiSVuWNAhIivCOpRBBNin6MahRbTh0WkVV91Eudjejr6QHgr-rhJcoxEi7oNmNq_gw5V9nc6z5dzi27Lnhuo/s1600/Vagar+tunnel+entrance+and+Skalingur+and+Leynar+in+distance.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi26bLADFznx5pJ8cosKwYHmV3Bo7cN-F1kQCP_-8ECJ21cgVkUbN5laCfYiSVuWNAhIivCOpRBBNin6MahRbTh0WkVV91Eudjejr6QHgr-rhJcoxEi7oNmNq_gw5V9nc6z5dzi27Lnhuo/s400/Vagar+tunnel+entrance+and+Skalingur+and+Leynar+in+distance.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594855823616635570" /></a><br />After an hour and a half Pall Hammer returned with Bonnie and we all crammed ourselves into the car for the trip to Leynar. Bonnie's presence made the trip a kind of clown car experience, what with four of us in the back seat and three in the front of a car designed to fit five people. She realized as we piled in that she'd complicated things but was beside herself with excitement.<br /><br />"I had to talk to you guys," she said. "Wait until you see where we're staying. And I'm sorry we took so long but Pall and I had to schlep the luggage up a...well, you'll see."<br /><br />The road led us through Vatnsoyrar and Midvagar and Sandavagur, all pristine villages with houses painted bright colors or the traditional black. Some had grass roofs, a sight that amazed us no end yet seemed not the least bit out of place. Churches were prominent, each a different shape and size, but all well kept and very obviously an integral part of their communities. These three villages were separated by several miles open land covered with short, thick grass growing in rocky soil. The farther we drove the more it became apparent that trees were in short supply. All was vista and panorama. White clouds rode the wind like galleons through a blue sky that framed a green and mountainous land. The strange newness of the view kept my eyes roaming and my mind busy trying to sort out what I was seeing and how it related to the map I'd studied at the airport.<br /><br />Before long we reached the terminus of the Vagar end of a five kilometer long tunnel beneath the sea. On the other side was Stremoy, home of Torshavn, the capitol of the Faroes and of Leynar, our destination for the day. (See photo above for view of Vagar end of tunnel with Stremoy Island in the distance.)<br /><br />( http://www.thefullwiki.org/Vágoy )<div><br /></div><div><br />The tunnel is one of many built to link the islands and the toll was 130 Faroese Krone. That equals about twenty dollars. (Still, it beat the alternative, which was swimming. Even in June the water at 62 degrees north latitude was very cold.) </div><div><br /></div><div>The car zoomed into the tunnel and descended perceptibly. The roadway was well illuminated and the air smelled only slightly of exhaust fumes. Huge fans mounted in the overhead of the tunnel were designed to keep the tunnel clear of noxious gasses, but Pall told us that at times the entrances are blocked should traffic overload the ventilation system. We reached the bottom and started to climb and I thought about the weight of water above us. Again my life aboard submarines gave me a perspective that others did not have. Pressure and cold and water held at bay by technology. Bright sunshine greeted us at the Stremoy end of the tunnel and we almost immediately entered a roundabout and took a right hand turn where the road signs pointed toward Leynar. </div><div><br /></div><div>On our right a small river ran picturesque down through a winding valley to a grey shingled beach nestled between two wide arms of the coast. Above the left hand side of the beach was the village of Leynar, a quiet community of about sixty houses. We were on the southern coast of Stremoy and headed southwest. The road began a gentle climb and the sea to the right dropped away. A half mile outside of the town proper and a few hundred feet in elevation Pall pulled the car into a stony parking area on the left hand side of the road and we piled out.</div><div><br /></div><div>The parking area was bordered on two sides by a steep wall of rock. Steps and railings bolted to the stone face led up to a group of three houses high above us. To the right, paralleling the steps a brook splashed and trilled down the steep slope, crossed the road via a wide culvert and continued through a narrow gorge down to the sea. Sixty feet above the parking area the trail turned into a series of switchbacks that led to the lowest of the houses.</div><div><br /></div><div>"We had to carry all the luggage up to the house," said Bonnie with a rueful grin. "That's why we took so long getting back to the airport.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Better you than than me," I replied as I trudged upward and ascended the stairs of the house.</div><div><br /></div><div>http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Leynar,_Faroe_Islands.JPG</div><div><br /></div><div>http://www.360cities.net/image/leynar-faroe-islands#271.95,-6.27,70.0</div><div><br /></div><div>Our home for the next three weeks was small and tidy, perched upon wooden piers sunk into the bedrock that rose precipitously for a mile or so to a high tor and connecting ridge that towered over the town and beach. The stairs led to a thirty foot long covered porch or lanai that ran the length of the house. In the center of this a door led into the house proper and the living room, the largest in the house at about twenty feet wide by fifteen feet deep. A couch and some chairs surrounded a small coffee table. Our baggage was piled in this room and seemed to fill the space. Through a small entrance at the back of this room was the only bathroom, a tiny room with a shower, toilet, wash basin and a strange contraption that turned out to be a combination clothes washer and dryer. Through the far side of the bathroom was the only bedroom and bed in the house. It was small and if the bathroom was occupied, you were trapped until whoever was in there was finished. To the left of the living room was a small kitchen that contained a refrigerator, stove, some cabinets and a small pantry. On the wall facing the sea was a sink and counter top, above which was a window that looked through the lanai, over the rail and out to one of the most beautiful views I had ever seen. </div><div><br /></div><div>I walked back out to the lanai and put my sleeping bag down on the rough planking beneath the kitchen window. Here in the open air, closest to the sea and sky would be my sleeping spot. Cold nights and moist air ensured that I would have no competition for the space. I placed my pack against the wall and went to the lanai rail or parapet and looked out at the world.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the distance the island of Vagar rose from a fjord like channel that snaked north and west between Stremoy and appeared to open on the sea far off in the mist. To the left, south and east the channel widened to frame two islands, Koltur and Hestur rising from the sea on the horizon. Leynar and the beach around which the town had sprung up in years long past was laid out before me like a picture post card. </div><div><br /></div><div>Home.</div><div><br /></div><div>At that moment a wail sounded from inside the house. Larina was missing her purse and with it her passport, return tickets and all of her money. Along with those items she realized that her sweater and camera were also missing. The last place she remembered seeing them was on the table where we waited at the airport. </div><div><br /></div><div>Larina was beside herself and nothing Bonnie said could comfort her. No one mentioned that she should have been more careful. Pall got on the phone and dialed the airport, an act I thought futile in the extreme. Too much time had passed between our departure from the airport and the discovery that Larina's purse and possessions were missing. To my way of thinking they were, like the proverbial dog's dinner, long gone. </div><div><br /></div><div>(To be continued.)</div><div>(If you've found this story and liked it, please leave a comment and join my blog so I'll know you visited. Manna from heaven is what comes to mind when I think of those who read and say hello.)</div><div><br /></div><div> Mahalo,</div><div><br /></div><div>Doug </div><div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><br /></div></div>Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-48726693466016815732011-04-07T13:50:00.000-07:002011-04-23T15:51:19.811-07:00OrientationThe Vagar Airport arrivals concourse was also the departures concourse. It was a large rectangular building with a small entrance lobby which opened onto a spacious glass walled waiting area that looked out onto the runway and contained a concession stand, souvenir store, news stand and a few displays of Faroese cultural items. About thirty square tables with metal chairs allowed passengers and their loved ones to wait in comfort for departing or arriving flights. Security was present but there were no oppressive choke point searches or endless lines of shoeless passengers filling bins with their personal items. Comfortable was the word that came to mind. It was a throwback to an earlier time and not the worse for being so.<br /><br />The Faroese language was dominant throughout, as one would expect, yet careful listening revealed that many people, both workers and travelers, were speaking english when necessary. The concession stand had a large variety of food for sale but what caught my eye was a type of hot dog, thin and long, that was held in a long crispy one piece bun carried in a piece of paper or a napkin. Ketchup, mustard or mayonaise was squirted down a perfectly sized hole in the open end of the bun and then your choice of hot dogs, cheese filled, hot and spicy or regular, were slipped into the hole, wrapped in paper and handed to you. I filed this appetizing delicacy away for future research.<br /><br />On one wall of the Atlantic Air ticketing booth a large map of the Faroes showed a tight group of eighteen islands that covered a space in the North Atlantic that was seventy miles from north to south and fifty mile from east to west. It was like looking at a Rorschach Blot test. The names of each island all seemed to end in 'oy' and all of the place names were composed of ninety per cent consonants with a few vowels sprinkled in for good measure. Trying to guess how to pronounce any of them gave me a headache. The knowledge that it took me three years before I felt at ease with Hawaiian place names put things in perspective. I resolved to try to learn the correct pronunciation of every word, but would not beat myself up if I got them wrong the first few times.<br /><br />Closer examination of the map revealed a pattern in the layout of the islands. Each was in general, separated from the next by a fjord or narrow channel of water. The channels were oriented from northwest to southeast. I tried to imagine what forces had contributed to the shaping of the islands and the channels between them. Glaciers? Geologic uplift? Several hundred miles to the northwest was Iceland, a land mass created entirely by volcanic eruptions. Could the Faroes be volcanic in origin? It was at this point that first noticed the similarities between the Faroes and the Hawaiian Islands. The notion was vague and nebulous at first, but would later grow more substantial as I learned about the unique archipelago we had come to visit.<br /><br />Bonnie's plane arrived and I was reunited with what I began to think of as 'the gang'. They walked from their plane to the terminal with the same wide eyed fascination that I must have displayed an hour earlier. As they collected their baggage Bonnie introduced me to a tall, blue eyed young man with soft brown hair and a very quiet, yet attentive demeanor. Páll Georg Hammer had responded to Bonnie's ad in Socialurin, on of the major newspapers in the Faroes, and had agreed to act as a liason and guide for her endeavor. Páll dove right in and got us organized and sitting at two tables. He then explained that he would have to take Bonnie and the majority of our luggage to Leynar, a small village on another island, where he had rented a house for us to stay. They would offload the luggage and Páll would return for the rest of us. We helped them load up in a small blue sedan Bonnie had rented and waved as they drove off, then returned to our tables to pass the time until Páll returned.<br /><br />As would become my habit during our time in the Faroes, I got out my notebook and began to jot down my impressions of the place, our trip thus far and impressions of the team Bonnie had assembled. Larina, Bonnie's daughter, was a high strung young woman with brown hair and a petite frame. She was pretty and pert and had been brought along by her mother because Bonnie wanted someone to connect with the youth of the Faroes. Louie was Bonnie's brother and closest relative. They shared a tight bond from their youth and Louis' cosmopolitan nature would allow him to merge smoothly into the club scene and city life in general. Christof Putzel, Bonnie Carini's nephew, was a budding film-maker fresh off of the success of Left Behind, an award winning documentary about AIDs orphans in Kenya. Cristof had the most journalistic chops and a mindset that was focused and sharp. He had an eye for details and the quiet confidence of youth. Gabe was a tall, handsome, dark haired Hawaiian youth and friend of her family that Bonnie had recruited to mix with the locals and report. He was a direct counterpoint to the stereotypical blonde haired, blue eyed Scandanavian and as such would attract a great deal of attention from many young women throughout the following weeks. Gabe was an accomplished SCUBA diver and Ukulele player whose outlook on life was simple and to the point. Hang loose and go with the flow.<br /><br />The last guy on the list was the writer. I wanted to help wherever I could, but in reality what I most wanted to do was observe and absorb and document everything we experienced on the trip. Mine was the easiest job on the crew because it was exactly what I wanted to do. Years ago I had written one novel with a friend and was in the middle of another when I decided to drop everything to travel and work with Bonnie. My mind was geared toward the big picture and the overarching view. What, I wanted to know, was the story? Any additional help I gave to the effort would be a plus for her team, but I think Bonnie knew I would be the recorder of things. She knew also that I was a person of like mindset when it came to one of the reasons for her travel to the Faroes - The Pilot Whales and the Grindadrap.<br /><br /><br />(To be continued...)Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-46877165713826127402011-04-06T19:24:00.000-07:002011-04-07T04:21:11.895-07:00Touchdown on VágurThe next morning I woke to the alarm and went downstairs to check out. Four in the morning and Copenhagen was as quiet and still as a large city can be. I asked the clerk to call me a cab and walked out to the sidewalk to wait. A doorman/porter greeted me and we passed a few minutes with polite conversation. The big news of the morning, which he related to me after looking up the street in both directions, as though there might be someone besides me listening, was that Bono had just left the hotel. I didn't know how to react to this momentous news. After I left would he tell the next person that Doug had just left the hotel? Somehow I doubted it. Precious anonymity. Have to guard it.<br /><br />Taxi to the airport as the world woke around me. Glimpses of huge wind turbines on pedestals in a body of water seen between passing buildings. Sights and sounds and an unending flat aspect to the land. A sea level city.<br /><br />Airport check in and security. Back in the homogenized zone with a slight European flavor. Found my gate and waited for Bonnie and the gang to arrive. I was shoe-horning myself into the middle of a team of unknowns. Odd man out and acutely aware of it.<br /><br />Bonnie and company showed up a few minutes later and I was introduced in short order to Bonnie's brother, Louie, her daughter Larina, nephew Christoph and a friend of Bonnie's named Gabe. They were to fly out a few minutes behind me on a different airline and after greeting me they continued on to their departure gate. Bonnie remained behind and we caught up. Though it was obvious my appearance on the scene had thrown her for a loop she took it in stride and assured me that she had meant what she'd said about joining them, but that she could not believe I actually had. I told her I would find my own accommodations if necessary and still contribute to the team effort. She told me not to worry, that it would all work out and that she'd see me at the airport in the Faroes. With that, she followed her crew toward her gate and left me to my own devices.<br /><br />The national airline of the Faroes is Atlantic Airways. They operate a fleet of eight Avro BAe 146-200's, a small, quiet and efficient four engine jets. Once on board and airborne I realized quickly that many of the passengers knew each other. They were friendly and polite to a fault. I struck up a halting conversation with a schoolteacher from Suduroy, though at the time I did not know what or where Suduroy was. His name was Swen Johansen and when he heard that I was going to be participating in the filming of a documentary he offered to put me in touch with several people on his island that might be of assistance.<br /><br />The flight was uneventful until we descended out of the clouds over the island of Vágur, site of the Faroes' only airport. The pilot announced on the intercom that there were substantial crosswinds and to make sure our seat belts were fastened. Looking out the window I saw a verdant green land of hills and rugged peaks wreathed in grey clouds. There no roads or houses in view. We were flying right down the middle of a valley toward the distant (I assumed) runway when the jet was buffeted severely. Everyone on board screamed and laughed as if they'd ridden this roller coaster before. If they weren't upset then I wasn't going to worry, but after several more gyrations I moved the approach right to the top of the list for turbulence I'd experienced while flying.<br /><br />We touched down at Vágur Airport and taxied to a stop at a small terminal. A set of stairs was rolled out to the jet and I was reminded of the days when there were no jetways on interisland flights in the Hawaiian Islands. I felt right at home. Walking across the tarmac to the terminal I marvelled at the blue sky and beautiful green plateau that the runway was perched upon. Looking to the north-east I could see the valley we'd threaded on our approach from the sea. It was narrow and steep sided and framed the distant sea. <br /><br />A feeling of amazement and anticipation filled me. Whatever was going to happen in the next few weeks had begun. After a three day journey, for better or worse, I had set foot on the Faroe Islands.<br /><br />I went into the terminal, collected my pack and sleeping bag and began to explore the building while I waited for Bonnie's plane to arrive. <br /><br /><br />(To be continued.)Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-73119076603348408982011-04-06T03:59:00.000-07:002011-04-06T06:09:12.390-07:00OmenI could almost hear the cosmic gears spin and the tumblers click into place one by one as I scraped together what money I had, purchased a ticket and verified that my passport was still in order. Explaining to my girl friend that I was going to go live in the Faroes (where?) for twenty-three days (how long?) in an as yet undetermined location (where are you staying?) with five other people, one of whom was a dear female friend of mine was not easy. (It didn't matter that she was married.) The need to write (scripts, interview questions, a journal) did not seem to register with her and any other experience I would gain (gaffer, cameraman, roadie and roustabout) might as well not have existed. It was just as well that I had to leave quickly. One can only explain something simple in so many ways.<br /><br />Kona to Honolulu is a short flight. I've done it many times. An hour to the airport, hugs and kisses goodbye, then a half an hour through security, board a Hawaiian Air jet and take off. Thirty minutes later I'm at Honolulu International late at night and after a three hour layover I'm airborne again and leaving my island home behind.<br /><br />Outbound from Hawaii you fly with tourists returning to the mainland and Hawaiians of various stripes headed for Vegas or business or to military bases following a leave at home. There are enough familiar looking faces and local attire so that the flight seems like a trip with friends. It's a comfortable feeling and I was able to rest and listen to voices in the night and the powerful muted thrum of the engines as they pushed us east toward the rising sun. <br /><br />Los Angeles is Los Angeles. If you know the airport there's not a lot I can tell you. If you don't there's nothing worth knowing. Homogenized is the word that comes to mind. I spent another three hour layover seated near a power outlet in the wall of the departure concourse so that I could use my laptop. Airport food from a faceless Mexican food establishment. Bud's Burritos or Tanya's Taco or something like that. People watching. The endless stream of harried travelers flowing past was mind numbing and vaguely discouraging. The colors and flavor of island attire were gone, swallowed up by the throng. I was now officially on my way to somewhere else.<br /><br />Los Angeles nonstop to Copenhagen. It was my first time doing that but I'd spent months in a cramped submarine far beneath the surface of the sea. How bad could flying coach for fourteen hours be? Don't ask. I'm six feet three inches tall. My seat was the small side of one size fits all and I spent at least half of the flight back aft in the galley getting to know the flight attendants. Thank goodness they knew the drill and didn't mind me being there. I tried to stay out of the way and meditate my way East. Time and miles passed and eventually we landed at Copenhagen Airport. I collected my backpack and sleeping bag, exchanged some dollars for Danish Krone and took a taxi to the Palace Hotel in the middle of town. My room had a distinctly European feel to it, small and cramped and slightly musty. I thought I had been given a closet with a bed. The bed was six feet long and about four feet wide and the room was barely big enough for the bed. Okay, more submarine accommodations. I could deal with that.<br /><br />I stashed my gear and went down to the lobby to try to find Bonnie. Inquiring at the front desk yielded nothing. All I knew was that she was supposed to be staying at the Palace Hotel. I didn't know whether she'd checked in under her name or that of her brother, Louie's, or of her nephew, Christoph Putzel. I was kind of nervous about connecting with her because though she had invited me to come along, Bonnie did not know I had taken her invitation to heart. As such I really wanted to talk to her prior to boarding our separate flights to the Faroes in the morning. Details. <br /><br />The hotel sits on one side of the main square in town and has a great little bar that looks out onto the street next to the entrance. I introduced myself to Peter, the bartender, and ordered a Carlsberg. I don't know whether it was the location or the fact that I'd finally come to rest after over twenty-four hours of travel, but that beer was, and still is, the best I've ever tasted in my life. As I drank I talked to Peter about Copenhagen and Denmark and found myself doing double takes every few seconds as one after another, an endless parade of blondes walked by the windows that opened out onto the sidewalk. Bonnie Carini is blonde and in Hawaii her hair color stands out. She's easy to find. But not in Copenhagen. I laughed to myself and explained to Pete that I was looking for a friend whom I thought was staying at the hotel. I ordered a dinner of grilled sausages and had another beer. Across the town square the entrance of Tivoli Gardens began to glow as the sun set. On all sides of the square huge electric billboards lit up the night and people strolled in the warm evening air. <br /><br />I was thrashed and could feel a food coma coming on so I decided to call it a day. My flight in the morning required that I get up at four to beat traffic on the drive to the airport. Back in my room I called Bonnie's cell phone, not knowing whether it would work. After a few rings she answered. I could hear a lot of voices in the background and had a hard time making myself heard. <br /><br />"Hi, Bonnie," I said. "Guess where I am right now."<br /><br />She said she didn't know, but I had the feeling she thought I was still in Hawaii. <br /><br />"I'm in room 142 of the Palace Hotel in Copenhagen."<br /><br />"You're what?" Bonnie exclaimed incredulously. "What are you doing here?"<br /><br />My heart sank. Had I made a huge mistake? Flown halfway round the world only to be told I would not be able to join the group? <br /><br />It was one of those moments that seem to go on forever and before I spoke again I remember thinking that I was going to go to the Faroes with or without them. The tickets were all paid for and there was no turning back. Whatever happened in the next few seconds was important, but it didn't matter. I was on a fixed trajectory, headed for Toshavn, Faroe Islands at eight-thirty the following morning. Stranger in strange land, but I would survive. And I'd had a really good beer in the bar of the Palace Hotel.<br /><br />It was an omen.<br /><br /><br />Had to be.....<br /><br /><br />To be continued. Thanks for reading. D.Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-70739154920346584642011-04-05T03:52:00.000-07:002011-04-05T04:50:34.179-07:00The Origin of Pilot Whale Fog (The Movie)This is a story about a story.<br /><br /> A tale, as J.R.R. Tolkien said, "that has grown in the telling." It is the recounting of the origin of a screenplay that will become the movie Pilot Whale Fog that I have had the pleasure of co-authoring with Bonnie Carini. It is a story of perseverance, love, and beauty in a land that has to be seen to be believed. A story of a people and the great pods of Pilot Whales that have sustained them through long Winters down through the centuries. And most of all it is a story about change and how it will occur, one person at a time, one whale at a time. <br /><br />In the Spring of 2003 I was working construction on the west side of the Big Island of Hawaii after having left my position as Operations and Maintenance Manager of Atlantis Submarines in Kailua-Kona. While taking a friend to the airport I met Bonnie Carini, a woman I'd known for years since she worked as a diver for Atlantis in the late 80's. Bonnie was headed to the east coast for a week to visit relatives and then was flying to the Faroe Islands. I'd known of her plans to film a documentary on those rugged and isolated islands for some time and now she'd finally gotten the grant from Boston Sea Rovers that she'd been waiting for. All the pieces were in place, bags packed, crew ready and travel arrangements made. We had talked at length about her desire to learn firsthand about the inhabitants of the remote North Atlantic archipelago and I'd always been amazed by her zeal for adventure and her love for all creatures of the sea. The trip and the film she envisioned sounded amazing and ever since her first mention of it I wished I could participate in some capacity. <br /><br /><br />Imagine my surprise when she said to me in the ticket line, "Douglas, why don't you come along?"<br /><br /><br />"So", as Mick Jagger sang in The Girl with the Faraway Eyes, "I did." "And all my dreams came true..." <br /><br /><br />This is the story of how.<br /><br /><br /><br />(To be continued.)(This week and many more for as long as it takes.)<br /><br />(Mahalo to Madison Woods for the kick in the ass and Bonnie Carini for being a true friend for the ages.<br />Please pass this around once it gets rolling and comment if you like. Thanks for reading. Aloha, D.)Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-10309841979067690562011-02-05T00:54:00.000-08:002011-02-05T02:00:11.820-08:00Up From the AshesI just received a rejection letter from an agent I had been recommended to by a good friend and published writer. The news came in the form of a two sentence e-mail that set me back to square forty-three in my journey to publication for The Bones of the King. I can't say square one because I would not be in a position to be rejected if I had not checked off a lot of squares prior to now. Having a completed novel counts for something. Still, it has not been read by nearly enough people and I would love to be paid while I write the sequel. <br /><br />Like the legion of writers who walked this road before me I'm going to continue seeking representation buoyed by the conviction that my stories will resonate with readers, that all hurdles will be cleared and that I will prevail. Is it possible to be a writer without your glass being half full? I'm not sure, but I do know that when I'm writing, my glass is overflowing. Must be a sign.<br /><br />A good friend of mine from the Faroe Islands, a man who has seen his share of reversals and successes in life would look at me right now with a twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face and say. "It's a hard life!" He's right, but if you don't ask, the answer's always no. So the journey continues. I'm up from the ashes and flying once more. For entertainment and motivation I'm going to track my progress here. If nothing else, perhaps some other fellow traveler will learn from my mistakes and be able to negotiate his or her own agent search minefield successfully. <br /><br />If you're a writer and you know of an agent that specializes in action-adventure with a literary bent please let me know. If you're that agent, well, you made it this far. Drop me a line. The story is original and well written and you won't be kicking yourself later because you didn't ask to see it.<br /><br />The next week will be spent making a list of prospective agents and honing my query letter. Then I'll begin 'asking'. Stay tuned and keep writing.<br /><br />Aloha,<br /><br />DougDouglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-4963574738369556562010-09-26T03:58:00.000-07:002010-09-26T04:18:28.705-07:00As long as I liveToday my father died and I will miss him for as long as I live. <br /><br />No words will ever be able to describe him and even if they could, now is not the time. Marking his passing is all that I can do. <br /><br />He is alive forever in my heart, for his blood runs hot in my veins, pulsing with the song of life begun in 1925 and played pure and joyfully down through the years.<br /><br />He's the night air now, blowing always through the memories of my life, stirring the trees with his spirit.<br /><br /><br />Tears fall gently in the Ironwoodwind.Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-70477183283099193522010-09-21T04:48:00.000-07:002010-09-21T05:47:31.677-07:00ConfessionWhen I was a young boy I killed a turtle with a baseball bat for no reason other than to see what would happen when I hit it. I threw it up into the air out in the field that bordered the river, took aim as the hapless reptile fell and swung as hard as I could. My destiny sounded in the hollow crack that launched an innocent soul into whatever heaven awaits defenseless animals slaughtered by evil children. The effects of my action moved out into the universe and are moving still these many years later. In the short term ants feasted. Worms too, as well as flies and all manner of bacteria. Energy passed into new life forms, flesh and bone joined the earth and blood and lymph became clouds and rain. In the long term I was forever changed. I walked the hundred feet to where the shattered creature landed and looked down upon my doom. I knew then and there that I had crossed a line that could not be recrossed. There was no returning to the way things were before, for me or for the turtle whose life I had taken. I knew there would be a reckoning.<br /><br />I have never forgotten what I did or the violent, senseless nature of my act and even though I tried to make up for it by being good, I approach the end of my life with resignation and a keen awareness. I know that when the end comes and I die and am reincarnated I will wake to find that I have returned to life as a turtle walking slowly through the grass in a field by a river.Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-64385464901262801172010-09-15T03:27:00.000-07:002010-09-15T03:45:28.962-07:00Mae B. strikes it rich.The following is a journal entry from the wonderful blog Kadywords from a Hot Ozarks writer named Kathaleen McCrite and a letter I wrote in response. If you happen upon this please do yourself a favor and get to know Kathaleen through her blog and Twitter account @kdmccrite. You'll be glad you did. Reprinted with permission.<br /><br />Kathaleen posted from the journal entries of Mae B., a most excellent writer. Here goes.<br /><br />Several people have mentioned to me in the last few days about gaining wealth and fame as a writer, and what d’ya know, Mae B. wrote about that very subject.<br /><br />Today I walked out of my job in the stock room of Cheap Stuff 4 U.<br /><br />My foolish supervisor and all those silly co-workers tried to stop me. They said things like, “But Mae, how will you pay your bills?” “Mae, how will you buy food?” “Mae, your car has 226,975 miles on it. How will you be able afford to buy another if you have no job?” And the very worst remark of all: “Mae, you aren’t qualified to do anything else. Stocking sock monkeys and yo-yos is the perfect job for you!” That last bit was from the foolish supervisor. I believe he graduated from 6th grade last week. About the same time as my doctor, now that I think about it.<br /><br />But, I brushed off their concerns and advice because, as I told them from the doorway leading to the outside world, I’m bound for great things. I will be rich and famous quite soon now.<br /><br />On my way home in the middle of the day, I stopped at the Mercedes Benz dealership and test drove a white one, a tan one, a black one, and a red convertible. I’ll probably buy the black one, and the red convertible (so everyone can see my lovely hair as I drive and also see me and turn green with envy, saying “Oh, Mae. She’s gorgeous! And so rich and famous!”)<br /><br />Then I went to Top Hat Real Estate and asked to see houses.<br /><br />The agent, a blonde little wisp of a thing who also just graduated from 6th grade, had the nerve to get uppity with me when I told her I did not want to see those dinky houses on the south side of town. She said just because I’d written a story was no guarantee I would have enough assets to buy one of the houses on Upper Crust Hill. She kept throwing around the term “qualified buyer” and refused to take me up the hill. I’ll qualify her, if I ever catch her alone on a dark night in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly.<br /><br />Money and fame. I can smell it now. Ahhhhh.<br /><br /><br />And a letter from me.<br /><br /><br />Dear Kady,<br /><br />This one hit close to home. You told me once that Mae was a knothead and as I run my hand through my hair and feel the lumpy terrain of my skull I realize that she and I are related. Long ago I used to think I’d be a guest on David Letterman promoting my first novel. After a decade I realized that was not going to happen, and, because I couldn’t sing a lick or play any instruments, I kept on writing. <br /><br />Three decades, several jobs, two unpublished novels and one screenplay later, I write for the pleasure of crafting a decent sentence and nailing a few of them into a passable paragraph. When there are enough paragraphs I try to arrange them into a chapter and then start a new one. In their own good time the stories inside of me come out and live on the page. I still want to be published but any illusions of fame and fortune are long gone. <br /><br />My life and writing career are somewhere in the middle of the phrases, ‘You live and learn, or you don’t live long.’ and, ‘Nothing is said til the artist is dead.’ Jury’s still out. The good thing about sticking with it for this long is that I’m consistent in my delusion. I am a writer. For me that’s riches enough. I’m going to write some more tonight and in the morning drive home past the Mercede’s dealership without a sideways glance. <br /><br />Keep tapping that vein with Mae B., Kady. She reminds me of me and at the same time shows me where I’ve grown. Thank you for that.<br /><br />Aloha,<br /><br />DougDouglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-20361520483844220912010-09-07T20:31:00.000-07:002010-09-07T20:41:50.354-07:00This will be the last excerpt posted from The Bones of the King. Your comments have helped refine the shape of the final draft and I appreciate the time and consideration you gave to the reading it and then commenting. Thank you.<br /><br />This chapter is a taste of Kaiulani and her prince in better times and a farewell of sorts. <br /><br />Aloha,<br /><br />Doug<br /><br /><br />The Bones of the King - CHAPTER 54 Time and tides<br /><br /> Kaiulani listened to the crash of breakers echoing off the walls of the lover’s cave and pulled al Shar into her in time with the sound. Each thrust was deep and all consuming and she felt herself slowly building towards the inevitable, like a wave piling up on itself, moving powerfully inshore above the shelving sand of the coast. <br /><br /> She had not intended this when the limousine had pulled away from the hotel, but was intensely glad the moment had arrived. They had driven north for a few miles, the prince content to let her talk and give orders to the driver. She took him to Hapuna beach and made him leave the bodyguard and driver behind. They walked down the winding walkways that opened up onto a wide, flat stretch of some of the most beautiful sand and sea in the islands. They swam in the surf that rolled in from the west in an ageless rhythm and Kaiulani decided that there was something she could show the man who had everything. If he were not moved, she decided, she would know that he was not the one for her.<br /><br />They walked north along the beach until the sand ended, then took a narrow but well used path along the coastline under huge kiawe trees whose gnarled roots had found purchase long ago in the dusty volcanic soil. They passed ugly scars of new house lots that had appeared like a plague on the land and walked across the black flows and basalt bones of the island. The place she took the prince was called, simply, the lover’s cave, for that was who used it most often, or at least, that’s what you heard most people talk about it being used for. If a young couple was seen leaving the north end of Hapuna, it was a fair bet they were headed to the cave. It was a fact of life, a given for those growing up in West Hawaii. The lover’s cave was a milestone in the rites of passage from teenager to adult, from virgin to vixen, for many a young woman she knew. <br /><br /> The sea had sculpted the cave out of blue stone over thousands of years, each stroke of nature’s chisel taken only when a storm drove the sea up the stony shingled beach and into the opening. Over time the relentless push of tons of water and loose stones had worn down the rock and exploited the weakness of each crack and crevice for more purchase and penetration. With the passing of eons a smooth passage had been created, carpeted with hundreds of tiny shells and glistening with salt crystals and the emerald glint of olivine deposits. During the days and nights when the sea was at normal levels the cave was dry and cool and a person looking out from the opening had a perfect view of the ocean and the distant horizon. The secluded and secret spot beckoned lovers. The siren’s song of the sea crashing on its doorstep and the encompassing darkness within its cool depths seemed to urge visitors to mimic its formation with their passion. By the time she reached it, following the almost invisible trail around a rock outcropping and down a wave eroded shelf, Kaiulani knew she was going to surrender to al Shar if he would have her.<br /> <br /> She was not disappointed. The prince, lean and supple and well muscled, took her in his arms after they entered the cave. She had stared up into his eyes and tried to see her future mirrored there, but it was too dark. When he lowered his lips to hers she pulled him tight to her and felt his body stiffen against hers. He removed her bikini top as he kissed her and she felt the air caress her nipples and then his tongue warmed them as he nuzzled her breasts. Her pareu and suit bottom joined his on the floor of the cave and they stood naked for a moment, each taking the measure of the other before coming together in a rush.<br /> <br /> Al Shar lifted her with powerful arms and entered her as she wrapped her strong legs around his hips and pressed her breasts to his searching lips. She leaned back, grasping his shoulders with both hands and pushed herself down onto him. She rode him until his knees buckled and he lowered her onto the shells and pounded into her. His love was like the sea, deep and mysterious, endlessly changing yet steady as a heartbeat. Kaiulani arrived at that special place that only women can visit and cried out in ecstasy. She was lost on the wind, riding the waves of pleasure as he slammed into her, meeting his thrusts with abandon, screaming when she felt him come, pulling him to her as his tide ebbed and hers ran wet and hot to meet the sea.Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-14938646774505275582010-08-31T10:24:00.000-07:002010-08-31T10:48:59.201-07:00#Teasertuesday entry. Thanks for reading. Extra thanks for commenting. I appreciate the time and consideration.<br /><br />Mahalo.<br /><br />Doug<br /><br /><br />This is a flashback D.T. Rhysing has at a critical juncture in the story. In this scene the Argo, an experimental submarine he was serving aboard, has smashed into the sea floor four hundred and twenty feet below the surface. All the crew save D.T. and Brendan Braddock are dead in an undersea inferno that is consuming the interior of their submarine. <br /><br />They have only one way to escape and they have taken it, leaving the Argo by a partially open hatch in a maintenance bay. The maneuver is called a free ascent. No air tanks, no second chances and only seconds to spare. As they begin their long ascent the Argo implodes below them....<br /><br /><br /><br />The Bones of the King - CHAPTER 133 - Newborn<br /><br />The ring of gas expanded below, followed closely by a billowing column of bubbles that rose to slowly surround them. D.T. could feel the warmth they carried through his skin. Brendan was shouting out words, expelling a trail of bubbles from his hood. The Argo was obscured for a while but showed briefly after the plume dispersed. The blocky shape merged with the blue bottom, becoming just another pattern of shadow and light and then they were alone in midwater, save for an ever shifting cloud of tiny, oscillating bubbles which grew in size as they watched, calving and calving again as the surface drew nearer.<br /> <br /> D.T. kept up the litany of airway opening okays, a minimalist prayer of supplication whispered in a vast and beautiful cathedral. Brendan’s muffled shouting and the muted melody of air moving through the sea could not drown out the constant kettledrum rumbling of the Argo. It seemed to come from all directions at once, remote and distant yet clear and sharp in his ears. D.T. felt as though he was suspended motionless between the silver sky and the indigo depths, no more or less significant than any of the plankton through whose realm he was passing. He felt no need to breathe despite having been ascending for what seemed a long while. Including their time in the maintenance bay and factoring in an ascent rate of eight feet per second he knew their journey would take no more than a minute and a half, but, if pressed to, he would later say that it seemed much longer.<br /><br /> After a time D.T. began to be able to pick out the finer details of the waves moving across the surface as the blue around him gradually lightened. They had passed through over three hundred feet of water and were getting closer to light and life when D.T. felt something in the darkness calling him, urging him to stay behind and be a part of the unhurried and eternal rhythm of the sea. So real was the feeling that he gasped and almost held his breath, an action that would have had swift and fatal consequences. The rush of adrenaline his fear set coursing through him made him kick out desperately. The last fifty feet passed in a rush, full of anticipation of success and equal parts dread that something would arrest his ascent just before he reached the surface.<br /><br /> In the final seconds D.T. screamed out under water and shot into the air, arms wind milling as though he was climbing an invisible ladder, eyes still straining upward as his lungs sucked in fresh air. He fell back into the embrace of the sea and cried, newborn in the blinding light of the hot tropical sun.Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-63039406801134261042010-08-24T06:33:00.000-07:002010-08-24T06:48:04.663-07:00Courage in the darkHappy Tuesday everyone. <br /><br />I've posted some long chapters over the past weeks and many of you have read them like the troopers you are. To reward the faithful, this post is short. <br /><br />Thank you for reading and commenting, especially the Arkansas crew.<br /><br />Aloha,<br /><br />Doug<br /><br />The Bones of the King CHAPTER 118 Courage in the dark<br /><br />Kaiulani thought of her coming death and hung her head and sobbed.<br /><br />The thought of her life ending and the long march of time continuing without her were too much to bear. She did not want to become someone else’s memory. Life was too precious. She would miss her mother and Noah and her young cousins flocking around her during hula classes at Kawaihae. She would miss the dawn swims and the view of the moon rising over the mountain month after month in its endless cycle. Alone in the darkness and afraid, Kaiulani reached out to the only source of solace she knew in times of trouble.<br /><br /> She was a descendant of warriors proud and strong, members of a race that had found its way to Hawaii in open hulled canoes guided by navigators the likes of which the world would never see again. They had suffered and died, yes, but they had lived and loved and survived. Her story was their story and their strength was hers. She reminded herself she was being watched and stopped crying. Kaiulani raised her head. Whatever fate awaited her, she would face it with eyes undimmed by tears. She would not give al Shar the pleasure of seeing her cower and she would fight for her life and the lives of those she loved.<br /><br />Summoning the courage of her ancestors, Kaiulani steeled herself and waited for the ordeal to come.Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-85914952888570254852010-08-17T05:41:00.000-07:002010-08-17T06:06:48.256-07:00At Play in the Home of her AncestorsThanks to your comments a new name for D.T. Rhysing's submarine has been found. Formerly the Hot Runner, a name only a submariner could love, his creation and one of the central characters of The Bones of the King has been changed to DreamWeaver. Let me know what you think.<br /><br />This chapter is an introduction to Kaiulani. Free spirit and child of the sea. <br /><br />Please read and comment. Your input is very much appreciated. <br /><br />Aloha,<br /><br />Doug<br /><br />CHAPTER 12<br /><br /> Kaiulani Spencer stood quietly beneath the palm grove at the southern end of the beach at Anaeho’omalu Bay and listened to the trade winds rustling the fronds high above her. The eastern sky was molten silver, heralding the imminent arrival of the sun. Giving thanks to the gods of her ancestors and the spirits of all who went before her for the gift of another day, Kaiulani walked down the gentle slope into the cool water. Small waves broke against her knees and the sand between her toes was rough and pebbly. Kaiulani enjoyed the dawn like no other time. The beach was usually deserted and even when there were people about they seemed to be of the same mind, quiet and contemplative, respectful of the majesty of a new day beginning.<br /> <br /> Diving into the low surf, Kaiulani swam down to the sandy bottom and stroked hard for the mouth of the bay. A school of manini parted as she approached, eyeing her warily but sensing that she posed no threat. Surfacing for air like a breaching dolphin, Kaiulani swam with a fluid grace, her sleek frame gliding through the gradually clearing water until she saw the start of the coral reef twenty-five feet below. Once more she dove, clearing her ears as she descended to her favorite spot, a graceful arch of coral growing on a foundation of jumbled basalt fragments. <br /><br /> Cradling a stone block the size of a football in her lap, Kaiulani sat cross legged on the sand and let herself become one with morning in the bay. The dirge like cadence of individual Ulu taking rasping bites of lobe coral sounded on top of a back beat of clicks and chirps of the pod of Nai’a heading to Kiholo for their morning play. The low thunder of the surf at 69’s came faintly beneath the staccato snap of shrimp and merged with the distant sound of a charter boat’s propellers. Each sound spoke to her, telling her about the day and much that was happening in and on the body of water she called home.<br /> <br /> The world was peaceful and she sensed it in every cell of her body. Her heart’s lazy throb mixed with the other sounds and she willed it to slow to match the unhurried pace of life beneath the waves. The longest she had ever held her breath at this depth was three and a half minutes. Today she would hit two and half easily. It was a but short time in the morning on the reef, yet starting her day thus always helped to remind her that Hawaii was far more than the Aina. The land was but a dot in the middle of a vast blue world whose inhabitants knew nothing of the empty space above it. Kaiulani counted herself fortunate to be able to visit the ocean with such regularity.<br /><br /> A stirring of cold water brushed against her back. Kaiulani knew that if she had a mask on she would see a distinct swirling distortion created by freshwater welling up and out of the seabed and mixing with salt water. There was a spring behind her, one of many that could be found through careful searching by a patient swimmer. Long ago her ancestors had taken large gourds, called hoewai or ipu, with holes at either end and placed them directly over such outflows. When the more buoyant freshwater had displaced all the salt water from the gourd, they would plug both ends and swim to the surface and then to shore bearing the precious cargo. Through ingenuity and an intimate knowledge of their environment, they were able to make Anaeho’omalu into a thriving community, one that had been continually inhabited for over eight hundred years. Hawaiians were a wonderfully inventive people, children of the land and the sea, and Kaiulani Spencer reveled in being one of them.<br /><br /> When she felt her lungs pulsing Kaiulani put the stone down and slowly floated toward the surface. As the sky drew closer she realized not for the first time that she was as relaxed as it was possible to be without sleeping. Her body seemed to sense this and even her lungs quit urging her to inhale. Pulling with her arms and kicking hard, Kaiulani surged upward, exhaling just before she cleared the surface. Crossing the boundary separating two worlds, Kaiulani inhaled a huge breath and took in the view from her offshore vantage point. <br /><br /> Sunlight sparkled on the water as she floated. A few early risers had made their way down to the beach chairs and were settling in for their morning’s sun worship. She wondered if she would be teaching one or two of them later. Beyond the palms to the south a lone man walked along the lava and sand that formed the shoreline. He had the look of a local; long-sleeved shirt and straw hat to protect him from the sun, surf trunks and tabis, the black rubber split toe reef walkers popular with some shore fisherman. Up by the showers she could make out Chris Pope and Kimo Andrade, two of the staff hired by Noah, her brother, and D.T. Rhysing at the outset of operations of their company. Chris and Kimo were walking a pair of hydrospeeders on their lightweight trailers down to the waters edge. To the north the trade winds had flattened the clouds above the Kohala range and were ripping shreds off of them that were driven downslope and out to sea. Their wispy remnants faded above the black lava flows that surrounded the bay and then regained some of their lost moisture as they sped out to sea. It was going to be a great day for windsurfers and a murky day for snorkelers. The happy medium was going to be SCUBA diving. Kaiulani smiled. She was happiest when she was in the water teaching, swimming, or playing, it didn’t matter which to her.<br /><br /> Kaiulani and her brother had been working as beach attendants when D.T. Rhysing had shown up one day and started drawing diagrams of his submarine in the wet sand. Before the incoming tide erased them all an hour later he and Noah had become friends and many weeks and hundreds of drawings later they had become partners. Noah had given his two weeks notice to the beach shack supervisor and flown with D.T. to California and then to the east coast. He said he was just keeping D.T. company and it was like her brother to not seek the limelight, but she knew he was doing more than that. Noah and D.T. were shepherding the hull of the DreamWeaver, the submarine that D.T. had conjured up out of the sands of Anaeho'omalu, through its creation at a foundry and following as it went to each of the subcontractors for additional work. Noah was gone for two interminable months and Kaiulani had missed him fiercely, but she knew he was involved in a once in a lifetime opportunity and encouraged him every time he called home. When he returned, Noah was a changed person, due in large part to the responsibilities that he had taken on in the partnership with D.T.<br /> <br /> At first she had been worried that the strange vessel they had built would claim Noah’s life somehow but in time the fear had receded. On the morning of the inaugural dive, D.T. and Noah had approached her and asked whether she would come and work for them as a pilot. She had been honored and thanked them both, but had declined. Why would she choose to work inside a steel hull when she could spend her days swimming? It was really no contest.<br /><br /> From that day forward Kaiulani had looked at D.T. Rhysing in a different light. She liked him and respected his knowledge and the easy way he shared what he knew with Noah. It was, she reflected more than once, a very Hawaiian thing to do. D.T. was a handsome man, tall and well muscled, but not overly so. His blond hair had a way of falling across his face as he was talking and the way he brushed it absently away always made her look at his eyes. They were a deep sea green, sometimes shifting all the way into blue in the right surroundings. He made her think more than once about what it would be like to engage in the sport of love with him, but despite this attraction she kept her distance, wary but curious at the same time. <br /><br /> Business for the fledgling company had grown rapidly and all had gone well until yesterday’s disaster. Kaiulani had spent a long time at the hospital reassuring herself that Noah was not hurt. He had explained again what they were searching for and told her the sad news of their discovery. How terrible for that young girl to be killed in such a fashion and then dumped into the ocean. Noah had finally convinced her to go home. He knew she would be up early and told her he did not want her over-tired on his account. His reassurances did little to put her fears to rest. The man they suspected, Sid Hart, was on the loose and had already tried to kill her brother once. Would he try again? Kaiulani wondered about this briefly but then put the question behind her. <br /><br /> The day was young and promised to be gorgeous. Chris and Kimo had staged the hydrospeeders and were now attending to the DreamWeaver. Mated to its transporter and looking none the worse for wear from the previous day’s troubles, the sub was entering the water for the first of the morning dives. Kaiulani smiled in anticipation and swam to a spot near a pinnacle on the north side of the bay’s mouth.<br /><br /> Despite declining to join the team at Manta Ray Submarines, Kaiulani had, in her own pleasurable and unique way, done her part to help the business get off the ground. What had started innocently enough in a chance encounter with the submerged sub had turned into a legend of sorts and now seemed to account for the fact that the first dive of the day was the most popular by far. By the time she was in position the DreamWeaver had taken on its two passengers and was motoring on the surface out towards the channel. As she watched, the sleek shape slipped effortlessly beneath the waves, leaving only a smooth patch of water in its now invisible wake.<br /><br /> Kaiulani took several deep breaths and counted slowly to thirty, then jackknifed and propelled herself gracefully down to the side of the coral pinnacle below. Once in position she quickly removed the top and bottom of her bikini and stuffed them into a crevice. She could hear the high-pitched note of the DreamWeaver’s thrusters long before she saw the sub gliding toward her through the sunlit water. Kicking hard, Kaiulani set out for the bottom and then turned on her back and watched as the DreamWeaver approached twenty feet above her. She saw the blurry visage of Chris Pope wave from the center view port and imagined with satisfaction the open mouthed astonishment of the two men on either side of him. Then the perfect symmetry of the manta shape passed overhead and she rose beneath it and positioned herself. Trailing behind the body of the sub was the manta’s tail, a thin, stiff whip-like appendage. With a surge of speed Kai reached out and grabbed the tip as it went by. Holding tight with one hand, she hitched a ride for an eternal few seconds beneath the blue bowl of the sky, a creature of delight at play in the home of her ancestors.Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-39162390449263622362010-08-10T13:39:00.000-07:002010-08-10T15:58:39.042-07:00The noose tightensDear friends, followers and #teasertuesday readers. Thank you all for the time you've spent reading D.T. Rhysing's story. He would be pleased. Many of you have expressed concern about Kaiulani and whether she'll make good her escape. Rather than leave you hanging I thought I'd post this chapter so you can learn a bit more about Abdul bin al Shar and see for yourselves the growing peril D.T. and his extended family face. <br /><br /><br />The Bones of the King - CHAPTER 80 - The noose tightens<br /><br /> Kaiulani entered the water cleanly and allowed her momentum to carry her deep. When she saw the bottom of the Saracen she tucked under the dark overhang, exhaled some air to reduce her buoyancy and swam for all she was worth. She didn’t waste time or energy turning over, choosing instead to use the vessel's bottom as a reference as she passed beneath it. When she cleared the port side she angled up, still stroking powerfully, extending the distance between her and the yacht until finally, lungs urging her to inhale, legs and arms burning with fatigue, she surfaced using a powerful backstroke fifty feet inshore of the Saracen.<br /> <br /> A quick glance in the yacht’s direction told her that al Shar had guessed her intent. He was standing at the port side rail watching her make good her escape. Kaiulani rolled over into a crawl and pulled hard for shore a thousand feet away. She didn’t bother to look to see how far she had to go. The bottom shelving up from the reef would tell her exactly where she was. All she had to do on this, her most important swim ever, was pour on the speed and hope.<br /><br /> On board the Saracen al Shar watched calmly as Kaiulani swam. She was going to be truly satisfying to take apart. He would spend a long time on her, looking for that spark that made her so much more of a woman than all the other cows he had sent to meet their maker.<br /><br /> “Go and fetch our guest,” Al Shar said to Ibrahim and Safwan. They disappeared aft and al Shar resumed watching Kaiulani, thinking of the blissful nights he would have with her on the long passage to Kuala Lumpur. He left the rail and went below to get dressed. After breakfast he was going to make a few calls. The first was to Darjeeling, India, to an operative they had in that city, telling him to make preparations for a kidnapping. The second was to Mr. Daniel Braddock, inquiring as to the availability of the note on the construction loan for Manta Ray Submarines. Both calls would serve to let Mr. Rhysing know that the noose was tightening and that he was dealing with someone who could not be trifled with.<br /><br /> As al Shar entered his stateroom, two jet skis were lowered into the water at the stern of the Saracen and dispatched after Kaiulani. She had covered more than six hundred feet before they came abreast of her just outside of the boat moorings. Kai dove once and swam as far as she could, but they were on her when she surfaced. One of the riders managed to land a glancing blow to her head with a leather cosh and Kaiulani was knocked senseless. Her inert body was easily hoisted over the gas tank of one of the nimble craft and less than a minute later she was once more aboard the Saracen.<br /> <br /> On the bridge of the yacht the captain observed the rundown and interception of Kaiulani with relief. He secretly pitied the poor girl, but was immensely glad that they had been able to recapture her. Her life was effectively over now; she just didn’t know it yet. He had scanned the beach with binoculars during the two minutes it took to retrieve her and saw no one who might have seen what transpired. He set the binoculars down and went aft to personally supervise the transfer of the girl to the hose room. As he walked the length of the vessel the sun rose and bathed the Saracen in warm golden light.Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-91049042433208913622010-08-03T01:53:00.000-07:002010-08-03T02:22:06.058-07:00Predator and PreyDoing a little Time Travelling here. Moving forward in the story for a #TeaserTuesday entry that I hope will entertain you. Please comment, and, as ever, thank you for reading.<br /><br />Aloha,<br /><br />Doug.<br /><br /><br />(Kaiulani Spencer, sister of Noah and friend of D.T. Rhysing, senses something is amiss with her relationship with Prince Abdul al Shar, owner of the Saracen, a super yacht anchored in Anaehoomalu Bay. Follow along as she wakes in the night, searches for answers, and comes face to face with the ultimate predator...) <br /><br /><br /><br />The Bones of the King - CHAPTER 78 - Predator and prey<br /><br />Unable to sleep and frantic with worry, Kaiulani once again crept from the prince’s bed and found her way to the video monitor two compartments away. She touched the space bar on the keyboard and the screen came to life. Another touch and a menu appeared on the left hand side of the screen. With some experimentation she was able to discern order and meaning from the prompts the program offered.<br /><br /> Kaiulani was, like many of her generation, very computer savvy. There was nothing about them that intimidated her so experimenting with the unit she had stumbled across presented no challenges. Only the fear of being caught at her task made her nervous.<br /> <br /> Within five minutes she realized that she had found a series of digital feeds from security cameras in several staterooms, the crew quarters somewhere in the bowels of the ship, the engineroom and other machinery spaces. There was one tiny room she did not recognize. The only piece of furniture in it, if she could call it that, was a sturdy framework of metal in the very center. The walls were unadorned and the deck seemed to be of bare metal.<br /><br /> The options toolbar listed controls much like a videocassette recorder and she found a menu of recordings cross referenced to location and camera number. She selected the feed from the stateroom she had slept in and hit the scroll back icon. A time rate prompt asked her to select a speed and Kaiulani chose a high speed. With a tap on the return key the room came to life. A blurred figure hovered around the bed and then suddenly resolved into her, sleeping restlessly on her first night on board. Kaiulani slowed the rate of playback and continued to scroll backward.<br /><br /> It was strange to watch herself sleep, though at the speed she had chosen it didn’t look as though she was sleeping at all. Her form twisted and rolled and crawled around on the bed as though possessed. Very soon the bed was empty and perfectly made up. Kaiulani sped things up again, knowing that she was now viewing scenes that had taken place before she had come aboard the Saracen. Two cycles of light and dark went by and the scene changed rapidly.<br /><br /> A young woman slept peacefully in the bed, long blonde hair flowing over the pillows. Kai switched to forward motion and watched until the woman disappeared. Slowing and reversing, Kai was able to isolate the last time the woman appeared in the guest stateroom.<br /> <br /> She was asleep, a smile playing across her features when two crewmen, one of them Ibrahim, al Shar’s bodyguard, appeared in the scene. The covers were snatched away abruptly and the naked woman woke, fear and confusion apparent in her eyes. Ibrahim pulled her roughly from the bed and all three disappeared from the view of the camera.<br /><br /> Kaiulani felt a jolt of fear in the pit of her stomach. She had seen enough already to tell her to get out, but she had to know more about the previous occupant of her room and, if possible, what became of her. Maybe something had happened that Kai did not understand. She had to know for sure.<br /><br /> Fingers flying, she rapidly created view boxes for twelve camera feeds, trying to find and use all those that were closest to the guest stateroom. She found the playback was synchronized and seamless and immediately picked up the motion of the crewmen and the woman in the small room she could not identify. The men were doing something to her, holding her hands above her head and then moving to her feet as her hands remained in the air. Kai selected that view, minimized the rest and watched in growing amazement and dread as the woman was tied to the framework that was the room’s sole feature.<br /> <br /> Scrolling forward as fast as she could while still being able to make out what was happening, Kai began whispering to herself and rocking back and forth on the edge of the chair. The two crewmen disappeared and the woman seemed to flutter against her restraints as she tested the bonds repeatedly. Suddenly she froze and a new figure appeared in the room. Kai slowed the playback to normal speed and watched as al Shar held the woman by her chin with his left hand and caressed her hair with his right. She was trying to pull away and Kaiulani could see the muscles in al Shar’s arms tense. Without warning he jerked a huge hank of the hair from her head. The woman mouthed a silent scream and Kaiulani shivered and lowered the monitor. She had seen enough to know she didn’t want to see any more. It was beyond time to go. She had to find a way to extricate herself from al Shar’s web and then never come near the Saracen again. Noah’s friend Mike could handle things once she got away and told them everything she had seen. Something terrible had been in store for the woman in the video.<br /><br /> “She came to enjoy it after a time,” said a voice from behind her.<br /><br /> Kaiulani turned and saw al Shar in the aft doorway to the compartment. He was looking at her without expression, his eyes cold and hard, taking her measure as she realized she had been caught. Kai knew in that second that al Shar was a predator and she the prey. She had seen this scene played out too many times on the reef to expect a happy outcome. Omilu shadowed schools of weke and waited until one out of hundreds was in the wrong position, a little high above the bottom or separated from the safety of numbers. Ulua hunting Durgon or Palani were the same. For the reef fish it was always a deadly race for shelter among the lobes and fingers of coral, begun in the blink of an eye and over within seconds. Sometimes the predators started late or too far from the reef and their prey would escape and other times the prey would be caught and swiftly consumed. Of these encounters Kaiulani knew there were two givens. The first was that when the attack came it was faster than the eye could follow. The second was that the prey never ate the predator.<br /><br /> Kaiulani bolted.<br /><br /> She made it to the aft door of the compartment and ducked through it and beyond. Behind her, giving swift chase came the prince. She heard his footsteps following her headlong dash but she did not look back. Another doorway opened into a passageway that she recognized. She was on the offshore side of the Saracen, headed forward, her bare feet lightly hitting the deck, her strong young muscles straining to add impetus to her flight. Rounding a corner she came face to face with a crewman, feinted right and then ducked left, losing none of her desperate speed. A curse in Arabic and the sounds of two bodies colliding told her that al Shar had lost ground.<br /><br /> Ahead of her the passageway walls and the overhead framed the soft blue of the predawn sky. The only barrier between her and safety was the gleaming rail some three and a half feet high. Kaiulani hit the deck with both feet and launched herself into a dive, clearing the rail with room to spare. She arced out over the water and down, elation competing with fear as the sea came up to greet her.Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-83520807247408774722010-07-26T04:05:00.000-07:002010-07-26T04:48:55.186-07:00Aloha old friends and new. Here is Chapter 6 of The Bones of the King for those who are reading along. <br /><br />Good, Bad, or Ugly, please let me know what you think. <br /><br />And if you've gotten this far and not joined my blog, please do. Helps me to know who visited and makes thanking you a lot easier.<br /><br />Mahalo.<br /><br />Doug<br /><br /><br />The Bones of the King --- CHAPTER 6 ---The Hunt Begins<br /><br /> Sid Hart sat in the tube entrance and watched the sun slip beneath the waves far out to sea. A hint of green limned its upper arc and then, following the sun, it, too, disappeared from view. The waves rolled on and the curtain of night rose in the east behind Mauna Loa’s smooth bulk. Stars burned through the deepening twilight and took their place in the night sky. The lava reluctantly gave up the heat of the day as night feeding swallows whickered back and forth across the stark black landscape.<br /><br /> Sid decided that he had fucked up. Screwed the pooch, poked the pup, you name it; he’d done it this afternoon. He should have waited, bided his time and let the situation clarify itself before he struck. Now his cover was blown. The police were sure to put two and two together and the heat was going crank up several notches. That might have been worth it if he had accomplished something for all the trouble he’d just invited into his world, but it was clear that his effort had been wasted. Dicked the dog. Fornicated the fucking canine.<br /><br /> The surface vessel had ignited wonderfully, the satisfying crump and thump of explosion and shock wave hitting him in the ears and chest moments after he had toggled the transmitter. Watching with his binoculars, Sid had had an excellent seat for the show. Flames and smoke had obscured his view for quite a while following the detonation but there was no hiding the surfacing of the submarine and the subsequent rescue of the crewman who had been knocked overboard. After another half an hour the orange and yellow Hawaii County rescue helicopter had come racing down the coast and hovered over the sub. The injured man had been winched aboard in a basket and then a man from the sub traded places with a crewman from the chopper, which then flew off to the north like a shot. Within minutes the two men on the sub had rigged a steel cable to the boats bow and taken it under tow, still blazing like a torch, and headed north. He never would have imagined that the sub could have towed the hulk, but what came next really floored him. After a moment on the surface the man from the chopper went below and pulled the hatch shut behind him. White foam appeared on either side of the sub and the deck began to submerge then pitched rapidly downward and vanished. A wave splashed over the bow of the trailing boat and then another and another, each larger than the preceding one, their combined weight pulling the bow ever lower. He thought the hull would surely sink but that hadn’t happened. Instead the waves coming over the bow had surged over and around the fire and extinguished it within seconds. The smoke plume became steam and then faded away on the wind as the strange procession moved farther down the coast. After a while the sub surfaced and the burnt out hull of the boat rose in response. The two vessels continued north until they disappeared over the horizon leaving Sid alone with his thoughts.<br /><br /> He had underestimated whoever was running the submarine. The explosion and fire had been a pretty sight, but there should have been more to show for it. Things like a dead crewman and submarine adrift in shock as the burning support boat was reduced to cinders. Instead the submariners had rescued their man, put out the fire on their vessel and essentially salvaged the hull for future use or examination. All this had happened in the space of two hours following what should have been a devastating attack on their operation. Hell, the only thing he had accomplished was to show his hand to no effect. Talk about a fuck up. And all because the men running the sub outfit had their shit together. Next time he would not leave anything to chance.<br /><br /> The east wind whispered to Sid Hart as the night wore on and he worried away at the problem he had created for himself. He was up against the wall in a big way. The sub crew had not been able to bring up the Harlots body, but he was sure they had found her and it was only a matter of time before they tried again to retrieve her. When they did the noose would tighten around his neck and the police would try to lock him up forever. He vowed not to let that happen.<br /><br /> The only way to keep that promise was to get to the Harlot before they did. Which meant he would have to do everything in his power to stop them from diving while he went after her. He was going to have to disable the submarine and he was going to have to get some better dive gear. The second was pretty straightforward, entailing a visit to one of the many dive shops in town. The disabling of the sub was not going to be as easy, but he was already looking forward to the challenge.<br /><br /> It was time for him to find out more about Manta Ray Submarines and the man who ran it. Time to ferret out their schedule and their weaknesses and wait for the moment when the method he would use to attack them would come to him in the course of observing his quarry. Sid Hart rose on stiff legs and stretched. He entered the tube for a few minutes, gathered some supplies and then returned to the flow, sealing the entrance carefully behind him.<br /><br /> Above the slope of Mauna Loa the newly risen moon lit the island with its soft silver light. He felt exhilarated. The road ahead was going to be dangerous, but he was supremely confident that he could do what was necessary to protect his world. Sid struck out across the flows, headed for the far off access road and his car. It was time to go north and hide in plain sight. A shiver coursed up his spine and he smiled in anticipation.<br /><br /> The hunt was on.Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4006457779446525898.post-46546902171778072642010-07-17T18:38:00.000-07:002010-07-17T19:09:14.217-07:00Plucked from the sea -- Chapter 5 -- The Bones of the KingHi, friends. Thank you for reading these chapters of The Bones of the King. I realize it's daunting to enter D.T. Rhysing's world, but I'm confident you'll enjoy it once you're fully immersed.<br /><br />If you find yourself interested, please comment and tell me why. <br /><br />The first five chapters are posted on the blog and are easy to find. Please dive in and enjoy. Your input is invaluable. Hope to hear from you soon. <br /><br />Mahalo,<br /><br />Doug<br /><br />CHAPTER 5<br /> <br /> The shrill screech of the UWT was unrelenting. D.T. turned the volume down to a whisper and checked the sub’s system parameters. Their ascent rate of 300 feet per minute was not top speed, but it was as fast as he thought necessary and gave him time to gather his wits and prepare. It would do them no good to arrive on the scene without a plan. And the plan, which he quickly outlined to Detective McCoy, was simple, though it hadn’t started out that way. For a moment at the outset of the incident, listening to Noah’s cry of alarm, D.T. was thrust back into a darker time in deeper water and was lost, literally, in memories of an event that he struggled with always. Overwhelmed with choices, faced with so many possibilities to prepare for that there was no way to take care of them all, he didn’t know where to begin. Then the wail of the UWT drove all else from his mind and he knew what they would be dealing with topside.<br /><br /> Twice in the past ten years he had heard the identical banshee scream issuing from an underwater telephone system. On each occasion the transmitting unit had been in a fire and had produced the same infernal howl, as if the circuits could feel the flames eating into their electronic souls. The split second of paralysis would not have registered with McCoy and the danger to Noah had slammed shut the window on that other world.<br /> <br /> With a flick of his wrist D.T. had pointed the Hot Runner for the sky and fed her the juice. His feet were pressed back into the acceleration pads and his weight had shifted from his chest and hips and elbows to the balls of his feet. It was normally a pleasant sensation after a prolonged dive but now he had little time to enjoy it. They were climbing fast.<br /><br /> When D.T. designed the Hot Runner it was the regal look of a cruising manta ray that he strove to capture in steel and fiberglass. To a great degree, the Hot Runner mimicked that look almost perfectly. Her wings were fixed and quite a bit stubbier than those of the manta but the effect was perfect for their purposes. They extended seamlessly from the hull with a small positive dihedral and were almost invisible when viewed from ahead of the craft. Their thick roots supported and enclosed two main propulsion thrusters, then tapered to thin cambered, virtually neutral lift water foils. A pair of tiny flaperons was set into the trailing edge of the wings and was used in conjunction with the twin rudders mounted aft to help the Hot Runner turn on a dime in extreme maneuvers. <br /><br /> The skin of the Hot Runner was a proprietary design silicon-polymer coating that promoted and enhanced laminar flow of seawater across its surface. This feature, coupled with the sleek teardrop hull and a high power to weight ratio let them fly through the water at ten knots. At that speed there was a tremendous drain on the available power of the batteries, but if they needed to and were willing to spend the electrons the sub could move quite quickly. D.T. was willing and from the sound of it, Noah needed them to.<br /> <br /> McCoy was busy preparing to exit the sub with two life preservers and a portable fire extinguisher. The life preservers were folded into small plastic pouches and shoved into his shirt. The fire extinguisher was a powerful Halon model in a special high-pressure cylinder the size of a large thermos. It was anybody’s guess whether it would do any good once they got to the surface, but if he needed it and didn’t have it with him then the question would be moot.<br /> <br /> By the time D.T. had finished instructing McCoy and checking his ascent profile the Hot Runner had left the darkness and five hundred feet of seawater behind them. Ahead a pale blue and silver circle of light filled the limits of their vision, growing ever wider and brighter. At one hundred feet they could begin to make out details of the ocean’s surface above. Their target was a black smudge at the center of a series of concentric shock rings that overlaid the normal cris-crossing linear patterns created by wave chop and swells. There had been no other vessels in the area when they dove and no keels were visible from their vantage point. Normally they would arrest their ascent at twenty feet and put up the camera mast but something told D.T. there was no time. They were going to surface so close to the Safe Boat that he felt sure they would avoid any danger other than that posed by the burning craft. He had to take the chance for Noah’s sake.<br /><br /> D.T. bled off speed by making a wide circuit of the Safe Boat hull. They were banked hard over into the port turn and had almost boxed the compass when he saw a body floating motionless in the water some twenty feet from the stricken craft. He jinked once, pulled into an almost vertical climb and powered upward. The Hot Runner broke the surface, rose for an eternity into the smoke filled sky and then crashed down into the water with a huge splash. The weight of their keel kept them upright and very quickly restored the sub’s surface equilibrium.<br /><br /> “Go!” D.T. shouted.<br /> <br /> McCoy opened the hatch and was outside faster than D.T. thought possible. The detective dove in directly in front of the view port and swam like he had a three-day liberty he couldn’t wait to get started on. D.T. hit the master trip switch to shut down all thruster power and went topside with the first aid kit and another fire extinguisher. Things were far worse than he had imagined and again, for just a moment, before the need for action spurred him on, D.T. was overwhelmed by the magnitude of the casualty they were dealing with.<br /><br /> The Safe Boat was fully engulfed in flames, drifting on a light breeze and trailing a rapidly spreading slick of burning gasoline. She was facing south, her starboard side to seaward, and was sitting lower in the water than usual. The Hot Runner had surfaced too close and now there was a very real need to move away to safety. Acrid black smoke boiled from the hulk and from the sea and rose over and above them as D.T. watched McCoy.<br /><br /> The big detective proved to be a very good swimmer, pulling strongly toward the inert body of Noah Spencer with an efficient crawl. Just as it looked like McCoy was going to win the race the wind freshened and the line of flame pulled itself toward Noah. With a grisly puff of white smoke, Noah’s hair burst into flame and he seemed to twitch in the water like a sleeper trapped in a nightmare from which there was no escape. D.T. screamed at McCoy but it was too late, or so he thought, until he saw the detective’s shoulders and back rise up out of the water in the characteristic surge of a sprinter using a butterfly stroke. As McCoy brought his hands together to penetrate the water he kept them flat and outstretched and sent up a wall of water directed right at Noah’s head. Noah disappeared behind this splash and D.T. saw the legs and feet of McCoy kick hard once, before he too, disappeared.<br /><br /> Noah’s head was smoking but no longer on fire. The flames around him seemed to have been forced back briefly by McCoy’s targeted spray, but they were soon going to close over him like a wave. As D.T. watched, Noah was jerked under the water as suddenly as if a shark had chosen that moment to put him out of his misery. D.T. was just about to go below and see if he could see what had happened through the viewports when McCoy surfaced with Noah in tow in a cross-chest carry. They had covered an amazing stretch of water submerged and as D.T. watched he saw Noah spit up a mouthful of seawater. Something knocked against his feet and he looked down to see the fire extinguisher and the two life preservers McCoy had carried topside rolling around in the shallow water in the hatch well. When D.T. looked up McCoy was closing the distance to the sub with long powerful strokes. D.T. urged them on silently while the inferno of the Safe Boat bore down on them all.<br /><br /> Noah was conscious but dazed. He had been kept afloat; his head elevated and out of the water by a flotation device D.T, required all of his crewmen to wear. It was a tiny harness with a small inflatable collar and chest piece. If a person hit the water without first disengaging the safety, the vest would automatically inflate. If they were unconscious, the vest would right them until help arrived or the person came to. McCoy pushed Noah up onto the curved superstructure of the Hot Runner and D.T. pulled him aboard.<br /> <br /> Noah was breathing regularly and while McCoy surveyed him for bleeding and broken bones D.T. went below, re-energized the thrusters and backed the sub away from the flaming hulk of the Safe Boat. He radioed Hawaii County Fire and Rescue with their position and status. When they were a hundred yards farther offshore he jettisoned the trim weight so that the sub would ride higher in the water, set the auto pilot to hold a heading that kept their stern into the swells and then went back topside to see how McCoy was doing.<br /><br /> As D.T. stuck his head out of the hatch he was greeted by Noah’s voice. The plucky Hawaiian was on his back looking up at the cloudless sky.<br /><br /> “We’re gonna' need a new Safe Boat,” Noah said with a grin. D.T. chuckled and shook his head.<br /><br /> “Well, your sense of humor’s still intact.” D.T. said. “Are you okay?”<br /><br /> “Shot at and missed....” he replied.<br /><br /> “...Shit at and hit.” D.T. finished. And that’s exactly what it looked like.<br /><br /> ”What the hell happened up here?” asked McCoy, giving voice to D.T.’s thoughts.<br /><br /> “All I know is I was talking to you one second and looking at Mike in the next,” said Noah. “The Safe Boat guys aren’t going to believe this happened to their baby.”<br /><br /> “They’ll be happy to sell us another one,” D.T. said. “Noah, are you sure you can’t remember anything else?”<br /><br /> “I wish I could, D.T.,” said Noah, “All I know is I was on the UWT and there was a loud crack and then the whole port side of the boat exploded. I must have been kicked overboard by the shock wave.”<br /><br /> “And it’s a good thing you were,” said Detective McCoy, nodding toward the flaming pyre that a few moments ago had been their surface craft.<br /><br /> At that moment one of the fuel tanks exploded and they all ducked involuntarily as the fire on board the Safe Boat redoubled in intensity. The pillar of smoke generated by the conflagration was growing thicker as the foam of the floatation collar began to burn in earnest.<br /> <br /> “Well,” D.T. asked, “You think the chopper will be able to find us?” McCoy smiled ruefully and shook his head in amazement.<br /><br /> D.T. stowed the fire extinguisher back in the Hot Runner and did what he could to prepare for the work that they would have to do in order to get the Safe Boat back to Keahou. It was possible the burnt out hull would contain evidence and he wanted to be able to examine it closely. D.T. didn’t want to discuss it with McCoy in front of Noah, but he was pretty sure they had just run afoul of one of Sid Hart’s fire bombs.Douglas MacIlroyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01409271315301566155noreply@blogger.com7