Omen

I 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"Hi, Bonnie," I said. "Guess where I am right now."

She said she didn't know, but I had the feeling she thought I was still in Hawaii.

"I'm in room 142 of the Palace Hotel in Copenhagen."

"You're what?" Bonnie exclaimed incredulously. "What are you doing here?"

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?

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.

It was an omen.


Had to be.....


To be continued. Thanks for reading. D.

The Origin of Pilot Whale Fog (The Movie)

This is a story about a story.

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.

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.


Imagine my surprise when she said to me in the ticket line, "Douglas, why don't you come along?"


"So", as Mick Jagger sang in The Girl with the Faraway Eyes, "I did." "And all my dreams came true..."


This is the story of how.



(To be continued.)(This week and many more for as long as it takes.)

(Mahalo to Madison Woods for the kick in the ass and Bonnie Carini for being a true friend for the ages.
Please pass this around once it gets rolling and comment if you like. Thanks for reading. Aloha, D.)

Up From the Ashes

I 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Aloha,

Doug

As long as I live

Today my father died and I will miss him for as long as I live.

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.

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.

He's the night air now, blowing always through the memories of my life, stirring the trees with his spirit.


Tears fall gently in the Ironwoodwind.

Confession

When 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.

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.

Mae 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.

Kathaleen posted from the journal entries of Mae B., a most excellent writer. Here goes.

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.

Today I walked out of my job in the stock room of Cheap Stuff 4 U.

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.

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.

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!”)

Then I went to Top Hat Real Estate and asked to see houses.

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.

Money and fame. I can smell it now. Ahhhhh.


And a letter from me.


Dear Kady,

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.

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.

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.

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.

Aloha,

Doug

This 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.

This chapter is a taste of Kaiulani and her prince in better times and a farewell of sorts.

Aloha,

Doug


The Bones of the King - CHAPTER 54 Time and tides

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.