By Scott Dodgson
With the vessel prepared to charter, food stocked to the brim, fuel, flowers special gifts, it was time to get Beth prepared. Most charter vessels carry a number of Polo and T shirts with the yacht’s logo printed on them. I found a couple of shirts for her, but she needed shorts and shoes. So Laura and Beth went to the Chandlery to buy uniform looking shorts and shoes. Because we live so closely there is a balance that must be struck between familiarity and service. We are there, but we aren’t. It’s tricky. As the captain I spend most of the day with the guests sailing and talking. The crew is usually busy preparing the next meal, straightening out the cabins, or simply sitting off to the side out of the way of the guests. I have one rule, never express on opinion about the guests while they are on board during the charter. I found that once uttered, that opinion affected the service and attitude however subtly. Once years later while running a mega yacht, I found the owners had bugged the crew’s quarters and the galley. Half the crew was asked to leave after the owner left for no reason. I left shortly after discovering the owner was a complete jerk and wasn’t worthy of my service. He was under the illusion that his money would protect him from my anger over his insults. Once the word got out he had a very hard time finding crew so hard in fact he sold his boat and took up golf. There is an art to finding the balance and in general the guests set the boundaries and the captain and crew respect those boundaries. The guest’s boundaries and attitudes can be varied. I’ve had couple charters, honeymoon charters, married on the boat charters, wife swapping charters, gay and lesbian charters, nude gay and lesbian charters, nude family charters, dysfunctional family charters, family charters, atrocious weather charters, no wind sailing charters, party hard charters, tour of bars charters, adventurous charters, golf charters, dive charters, hunting charters, archeology charters, restaurant charters, mystical meditation charters and humanitarian charters. So you never know what you are going to get, but seeing Beth and Laura arrive in their uniforms and new deck shoes gave me solace that we would have our boundaries established professionalism so no matter what happened we would provide the most congenial experience possible. I left the girls to get ready for the guests while I rode in a mini bus to the airport to greet the guests. I hoped that this charter, booked by the grandmother for her adult children for three weeks would be relaxing, fun and non-eventful. But one look at the Swedish grandmother and I knew this maybe the hardest three weeks of my life.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
Boat Kids
By Scott Dodgson
I want to take a moment to address the news reports of Abby Sunderland the 16 year old girl who left Marina Del Rey, California to set the record of being the youngest girl to sail around the world solo. Her boat was knocked down and demasted in the Southern Indian Ocean. She was feared lost at sea but this morning reports she has been found and will be rescued within 24 hours. I live in Marina Del Rey so you can imagine the buzz around the marina about her trip. As the resident Yoda of long distance sailing having sailed over 200,000 nm I have experienced just about every disaster, foul weather (four hurricanes) numerous knock downs and just about every mechanical and technical problem imaginable at sea I stand in her and her parents’ defense for sailing around the world but not for chasing the record. In fact her record chase was over when she had to put in to South Africa for repairs. Her subsequent decision to traverse the Southern Ocean was an imprudent decision. A decision I suspect was not hers alone to make. I’ve been in that situation and understand how easily it is to make a bad decision. Sometimes the decision works out and sometimes it doesn’t. Often times it’s just bad luck which can occur on the best of days at sea. But my point is to rebut those parents and observers when they say how you can let a 16 year old sail around the world alone? It’s easy she is a boat kid and boat kids aren’t like your kids. They aren’t like you when you were 16 years old. They are a special breed with a well developed sense of responsibility, maturity, and character. If you have to ask you kids to take out the trash your kids ten times your kid isn’t one of them. I have had a lot of kids and families on my boats over the years and I get the same concern from the parents every time. “I’m worried that my child won’t adapt to the boat.” I always reassure them that they will and they don’t believe me until the end when the stand corrected and amazed at the transformation of their child. First, boats are small, but they are to scale within a child’s perception. It’s like a house made for them. Second, let a child do the work. It’s fun to steer a big thing when all you’ve driven is a bicycle. Third, it’s great to be a part of a team especially when you do the same tasks as your parents. Boats kids know and welcome the responsibility of controlling their world on the sea. They stand watches, use the radio, help with food preparation, plot courses, and if trained know every safety procedure. And for those families who take their kids cruising or dream of taking their kids cruising they will develop communication skills with other boat kids, languages, learn cultures, ingenuity, experience and respect nature. I started sailing at a very young age and at sixteen I sailed from Atlantic City New Jersey to Bar Harbor Maine and back by myself in a 21 foot sloop just because I could. I got to control my world at sea and it helped me control myself when faced with the uncontrollable world on land. I’m grateful Abby is okay. And if I was her parent and she wanted to try again I’d be happy to let her go, but this time forget the records. Let other fools chase false gold. It’s what you’ve learned about yourself that is the treasure.
I want to take a moment to address the news reports of Abby Sunderland the 16 year old girl who left Marina Del Rey, California to set the record of being the youngest girl to sail around the world solo. Her boat was knocked down and demasted in the Southern Indian Ocean. She was feared lost at sea but this morning reports she has been found and will be rescued within 24 hours. I live in Marina Del Rey so you can imagine the buzz around the marina about her trip. As the resident Yoda of long distance sailing having sailed over 200,000 nm I have experienced just about every disaster, foul weather (four hurricanes) numerous knock downs and just about every mechanical and technical problem imaginable at sea I stand in her and her parents’ defense for sailing around the world but not for chasing the record. In fact her record chase was over when she had to put in to South Africa for repairs. Her subsequent decision to traverse the Southern Ocean was an imprudent decision. A decision I suspect was not hers alone to make. I’ve been in that situation and understand how easily it is to make a bad decision. Sometimes the decision works out and sometimes it doesn’t. Often times it’s just bad luck which can occur on the best of days at sea. But my point is to rebut those parents and observers when they say how you can let a 16 year old sail around the world alone? It’s easy she is a boat kid and boat kids aren’t like your kids. They aren’t like you when you were 16 years old. They are a special breed with a well developed sense of responsibility, maturity, and character. If you have to ask you kids to take out the trash your kids ten times your kid isn’t one of them. I have had a lot of kids and families on my boats over the years and I get the same concern from the parents every time. “I’m worried that my child won’t adapt to the boat.” I always reassure them that they will and they don’t believe me until the end when the stand corrected and amazed at the transformation of their child. First, boats are small, but they are to scale within a child’s perception. It’s like a house made for them. Second, let a child do the work. It’s fun to steer a big thing when all you’ve driven is a bicycle. Third, it’s great to be a part of a team especially when you do the same tasks as your parents. Boats kids know and welcome the responsibility of controlling their world on the sea. They stand watches, use the radio, help with food preparation, plot courses, and if trained know every safety procedure. And for those families who take their kids cruising or dream of taking their kids cruising they will develop communication skills with other boat kids, languages, learn cultures, ingenuity, experience and respect nature. I started sailing at a very young age and at sixteen I sailed from Atlantic City New Jersey to Bar Harbor Maine and back by myself in a 21 foot sloop just because I could. I got to control my world at sea and it helped me control myself when faced with the uncontrollable world on land. I’m grateful Abby is okay. And if I was her parent and she wanted to try again I’d be happy to let her go, but this time forget the records. Let other fools chase false gold. It’s what you’ve learned about yourself that is the treasure.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Maintenance
By Scott Dodgson
The next morning I handed the keys to the scooter to Laura and a pile of cash to go food shopping. In general finding a large grocery store is difficult unless you are in a big city. Luckily Rhodes has a relatively large store five km from the port. Laura and Beth left on their little adventure while attended to the maintenance. I changed the oil and filter on the Ford Lehman six cylinder. Over the years I have found most boaters hate to change the oil. I hate changing the oil because it requires hand pumping five quarts of oil out of the engine. It is messy and time consuming. So I installed an electric pump. If you buy a boat, build a boat make sure you have a system installed. Trust me you will thank me in the end. It is a simple procedure. At the bottom of the oil pan I took out the drain plug and installed a brass fitting. Using oil resistant hose and two clamps I ran the hose up to a pump which I mounted in the side of the bulk head. Make sure the hose is free from constriction as the motor vibrates. I used an old water pump I had laying around, but mini fuel pump will do. I grounded the switch to the engine and a hot lead. Then I took a five foot section of clear water hose, mainly because it is easy to coil and store attached it to the pump. I always have an empty five gallon oil pail to discharge the oil into and a full pail to fill the motor again with oil. One other note I used a wine cork to seal the end of the hose. The procedure is simple start the engine let it run until warm, turn it off, put the hose in the empty pail and throw the switch. Five minutes later you are pouring oil back into the engine. Next I checked the sea strainers. While the sea cock was closed I checked the zincs. I especially paid attention to the zinc in the heat exchanger. For some reason they seem to go fast. Next I checked the fuel filters. I repeated the same procedures with the generator. One other area of concern was the water maker. I changed those filters without fail. On a charter boat we use a lot of water and although I held nine hundred gallons of water ten to eleven people can run through that water in a day and a half. With the hatches closed and my pails of used oil sitting on the quay I waited for the fuel truck to arrive. The fuel truck would take used oil and recycle it for a small fee. I made a check of all the heads, water faucets and lights. When I was satisfied I went on deck and check all the rigging, lights and sails. I hired a kid who was looking to earn some money to polish all the stainless steel and brass. By the time Laura and Beth returned I was enjoying a beer satisfied my yacht was ready to go.
The next morning I handed the keys to the scooter to Laura and a pile of cash to go food shopping. In general finding a large grocery store is difficult unless you are in a big city. Luckily Rhodes has a relatively large store five km from the port. Laura and Beth left on their little adventure while attended to the maintenance. I changed the oil and filter on the Ford Lehman six cylinder. Over the years I have found most boaters hate to change the oil. I hate changing the oil because it requires hand pumping five quarts of oil out of the engine. It is messy and time consuming. So I installed an electric pump. If you buy a boat, build a boat make sure you have a system installed. Trust me you will thank me in the end. It is a simple procedure. At the bottom of the oil pan I took out the drain plug and installed a brass fitting. Using oil resistant hose and two clamps I ran the hose up to a pump which I mounted in the side of the bulk head. Make sure the hose is free from constriction as the motor vibrates. I used an old water pump I had laying around, but mini fuel pump will do. I grounded the switch to the engine and a hot lead. Then I took a five foot section of clear water hose, mainly because it is easy to coil and store attached it to the pump. I always have an empty five gallon oil pail to discharge the oil into and a full pail to fill the motor again with oil. One other note I used a wine cork to seal the end of the hose. The procedure is simple start the engine let it run until warm, turn it off, put the hose in the empty pail and throw the switch. Five minutes later you are pouring oil back into the engine. Next I checked the sea strainers. While the sea cock was closed I checked the zincs. I especially paid attention to the zinc in the heat exchanger. For some reason they seem to go fast. Next I checked the fuel filters. I repeated the same procedures with the generator. One other area of concern was the water maker. I changed those filters without fail. On a charter boat we use a lot of water and although I held nine hundred gallons of water ten to eleven people can run through that water in a day and a half. With the hatches closed and my pails of used oil sitting on the quay I waited for the fuel truck to arrive. The fuel truck would take used oil and recycle it for a small fee. I made a check of all the heads, water faucets and lights. When I was satisfied I went on deck and check all the rigging, lights and sails. I hired a kid who was looking to earn some money to polish all the stainless steel and brass. By the time Laura and Beth returned I was enjoying a beer satisfied my yacht was ready to go.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Rhodes
By Scott Dodgson
We secured the sails as we rounded the point of Rodos city. We prepared to go stern to. My one piece of advice for anyone sailing in the Greek Islands is to contact an agent before arriving at any port. Usually when bringing a boat into the harbor there is any number of agents hanging around the quay looking for your business. They have a tendency to claim you as a client once they touch your lines. In some cases they may even demand payment. So make arrangements first. They can make arrangements with other agencies for a fee, but it is well worth it. I use Makis at Yacht Rhodes International. Makis can arrange anything and that’s a fact. I called him on the VHF to tell him I was entering the harbor. We passed through the gates of Mandraki harbor where the Colossus of Rhodes once stood. I scanned the docks and saw him driving up on his scooter waving his arm. He stopped in front of an open space on the quay and directed me to berth there. A few minutes later we were tied up. I lowered the passé rail and Makis boarded welcoming me back to Rhodes. At this point I had two days to turn the boat from ocean cruiser into a charter boat. Makis and I went over a list of services I would need. Makis was the charter broker for my three week charter so he had been in contact with the guests. Since I’ve gone through this drill a few times before we only spent a few minutes ticking of the list of services. I instructed Laura and Beth to gather all the laundry. Three thousand miles, seven countries, and five weeks on board makes a lot of laundry! A minivan stopped behind the boat. A British woman who specializes in cleaning boats inside and out stood with three other employees waiting for the go ahead. I have found that after a long sail the crew is pretty tired and although they are willing to clean they generally lack the enthusiasm for this kind of detailed work. I waved them on board to get started. I gave Makis my documents and we left together on his scooter. Laura and Beth would clean out the fridge. I dropped off Makis at his office and returned to the boat with his scooter. Scooters are essential! The cleaning crew was hard at work when I returned. The laundry was in their van ready for transport and Laura and Beth were sitting on the quay talking. I hoped there wasn’t any drama coming my way since I need both of them to do their jobs for three more weeks. My trusted mate wouldn’t be joining us for another a month. Within the first two hours of arriving, I was having the boat cleaned to perfection, laundry being washed, dried and pressed, flowers ordered, a mini bus arranged to pickup the guests from the airport, drinks ordered, a rented scooter for transportation and my clearance papers stamped. Next I was taking Laura and Beth for lunch at one of my favorite restaurants.
We secured the sails as we rounded the point of Rodos city. We prepared to go stern to. My one piece of advice for anyone sailing in the Greek Islands is to contact an agent before arriving at any port. Usually when bringing a boat into the harbor there is any number of agents hanging around the quay looking for your business. They have a tendency to claim you as a client once they touch your lines. In some cases they may even demand payment. So make arrangements first. They can make arrangements with other agencies for a fee, but it is well worth it. I use Makis at Yacht Rhodes International. Makis can arrange anything and that’s a fact. I called him on the VHF to tell him I was entering the harbor. We passed through the gates of Mandraki harbor where the Colossus of Rhodes once stood. I scanned the docks and saw him driving up on his scooter waving his arm. He stopped in front of an open space on the quay and directed me to berth there. A few minutes later we were tied up. I lowered the passé rail and Makis boarded welcoming me back to Rhodes. At this point I had two days to turn the boat from ocean cruiser into a charter boat. Makis and I went over a list of services I would need. Makis was the charter broker for my three week charter so he had been in contact with the guests. Since I’ve gone through this drill a few times before we only spent a few minutes ticking of the list of services. I instructed Laura and Beth to gather all the laundry. Three thousand miles, seven countries, and five weeks on board makes a lot of laundry! A minivan stopped behind the boat. A British woman who specializes in cleaning boats inside and out stood with three other employees waiting for the go ahead. I have found that after a long sail the crew is pretty tired and although they are willing to clean they generally lack the enthusiasm for this kind of detailed work. I waved them on board to get started. I gave Makis my documents and we left together on his scooter. Laura and Beth would clean out the fridge. I dropped off Makis at his office and returned to the boat with his scooter. Scooters are essential! The cleaning crew was hard at work when I returned. The laundry was in their van ready for transport and Laura and Beth were sitting on the quay talking. I hoped there wasn’t any drama coming my way since I need both of them to do their jobs for three more weeks. My trusted mate wouldn’t be joining us for another a month. Within the first two hours of arriving, I was having the boat cleaned to perfection, laundry being washed, dried and pressed, flowers ordered, a mini bus arranged to pickup the guests from the airport, drinks ordered, a rented scooter for transportation and my clearance papers stamped. Next I was taking Laura and Beth for lunch at one of my favorite restaurants.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Last Night Watch
By Scott Dodgson
I washed my face in the galley while the kettle came to a boil. For long night time watches I made a strong espresso usually a triple and added Bailey's Irish Cream. This brew kept me up all night while calming the jitters from the coffee. I grabbed two apples and a bag of Star Burst candies and stuffed them into my pockets. As always, I checked the chart and the chart plotter. We would be in Rhodes and at the end of the crossing from Trinidad in nine hours. I entered my position, weather, and crew names into the log book. I also made notes on my state of being. “Tired, pleased, but in general good spirits”. Laura saw me moving around in the galley and came to talk to me. She told me Beth was on deck. She was a little emotional so I should be cautious when talking with her. What I saw and heard was Laura was emotional. She promised we would talk after we got into Rhodes. She went to our cabin to sleep. “Wake me up if you get tired.” On deck I found Beth sitting next to the helm wrapped in a blanket. In general sailing at night is much colder than you would realize even in the tropics. So having a nice blanket wrapped around you makes the watch comfortable. It also serves as a wake up when you get a little sleepy. Toss it off and the cold air will wake you up. First, I checked the tow line. Sometimes the towline will chaff at an alarming rate. It’s no fun turning around to find your dinghy bobbing in the ocean at night. I made a two degree correction on the autohelm. I trimmed the main, eased a touch on the mizzen, opened the staysail a mite and closed the Genoa a turn. With the wind slightly abaft of beam I slightly closed the slots. This tweaking took into account the cool and heavier air would stream off the foot of the sail rather than spilling off the clew. I could hear the autohelm making fewer corrections. The boat held it’s course with less effort and more speed. Beth watched me move around the deck. When I settled next to her in the cockpit I offered her an apple. She accepted with a smile. We sat in silence for a while until I leaped up at the sight of a school of dolphins racing along side. We had entered a massive plume of plankton. The visual effect is stunning. The dolphins looked like they were speeding through the stars. The green glow outlined the hull and created a long green trail in the wake. And just as I convinced Beth to come and stand on the bow sprit and enjoy the spectacle the full moon began peaking over the horizon like a beacon of bright yellow light. It was so bright I went back to the cockpit to check the radar to assure myself it wasn’t a ship. It was that bright. I called Laura. She looked around and was happy to join Beth and myself on the bow sprit. As the full moon rose a few degrees above horizon and we passed through the last of the plankton plume, I asked both of them what is wrong? The three of us sat the rest of the night and talked. What I learned? Laura was planning to leave me after the summer charter season. Beth wanted to stay and work with us, however Beth in her quest to rediscover a comfortable place in her sexuality had seduced Laura, who was experimental at best, but in this circumstance was uncomfortable with their relationship and Beth was seriously regretting her behavior. Both suffered from guilt over their actions. I tried to reassure both. I told them to look around. Look at the beauty of dolphins swimming through the stars. I told them there was something you both wanted and maybe needed in their liaison. Don’t feel guilty I urged, life is long and complicated, the best you can do is move forward and look to the next day. By then the sky turned grey with morning light. The green mountains of Rhodes Greece lay on our starboard beam. The three of us huddled together under the blanket watching a new day dawn.
I washed my face in the galley while the kettle came to a boil. For long night time watches I made a strong espresso usually a triple and added Bailey's Irish Cream. This brew kept me up all night while calming the jitters from the coffee. I grabbed two apples and a bag of Star Burst candies and stuffed them into my pockets. As always, I checked the chart and the chart plotter. We would be in Rhodes and at the end of the crossing from Trinidad in nine hours. I entered my position, weather, and crew names into the log book. I also made notes on my state of being. “Tired, pleased, but in general good spirits”. Laura saw me moving around in the galley and came to talk to me. She told me Beth was on deck. She was a little emotional so I should be cautious when talking with her. What I saw and heard was Laura was emotional. She promised we would talk after we got into Rhodes. She went to our cabin to sleep. “Wake me up if you get tired.” On deck I found Beth sitting next to the helm wrapped in a blanket. In general sailing at night is much colder than you would realize even in the tropics. So having a nice blanket wrapped around you makes the watch comfortable. It also serves as a wake up when you get a little sleepy. Toss it off and the cold air will wake you up. First, I checked the tow line. Sometimes the towline will chaff at an alarming rate. It’s no fun turning around to find your dinghy bobbing in the ocean at night. I made a two degree correction on the autohelm. I trimmed the main, eased a touch on the mizzen, opened the staysail a mite and closed the Genoa a turn. With the wind slightly abaft of beam I slightly closed the slots. This tweaking took into account the cool and heavier air would stream off the foot of the sail rather than spilling off the clew. I could hear the autohelm making fewer corrections. The boat held it’s course with less effort and more speed. Beth watched me move around the deck. When I settled next to her in the cockpit I offered her an apple. She accepted with a smile. We sat in silence for a while until I leaped up at the sight of a school of dolphins racing along side. We had entered a massive plume of plankton. The visual effect is stunning. The dolphins looked like they were speeding through the stars. The green glow outlined the hull and created a long green trail in the wake. And just as I convinced Beth to come and stand on the bow sprit and enjoy the spectacle the full moon began peaking over the horizon like a beacon of bright yellow light. It was so bright I went back to the cockpit to check the radar to assure myself it wasn’t a ship. It was that bright. I called Laura. She looked around and was happy to join Beth and myself on the bow sprit. As the full moon rose a few degrees above horizon and we passed through the last of the plankton plume, I asked both of them what is wrong? The three of us sat the rest of the night and talked. What I learned? Laura was planning to leave me after the summer charter season. Beth wanted to stay and work with us, however Beth in her quest to rediscover a comfortable place in her sexuality had seduced Laura, who was experimental at best, but in this circumstance was uncomfortable with their relationship and Beth was seriously regretting her behavior. Both suffered from guilt over their actions. I tried to reassure both. I told them to look around. Look at the beauty of dolphins swimming through the stars. I told them there was something you both wanted and maybe needed in their liaison. Don’t feel guilty I urged, life is long and complicated, the best you can do is move forward and look to the next day. By then the sky turned grey with morning light. The green mountains of Rhodes Greece lay on our starboard beam. The three of us huddled together under the blanket watching a new day dawn.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Of Love
By Scott Dodgson
I woke late to the sounds of baggage being shuffled across the deck above my head. Laura came into my cabin and announced that Val and Nancy needed a ride to shore to catch the next ferry to Athens. Beth was staying aboard for a while. I wasn’t aware of the dynamics going on between the girls. I staggered out of bed and into the galley for a cup of coffee. Beth and Laura were on deck pleading with them to stay and complete the journey to Rhodes. Before I took my first sip Laura came down and angrily insisted they wanted to go right now. As a Charter boat captain and sailor I never pretend to know much about the dynamics of the passengers except when it may effect the performance and safety of my vessel. I took Val and Nancy to the quay. They thanked me for the ride and wished me luck. Nancy gave me a perfidious glance as I pulled away from the quay that seemed to indicate I was at fault for leaving them on Ios. I’ve been rightfully accused of being at fault for a host of transgressions when it comes to women, but this particular circumstance left me puzzled. After hoisting the dinghy motor onto the deck and setting a tow line for the dinghy I was anxious to get under way. I had one more over night sail before arriving in Rhodes, then three days to prepare for the charter and make some minor repairs and Laura and I would be off for a three week charter along the beautiful Blue Coast of Turkey. Nothing seems to freak the crew out more as when the captain starts the motor and starts lifting the anchor to leave. I suppose the abruptness is akin to moving out of your house, although in this case the house was moving. I’ve learned over the years not to ask questions about mysterious events/coming and goings until the subject is brought up by the participants. My singular purpose was sailing my yacht. When night fell we were under full sail with a fifteen knot wind off the beam in choppy disorganized seas. Except for the random splash of spray off the hull it was a comfortable sail. I told the girls to give me three hours of sleep. I would take the dog watch from mid-night until we arrived in Rhodes roughly at nine in the morning. I woke at eleven thirty. Captains have a strange but accurate clock in their heads when it comes to sailing and watches. I could hear the girls talking feverishly albeit muffled. When I heard sobbing my first thought was are they paying attention? My second thought or thoughts was I had one girl, Laura who was preparing to break my heart, a second, Beth who was trying to find something in her heart for me and my boat who was entirely loyal and gave me as much love as I could give her.
I woke late to the sounds of baggage being shuffled across the deck above my head. Laura came into my cabin and announced that Val and Nancy needed a ride to shore to catch the next ferry to Athens. Beth was staying aboard for a while. I wasn’t aware of the dynamics going on between the girls. I staggered out of bed and into the galley for a cup of coffee. Beth and Laura were on deck pleading with them to stay and complete the journey to Rhodes. Before I took my first sip Laura came down and angrily insisted they wanted to go right now. As a Charter boat captain and sailor I never pretend to know much about the dynamics of the passengers except when it may effect the performance and safety of my vessel. I took Val and Nancy to the quay. They thanked me for the ride and wished me luck. Nancy gave me a perfidious glance as I pulled away from the quay that seemed to indicate I was at fault for leaving them on Ios. I’ve been rightfully accused of being at fault for a host of transgressions when it comes to women, but this particular circumstance left me puzzled. After hoisting the dinghy motor onto the deck and setting a tow line for the dinghy I was anxious to get under way. I had one more over night sail before arriving in Rhodes, then three days to prepare for the charter and make some minor repairs and Laura and I would be off for a three week charter along the beautiful Blue Coast of Turkey. Nothing seems to freak the crew out more as when the captain starts the motor and starts lifting the anchor to leave. I suppose the abruptness is akin to moving out of your house, although in this case the house was moving. I’ve learned over the years not to ask questions about mysterious events/coming and goings until the subject is brought up by the participants. My singular purpose was sailing my yacht. When night fell we were under full sail with a fifteen knot wind off the beam in choppy disorganized seas. Except for the random splash of spray off the hull it was a comfortable sail. I told the girls to give me three hours of sleep. I would take the dog watch from mid-night until we arrived in Rhodes roughly at nine in the morning. I woke at eleven thirty. Captains have a strange but accurate clock in their heads when it comes to sailing and watches. I could hear the girls talking feverishly albeit muffled. When I heard sobbing my first thought was are they paying attention? My second thought or thoughts was I had one girl, Laura who was preparing to break my heart, a second, Beth who was trying to find something in her heart for me and my boat who was entirely loyal and gave me as much love as I could give her.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Ios, The Disney World of Hedonism
By Scott Dodgson
We took a vote on which island to stop for a night before pushing onto Ios the Disney World of Hedonism. We crossed the Ionian Sea with fair winds and smooth seas. I opted to sail below the Peloponnesian coast as there were reports that the Corinthian canal was closed for repairs. With my schedule a day ahead schedule and my new mates occupied with sunning themselves I finally had a little latitude. Ios lies between Santorini and Naxos. A thirty mile deviation from my direct rhomb line to Rhodes Greece was acceptable since the weather report was calling for fifteen to twenty mile an hour from the Northeast winds for the next week. The Cyclades can be the windiest section of the Aegean Sea imaginable this was good news and should have calmed me down except for the fact that Laura seemed aloof. During the crossing Laura and I split the watches so we had little time alone. I shared the first half of the watch with Beth, the paralegal from LA and the second half with Val, the Canadian Law Student. Standing watch through the night can be pretty boring so there was plenty of time to talk with both girls. Nancy had no desire to work on the yacht and didn’t seem a factor in Laura’s plot to replace herself. I liked both girls but I was quick to dismiss Beth. She got upset when someone, me I think, ate one of her yogurts. Since I had loaded the fridge with food, and let the girls drink as much as they wanted I was surprised by her selfishness. This wasn’t going to work for me. Val on the other hand was a joy to be with. She was smart and excellent conversationalist. I learned the reason she was traveling during a break from law school. She had breast cancer. She had a mastectomy done on both breasts. The stress and the fear of dying had lead her to so the world. Luckily for her the cancer was completely gone. We talked a lot about the psychological effects. She was open, honest and very brave. I admired her greatly. On an unspoken level she seemed to revel in the sexual energy that passed between us. It was apparent to everyone on board. We made Ios in the morning. The entrance to the harbor can easily be missed as it is a small opening between rather tall rocky hills. We anchored off the beach careful not to be anywhere near the ferry dock. Greek ferries will run you over without a thought or an apology. I launched the dinghy off the foredeck for the first time since Trinidad. That evening we all went to Ios. Ios is a backpacker heaven. The little town on top of the mountain is filled with bars. It is perpetual frat party. There were bodies of drunken college students everywhere. Sun tanned boys and girls dancing to techo rock. Plenty of public love making, shirtless boys and girls and everything you could imagine. The only one of our group that seemed to really enjoy herself was Beth. I think Ios was her Disney World. Boys flocked to her one after another and sometimes three and four at a time. We pushed through the crowds past the white washed walls back down to the harbor. It was two o’clock in the morning and Beth was upset we were calling it a night. Val and Laura were relieved to be out of the chaos. Nancy was coy.
We took a vote on which island to stop for a night before pushing onto Ios the Disney World of Hedonism. We crossed the Ionian Sea with fair winds and smooth seas. I opted to sail below the Peloponnesian coast as there were reports that the Corinthian canal was closed for repairs. With my schedule a day ahead schedule and my new mates occupied with sunning themselves I finally had a little latitude. Ios lies between Santorini and Naxos. A thirty mile deviation from my direct rhomb line to Rhodes Greece was acceptable since the weather report was calling for fifteen to twenty mile an hour from the Northeast winds for the next week. The Cyclades can be the windiest section of the Aegean Sea imaginable this was good news and should have calmed me down except for the fact that Laura seemed aloof. During the crossing Laura and I split the watches so we had little time alone. I shared the first half of the watch with Beth, the paralegal from LA and the second half with Val, the Canadian Law Student. Standing watch through the night can be pretty boring so there was plenty of time to talk with both girls. Nancy had no desire to work on the yacht and didn’t seem a factor in Laura’s plot to replace herself. I liked both girls but I was quick to dismiss Beth. She got upset when someone, me I think, ate one of her yogurts. Since I had loaded the fridge with food, and let the girls drink as much as they wanted I was surprised by her selfishness. This wasn’t going to work for me. Val on the other hand was a joy to be with. She was smart and excellent conversationalist. I learned the reason she was traveling during a break from law school. She had breast cancer. She had a mastectomy done on both breasts. The stress and the fear of dying had lead her to so the world. Luckily for her the cancer was completely gone. We talked a lot about the psychological effects. She was open, honest and very brave. I admired her greatly. On an unspoken level she seemed to revel in the sexual energy that passed between us. It was apparent to everyone on board. We made Ios in the morning. The entrance to the harbor can easily be missed as it is a small opening between rather tall rocky hills. We anchored off the beach careful not to be anywhere near the ferry dock. Greek ferries will run you over without a thought or an apology. I launched the dinghy off the foredeck for the first time since Trinidad. That evening we all went to Ios. Ios is a backpacker heaven. The little town on top of the mountain is filled with bars. It is perpetual frat party. There were bodies of drunken college students everywhere. Sun tanned boys and girls dancing to techo rock. Plenty of public love making, shirtless boys and girls and everything you could imagine. The only one of our group that seemed to really enjoy herself was Beth. I think Ios was her Disney World. Boys flocked to her one after another and sometimes three and four at a time. We pushed through the crowds past the white washed walls back down to the harbor. It was two o’clock in the morning and Beth was upset we were calling it a night. Val and Laura were relieved to be out of the chaos. Nancy was coy.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Leaving Italy
By Scott Dodgson
In the bright sunshine of the morning I prepared my yacht to leave Palermo. As I’ve written before Med mooring takes preparation and coordination to smoothly bring your yacht stern to the quay. Leaving the dock takes preparation especially if there isn’t a soul around to help. I have four lines coming off the stern; two spring lines and two stern lines. The spring lines are crossed so the vessel won’t sway in the slip. All the tension in the lines is created by the anchor firmly bedded in the basin of the harbor. Anchor, yacht, lines quay pulled taunt like the string in a bow. The first step is to take the stern lines; those are the lines coming straight off the corners of the yacht directly to the bollards on the dock. I loosen one line at a time and run the loop around the bollard and back to the yacht. A crew member can free the bitterend of the line and pull it on board without having to get off the yacht. With both stern lines ready, I take off the spring lines. Using the tension in the anchor and rode, once the lines are released and drawn back onto the yacht the boat will move forward. With Laura standing on the bow, her foot on the switch for the windless she waited for my signal to begin pulling up the anchor. A couple of years earlier I installed a chain washing system on the bow. As most boaters know there is nothing like the smell of anchor chain after it has been sitting on the bottom in gnarly, polluted harbor mud especially when the crew quarters share the anchor locker. By using the power supply to the windless, I installed a high pressure pump inside the locker. Using salt water, fresh water would be ideal, but who wants to waste that much fresh water when salt water will do the job I ran a half inch hose with a fire nozzle under the bow pointing it on an angle downward to blow the mud and crap off the chain and anchor. Once the windless switch was turned on the car wash was turned on. We glided forward with the natural tension pulling up the anchor as we moved forward. I never used the power of the motor unless I was fighting a strong wind. Laura signaled with her arm mimicking the angle of the chain. Once we moved over the anchor it dislodged from its muddy grave and began to come home. Once she could see the anchor near the surface she signaled that we could go. Dragging the anchor near the surface slowly for a few seconds is enough to drop shovelfuls of foul mud back to the bottom. With the anchor secure and the windless turned off, she directed her friends and my new crew to stow the fenders and lines. If this was an audition for her replacement Val and Beth would have been tied for eagerness. Nancy wasn’t in the running. She was more worried about getting sea sick. Next port of call Greece.
In the bright sunshine of the morning I prepared my yacht to leave Palermo. As I’ve written before Med mooring takes preparation and coordination to smoothly bring your yacht stern to the quay. Leaving the dock takes preparation especially if there isn’t a soul around to help. I have four lines coming off the stern; two spring lines and two stern lines. The spring lines are crossed so the vessel won’t sway in the slip. All the tension in the lines is created by the anchor firmly bedded in the basin of the harbor. Anchor, yacht, lines quay pulled taunt like the string in a bow. The first step is to take the stern lines; those are the lines coming straight off the corners of the yacht directly to the bollards on the dock. I loosen one line at a time and run the loop around the bollard and back to the yacht. A crew member can free the bitterend of the line and pull it on board without having to get off the yacht. With both stern lines ready, I take off the spring lines. Using the tension in the anchor and rode, once the lines are released and drawn back onto the yacht the boat will move forward. With Laura standing on the bow, her foot on the switch for the windless she waited for my signal to begin pulling up the anchor. A couple of years earlier I installed a chain washing system on the bow. As most boaters know there is nothing like the smell of anchor chain after it has been sitting on the bottom in gnarly, polluted harbor mud especially when the crew quarters share the anchor locker. By using the power supply to the windless, I installed a high pressure pump inside the locker. Using salt water, fresh water would be ideal, but who wants to waste that much fresh water when salt water will do the job I ran a half inch hose with a fire nozzle under the bow pointing it on an angle downward to blow the mud and crap off the chain and anchor. Once the windless switch was turned on the car wash was turned on. We glided forward with the natural tension pulling up the anchor as we moved forward. I never used the power of the motor unless I was fighting a strong wind. Laura signaled with her arm mimicking the angle of the chain. Once we moved over the anchor it dislodged from its muddy grave and began to come home. Once she could see the anchor near the surface she signaled that we could go. Dragging the anchor near the surface slowly for a few seconds is enough to drop shovelfuls of foul mud back to the bottom. With the anchor secure and the windless turned off, she directed her friends and my new crew to stow the fenders and lines. If this was an audition for her replacement Val and Beth would have been tied for eagerness. Nancy wasn’t in the running. She was more worried about getting sea sick. Next port of call Greece.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Shooting Fantasies
By Scott Dodgson
The trouble with male fantasies is they sometimes come true. Four beautiful woman, a yacht, a captian, under the Sicilian moon, what could go wrong?
I led Laura and her friends back to my boat. Laura took charge of getting the girls settled while I fixed dinner. She made the perfunctory announcements about “No Tampons in the toilets” “Conserve water” “Stow your belongs well so they don’t fly around when we sail” etc. They decided to take showers before dinner. The girls were forward in two state rooms. Laura breezed past me into the master suite seemingly happy to be home. She offered to help cook dinner. I told her I was making something simple and for her to relax. She disappeared to take a shower. I made a mixed green salad with fresh tomatoes, cucumbers and spring onions. I put a dollop pickled zucchini relish I bought in the Vaccarro market in Palermo and a second dollop pickled mushrooms. I prepared a selection of local cheeses on a separate breadboard and sliced a fresh baguette for the bread basket. I couldn’t help but think I was preparing a meal of seduction. The main course would be grilled swordfish and sweet potatoes sautéed in butter and brown sugar then flambéed with sweet banana rum I brought from the Caribbean. I decanted my “Geo” wine into a clay pitcher and set the table outside in the cockpit. With the table leaves open I could comfortable seat eight grownups, ten in a pinch. A note to those struggling to find the right lighting for their cockpit table: Take a cheap straw hat string a 12volt light into the top a run the wire to your power supply on your helm. It is cheap and casts a nice romantic light over the table. The first to emerge from her cabin was Nancy. She was a high school friend from North Dakota and a full blooded Sioux Indian. This was her first experience on a boat and was in desperate need of fresh air. I offered her a glass of wine and directed her to the cockpit table outside to gather herself. She was worried about getting sea sick as she felt the boat was moving. I explained sea sickness is normal for most people. The inner ear and the eye play tricks on your system. I offered her a ginger cookie to help settle the imbalance. When we sail I would give her all the motion sickness products, patches, pills and wrist bands, but ginger was the best along with getting used to the motion. She would be fine. The second person to emerge from her cabin was Beth. She was a paralegal from LA. She was a very pretty girl in her early twenties. I offered her a glass of wine, while she complimented me on my yacht, the shower and the surprising luxury of the vessel. I got the very real sense she was coming on to me when she asked about becoming crew. The third person to emerge was Val. She was a law student from Canada that the girls had joined in their back packing trek through Europe. She was beautiful, funny and very smart. I will admit the longer I’m alive the less I think I know about women especially what turns them on, but there is a certain strange and wonderful transformation that takes place in otherwise prudent women that unleashes their sexuality. Is it the combination of freedom and comfort of the yacht or is it the tactile senses of the boat’s motion and power under the wind overwhelming them? I don’t know, but Val exuded an unbridled sexual energy that I thought she would burst. When she went upstairs I went into the owner’s suite to check on Laura. I found her lying on the bed naked and still wet from her shower sound to sleep. I kissed her and asked if she wanted to join us for dinner. She opened her eyes and smiled. I could see in her eyes she wanted to talk seriously, but the laughter of the girls upstairs broke the moment. I had the stabbing feeling that she was afraid of breaking my heart and upstairs sat her replacement.
The trouble with male fantasies is they sometimes come true. Four beautiful woman, a yacht, a captian, under the Sicilian moon, what could go wrong?
I led Laura and her friends back to my boat. Laura took charge of getting the girls settled while I fixed dinner. She made the perfunctory announcements about “No Tampons in the toilets” “Conserve water” “Stow your belongs well so they don’t fly around when we sail” etc. They decided to take showers before dinner. The girls were forward in two state rooms. Laura breezed past me into the master suite seemingly happy to be home. She offered to help cook dinner. I told her I was making something simple and for her to relax. She disappeared to take a shower. I made a mixed green salad with fresh tomatoes, cucumbers and spring onions. I put a dollop pickled zucchini relish I bought in the Vaccarro market in Palermo and a second dollop pickled mushrooms. I prepared a selection of local cheeses on a separate breadboard and sliced a fresh baguette for the bread basket. I couldn’t help but think I was preparing a meal of seduction. The main course would be grilled swordfish and sweet potatoes sautéed in butter and brown sugar then flambéed with sweet banana rum I brought from the Caribbean. I decanted my “Geo” wine into a clay pitcher and set the table outside in the cockpit. With the table leaves open I could comfortable seat eight grownups, ten in a pinch. A note to those struggling to find the right lighting for their cockpit table: Take a cheap straw hat string a 12volt light into the top a run the wire to your power supply on your helm. It is cheap and casts a nice romantic light over the table. The first to emerge from her cabin was Nancy. She was a high school friend from North Dakota and a full blooded Sioux Indian. This was her first experience on a boat and was in desperate need of fresh air. I offered her a glass of wine and directed her to the cockpit table outside to gather herself. She was worried about getting sea sick as she felt the boat was moving. I explained sea sickness is normal for most people. The inner ear and the eye play tricks on your system. I offered her a ginger cookie to help settle the imbalance. When we sail I would give her all the motion sickness products, patches, pills and wrist bands, but ginger was the best along with getting used to the motion. She would be fine. The second person to emerge from her cabin was Beth. She was a paralegal from LA. She was a very pretty girl in her early twenties. I offered her a glass of wine, while she complimented me on my yacht, the shower and the surprising luxury of the vessel. I got the very real sense she was coming on to me when she asked about becoming crew. The third person to emerge was Val. She was a law student from Canada that the girls had joined in their back packing trek through Europe. She was beautiful, funny and very smart. I will admit the longer I’m alive the less I think I know about women especially what turns them on, but there is a certain strange and wonderful transformation that takes place in otherwise prudent women that unleashes their sexuality. Is it the combination of freedom and comfort of the yacht or is it the tactile senses of the boat’s motion and power under the wind overwhelming them? I don’t know, but Val exuded an unbridled sexual energy that I thought she would burst. When she went upstairs I went into the owner’s suite to check on Laura. I found her lying on the bed naked and still wet from her shower sound to sleep. I kissed her and asked if she wanted to join us for dinner. She opened her eyes and smiled. I could see in her eyes she wanted to talk seriously, but the laughter of the girls upstairs broke the moment. I had the stabbing feeling that she was afraid of breaking my heart and upstairs sat her replacement.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Victim of Style
By Scott Dodgson
The evening sun illuminated the mountains surrounding Palermo with dazzling pinks and warm hues of ochre. Most of Palermo’s citizens were waking after an afternoon nap to begin the second part of their day. When the cool vespers of sea air rolled over the ancient bone dry stones under the starry night the streets filled with locals taking a stroll or visiting friends. It was a time when the hustle of modern life gave way to relaxed living. The restaurants and cafes filled with patrons, drinking from small glasses of local wines, eating from an endless stream of pasta plate, breaking loafs of bread and sharing in the pitched excitement of Italian conversation. I navigated my way through the streets to the central train station train to meet my mate and her friends. The central train station looks more like a palatial palace than a train station, with its well kept gardens, polished statues and bubbling fountains. I’ve always harbored the idea of writing a book about train stations and the stories of the people coming and going from these beautiful hubs of transportation, but that is for another time and place. The train from Rome was late. I’m sure anyone having traveled in Italy would not be surprised. I was left with plenty of time to watch the crowd. I should point out I’m not much of a clothes hog, but leaning against a marble column dressed in Khaki pants, a white Polo shirt and a pair of well broken in Sperry deck shoes I felt envious. A dear Italian friend once explained there are two constants in an Italian male’s life, his mother and his style both designed to make him a willing victim. I, on the other hand seemed to stand out in this crowd as an American. The men wore a variety of cotton finely finished cotton shirts and double pleated muslin pants and fine leather shoes seemingly accented by a light but colorful sweater draped casually over their shoulders. My ruminations were interrupted when the loud speakers announced the arrival of the train from Rome. Laura pushed through the sea of travelers with her three girlfriends following behind. I waved to her and called out her name. In a strange moment of self awareness I looked over and caught the eye of a finely dressed Italian couple. The woman seemed to flash a small smile. In that moment I came to understand Mona Lisa's smile. They possessed a sublime understanding of femininity and the power to make men willing victims of adoration. We hugged and kissed, but I knew deep down my needs would never be met without a change in style.
Buy my novel The Mental Hygientist.
The evening sun illuminated the mountains surrounding Palermo with dazzling pinks and warm hues of ochre. Most of Palermo’s citizens were waking after an afternoon nap to begin the second part of their day. When the cool vespers of sea air rolled over the ancient bone dry stones under the starry night the streets filled with locals taking a stroll or visiting friends. It was a time when the hustle of modern life gave way to relaxed living. The restaurants and cafes filled with patrons, drinking from small glasses of local wines, eating from an endless stream of pasta plate, breaking loafs of bread and sharing in the pitched excitement of Italian conversation. I navigated my way through the streets to the central train station train to meet my mate and her friends. The central train station looks more like a palatial palace than a train station, with its well kept gardens, polished statues and bubbling fountains. I’ve always harbored the idea of writing a book about train stations and the stories of the people coming and going from these beautiful hubs of transportation, but that is for another time and place. The train from Rome was late. I’m sure anyone having traveled in Italy would not be surprised. I was left with plenty of time to watch the crowd. I should point out I’m not much of a clothes hog, but leaning against a marble column dressed in Khaki pants, a white Polo shirt and a pair of well broken in Sperry deck shoes I felt envious. A dear Italian friend once explained there are two constants in an Italian male’s life, his mother and his style both designed to make him a willing victim. I, on the other hand seemed to stand out in this crowd as an American. The men wore a variety of cotton finely finished cotton shirts and double pleated muslin pants and fine leather shoes seemingly accented by a light but colorful sweater draped casually over their shoulders. My ruminations were interrupted when the loud speakers announced the arrival of the train from Rome. Laura pushed through the sea of travelers with her three girlfriends following behind. I waved to her and called out her name. In a strange moment of self awareness I looked over and caught the eye of a finely dressed Italian couple. The woman seemed to flash a small smile. In that moment I came to understand Mona Lisa's smile. They possessed a sublime understanding of femininity and the power to make men willing victims of adoration. We hugged and kissed, but I knew deep down my needs would never be met without a change in style.
Buy my novel The Mental Hygientist.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Love Shopping
By Scott Dodgson
I rose early with anticipation that Laura (chef/mate/girlfriend) and her friends would be arriving by train from Rome in the evening. With the long cold hardship of Atlantic sailing a distant memory and the troubling crew long gone I was excited to have my most important and trusted crew member returning. Since leaving Trinidad four days behind schedule I was now two days ahead of schedule with only two more seas to cross and a mere 1200 nm to go. I felt good. The weather was warm. The skies were clear and had a full day to enjoy Palermo. The plan was to leave the next day travel through the Straits of Massena enter the Ionian Sea and make the western tip of the Peloponnesus in three days. From there weave my way down through the Greek islands to Rhodes, where I would have a couple of days to resupply and clean-up before embarking on a rather luxuriant sail up and down the coast of Turkey. Yesterday I related a story to Carlos, the owner of the fuel dock, about the arduous nature of shopping for a charter. In particular carrying bags of groceries in the hot climate back and forth from the shops to the boat, when I emerged from down below I found a ten year old boy named Geo sitting in a wheel barrel behind my yacht. He jumped up and presented himself in a rather formal fashion as my guide and grocery carrier. He looked like he had just come from central casting of a Fellini movie. He wore torn shorts and a dirty white T-shirt a size to small, but he radiated happiness. My general attitude towards kids is strained tolerance. I’d rather not have to deal with them at all, but I knew this situation was a thoughtful gift and probably had serious economic repercussions. So I invited Geo on board and gave him one of my crew polo shirts, a hat and a pair of cheap plastic sunglasses a richer American child had left on the boat. Geo was very happy. Scorsese would love this image of the big American captain walking past the Uzi carrying police guarding the entrance to the quay followed by a little waif pulling a wheel barrow. We crossed the busy Via Roma Avenue, when Geo asked if I wanted sex. He pointed out several ladies of the night lining the street at seven on a Sunday morning. It was clear Geo was going to be a full service guide. We walked through the tight little streets of the old city until we reached the Vucciria market. As I have written before this is one of the great markets on all of Europe. It has been extensively written about and filmed so I’ll refer you to this link. Geo and I filled up his wheel barrow with fresh vegetables, cured hams, four different flavored olive oils, cheese, a couple of chickens and six large swordfish steaks sliced before my eyes off a one hundred pound swordfish. With the wheelbarrow full and poor little Geo straining to push it we set off to return to the boat. Geo was giving it his all when I finally asked where I could buy some wine. “Vino?” Si! He knew just the place. He hopped into the wheel barrow hanging his feet over the front edge and directed me to turn right. Was looking for vino an indication of my hidden conviviality thus making it okay to stop working and let the big guy push the wheel barrow? So I picked up the handles to the wheel barrow and turned right. Geo chattered in Italian all the way along, until we came to a building that looked as if it were bombed yesterday. Geo opened a steel door in the basement and yelled. A very old bent over man emerged from the darkness with a glass of wine. He handed it to me and I took a sip. This was homemade wine, but tasted as if it were made by the finest of vintners. Bright red, fruity, cherry and apricot, with a hint of licorice this was good wine! It was even better with the price of fifty cents a liter. The old man, it turns out was Geo’s grandfather. You could see the love between them. I paid for two jugs or four gallons. So we set off for the boat, me pushing the happy Geo in a full wheelbarrow and his grandfather following behind carrying two jugs of wine balanced on a pole across his slumping shoulders. I unloaded the wheelbarrow, stowed the shopping and gave Geo his pay for the morning. I definitively over paid, but watching Geo pushing his grandfather in the wheelbarrow home was worth every cent.
http://travel.nytimes.com/travel/guides/europe/italy/sicily/palermo/overview.html?inline=nyt-geo
http://www.eurail.com/
http://www.bestofsicily.com/wine.htm
I rose early with anticipation that Laura (chef/mate/girlfriend) and her friends would be arriving by train from Rome in the evening. With the long cold hardship of Atlantic sailing a distant memory and the troubling crew long gone I was excited to have my most important and trusted crew member returning. Since leaving Trinidad four days behind schedule I was now two days ahead of schedule with only two more seas to cross and a mere 1200 nm to go. I felt good. The weather was warm. The skies were clear and had a full day to enjoy Palermo. The plan was to leave the next day travel through the Straits of Massena enter the Ionian Sea and make the western tip of the Peloponnesus in three days. From there weave my way down through the Greek islands to Rhodes, where I would have a couple of days to resupply and clean-up before embarking on a rather luxuriant sail up and down the coast of Turkey. Yesterday I related a story to Carlos, the owner of the fuel dock, about the arduous nature of shopping for a charter. In particular carrying bags of groceries in the hot climate back and forth from the shops to the boat, when I emerged from down below I found a ten year old boy named Geo sitting in a wheel barrel behind my yacht. He jumped up and presented himself in a rather formal fashion as my guide and grocery carrier. He looked like he had just come from central casting of a Fellini movie. He wore torn shorts and a dirty white T-shirt a size to small, but he radiated happiness. My general attitude towards kids is strained tolerance. I’d rather not have to deal with them at all, but I knew this situation was a thoughtful gift and probably had serious economic repercussions. So I invited Geo on board and gave him one of my crew polo shirts, a hat and a pair of cheap plastic sunglasses a richer American child had left on the boat. Geo was very happy. Scorsese would love this image of the big American captain walking past the Uzi carrying police guarding the entrance to the quay followed by a little waif pulling a wheel barrow. We crossed the busy Via Roma Avenue, when Geo asked if I wanted sex. He pointed out several ladies of the night lining the street at seven on a Sunday morning. It was clear Geo was going to be a full service guide. We walked through the tight little streets of the old city until we reached the Vucciria market. As I have written before this is one of the great markets on all of Europe. It has been extensively written about and filmed so I’ll refer you to this link. Geo and I filled up his wheel barrow with fresh vegetables, cured hams, four different flavored olive oils, cheese, a couple of chickens and six large swordfish steaks sliced before my eyes off a one hundred pound swordfish. With the wheelbarrow full and poor little Geo straining to push it we set off to return to the boat. Geo was giving it his all when I finally asked where I could buy some wine. “Vino?” Si! He knew just the place. He hopped into the wheel barrow hanging his feet over the front edge and directed me to turn right. Was looking for vino an indication of my hidden conviviality thus making it okay to stop working and let the big guy push the wheel barrow? So I picked up the handles to the wheel barrow and turned right. Geo chattered in Italian all the way along, until we came to a building that looked as if it were bombed yesterday. Geo opened a steel door in the basement and yelled. A very old bent over man emerged from the darkness with a glass of wine. He handed it to me and I took a sip. This was homemade wine, but tasted as if it were made by the finest of vintners. Bright red, fruity, cherry and apricot, with a hint of licorice this was good wine! It was even better with the price of fifty cents a liter. The old man, it turns out was Geo’s grandfather. You could see the love between them. I paid for two jugs or four gallons. So we set off for the boat, me pushing the happy Geo in a full wheelbarrow and his grandfather following behind carrying two jugs of wine balanced on a pole across his slumping shoulders. I unloaded the wheelbarrow, stowed the shopping and gave Geo his pay for the morning. I definitively over paid, but watching Geo pushing his grandfather in the wheelbarrow home was worth every cent.
http://travel.nytimes.com/travel/guides/europe/italy/sicily/palermo/overview.html?inline=nyt-geo
http://www.eurail.com/
http://www.bestofsicily.com/wine.htm
Friday, May 7, 2010
Stop For Beauty
By Scott Dodgson
There are two great aspects about sailing: Sailing and enjoying the destination you sailed too. Personally I find going out into the bay and sailing around for an afternoon boring. I love sailing, but I need a destination. Sicily is the ultimate destination. Forget about their reputation for crime. Most of the stories along with the movies mask the warm and generous people of Sicily. Don’t get me wrong, there is petty crime and until recently a war between the people and the mafia which seems to have settled down, Sicily is wonderful and should be at the top of your list for vacations. I found the fuel dock and settled in for a two day stay. Carlos, the owner of the fuel dock, went beyond simply helpful and invited me into his family. I bought five hundred dollars of fuel and paid in dollars. This is pre-Euro when every merchant seems to have his finger on the currency exchange. If played right Carlos could make an extra five to ten percent on the dollars. With this unspoken advantage to Carlos, he generously let me stay on his dock for free. I wanted to check in with the Port Captain and get my papers stamped making me legal. Carlos insisted I didn’t have to anything, but as I explained I would get into trouble down the road if I didn’t have the necessary stamps. We piled into his Mercedes and sped around the port. He pointed out all the important sites of Palermo, both new and old. At the Port Captain’s office Carlos introduced me to his cousin, the Port Captain. We shared a coffee. When I asked about the papers his cousin said, “Why? Everyone in Sicily has a brother, uncle, aunt, cousin, sister in America. We even celebrate thanksgiving! Sicily is the fifty first state of America!” He stamped my documents reluctantly but with a smile. Carlos took me by the train station a few blocks from my yacht to show me where I would meet Laura and her friends. There is a grand circle around a huge ornate fountain. The traffic is chaotic, aggressive and loud; lots of horns, arm waving and screaming. I saw an old woman attempting to cross the street. The racing cars nearly killed her several times within seconds. Carlos nearly hit her. Then I saw one of the most amazing events I’ve ever seen. A beautiful statuesque, Sophia Loren look alike, wearing a large hat sunglasses and high heels stood into the street without looking causing the traffic to skid to a halt as if Moses were parting the Red Sea or in the case the traffic of Palermo. The tones of the horns turned from aggravated to adoring. Carlos stopped and said, “Bella. Bella. We stop for beauty in Italy.” Welcome to Sicily.
There are two great aspects about sailing: Sailing and enjoying the destination you sailed too. Personally I find going out into the bay and sailing around for an afternoon boring. I love sailing, but I need a destination. Sicily is the ultimate destination. Forget about their reputation for crime. Most of the stories along with the movies mask the warm and generous people of Sicily. Don’t get me wrong, there is petty crime and until recently a war between the people and the mafia which seems to have settled down, Sicily is wonderful and should be at the top of your list for vacations. I found the fuel dock and settled in for a two day stay. Carlos, the owner of the fuel dock, went beyond simply helpful and invited me into his family. I bought five hundred dollars of fuel and paid in dollars. This is pre-Euro when every merchant seems to have his finger on the currency exchange. If played right Carlos could make an extra five to ten percent on the dollars. With this unspoken advantage to Carlos, he generously let me stay on his dock for free. I wanted to check in with the Port Captain and get my papers stamped making me legal. Carlos insisted I didn’t have to anything, but as I explained I would get into trouble down the road if I didn’t have the necessary stamps. We piled into his Mercedes and sped around the port. He pointed out all the important sites of Palermo, both new and old. At the Port Captain’s office Carlos introduced me to his cousin, the Port Captain. We shared a coffee. When I asked about the papers his cousin said, “Why? Everyone in Sicily has a brother, uncle, aunt, cousin, sister in America. We even celebrate thanksgiving! Sicily is the fifty first state of America!” He stamped my documents reluctantly but with a smile. Carlos took me by the train station a few blocks from my yacht to show me where I would meet Laura and her friends. There is a grand circle around a huge ornate fountain. The traffic is chaotic, aggressive and loud; lots of horns, arm waving and screaming. I saw an old woman attempting to cross the street. The racing cars nearly killed her several times within seconds. Carlos nearly hit her. Then I saw one of the most amazing events I’ve ever seen. A beautiful statuesque, Sophia Loren look alike, wearing a large hat sunglasses and high heels stood into the street without looking causing the traffic to skid to a halt as if Moses were parting the Red Sea or in the case the traffic of Palermo. The tones of the horns turned from aggravated to adoring. Carlos stopped and said, “Bella. Bella. We stop for beauty in Italy.” Welcome to Sicily.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Target Practice
I headed east under grey skies free off the machinations of amateur and undisciplined crew. The sea was soft and murky. The wind moved at a barely discernable five knots from the north. It was just enough to keep the main and mizzen full, but not enough to keep the 150 Genoa from collapsing and filling with an awkward thud. The frantic pressing forward to reach Greece and pick up my charter gave way to gentle acquiesce of a turtle’s never ending pace. Before leaving I contacted my Chef/mate girlfriend Laura. She was back packing with two girlfriends through Europe while I made the crossing. We would meet in Palermo Italy in four days. To say the yachting world is a man’s world would be an understatement, but Laura with her beauty, genuine smile, and vivacious personality fitting into this world and its demands was simply natural. She made life fun and hardship a joke. My guests loved her cooking. She was in fact better at chartering and entertaining than I. Over the last two years she carried the brut of entertaining guests. Our team work was flawless. While attending to my duties as a captain, sailing and maintenance, she carried on with the small talk. She made friends easily. Every evening after dinner I would appear in the cockpit with the guests and do what I like to think of as performance art. I would tell stories. When the final story had been told, the last of the dishes and brandy glasses cleared, and the guests stumbled off to their cabins to sleep we would retire to our cabin and make love. I was in love. I was deeply in love. I had two more days of sailing then two days of waiting then I could pick up my beautiful dream come true. I was nestled into the cockpit with a clear view of the sea thinking and yearning over our rendezvous when I spotted a yellow light directly on my course. I grabbed my binoculars and zoomed on the light. At first I thought it was a barge, but I couldn’t see the tug’s tree of lights. Could it be a barge just floating alone in the sea? I checked my book on navigation lights. If this had been a question on the captain’s examine I surely would have gotten it wrong. I altered course. Then searching through all the pages of arcane but important information I found that a submarine when on the surface was only required to have a yellow light. The closer I got I made out sub’s tower. There were no markings. I waved to them as I passed. Brilliant a sub, one more interesting if not obscure sighting in the world of shipping and navigation added to my list. So I went back to pining and dreaming. The next day I was dozing in the cockpit. The sun warmed my face and my dreams about seeing Laura again grew into full blown fantasy. The submarine surfaced to my port scaring the shit at of me. What they did they want? They hung around for thirty minutes. I called them on the radio. No answer. Then they slipped beneath the surface of the sea. The next night I caught site of the yellow light following my course. Honestly, I found it unnerving. My dreams about Laura turned into questions about her commitment to me. Maybe she found a boyfriend on her journey. I imagined some suave Frenchman with whose only attributes were my flaws, plus the newness of her adventure. The next day I was sailing down the coast of Sicily just minutes from the commercial port of Palermo when I spotted the submarine’s black tower off in the horizon. I imagined they were using me as target practice, but what they didn’t realize it was my heart they were shooting at with their fake torpedoes.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003IPD3CQ Buy The Mental Hygientist for Kindle
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003IPD3CQ Buy The Mental Hygientist for Kindle
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Barbary Apes
By Scott Dodgson
I had made a deal with Janice that I would take her as far as Gibraltar. After a night of fitful sleep, I awoke in a fog as thick as the fog covering the great rock of Gibraltar. I would bid her farewell after my coffee and get going after one more night of rest. My yacht was as damp as a wet shoe. Remember this is the first week in May and spring temperatures are still a little fickle. This morning was cold and damp. I called to Janice. There was no answer. After the last four days I wasn’t about to stand on ceremony. I opened her cabin door. She wasn’t there, but the pungent smell of urine was. She wet my bed! Just as my brain started to process the situation she stumbled down the companion way drunk. “You pissed on my bed!” I screamed. I was completely unhinged with anger. I demanded her to pack her belongings and get the hell off my boat. She refused. She claimed to have the right to stay on the boat as long as she wanted. Without saying another word I walked off my boat and directly to the small police office at the end of the dock. The police officers were very kind. I showed them my documents, which proved I was in fact the owner and captain of the boat certifying I had the right to throw her sorry drunk ass of my boat. A few minutes later after some yelling and screaming all from Janice the Bobbies escorted her off the boat to the station. I was free of her drunkenness. I was free from the demons and anger. I was alone and relieved. There is a part of me that felt bad about kicking her off the boat. A note about kicking crew off your vessel: International law states that a captain must provide travel and expenses back to the crew member’s country of origin. I should have kicked her off in the Azores, but giving her a second chance and considering the cost of flying her back to England with expenses Gibraltar made sense since it is British.
After spending the morning doing laundry, washing the bed covers and mattress, inspecting the vessel from top to bottom, I changed clothes and caught a taxi up to the top of the rock. If you visit I recommend taking a taxi up and walking back down through the gardens and parks. I looked West toward Sicily. Wandering through the caves and tunnels of the rock is an amazing experience. The thousands of hours spent chipping away at solid rock to make an impenetrable fortress is impressive. I watched the Barbary apes scurry around the tourists leaping from rock to rock chiding us. They took nuts from the hands of children. The fought for position to get the next handout. Some seemed disinterested and preferred to sit and preen themselves. A small microcosm of social interaction applicable to both man and ape, I couldn’t help equating them to my last crew. Cruel? Only to the apes by comparison. I strolled down the rock as so many captains before me have and went to dinner at the Rock Hotel. Built in 1932 by the Marquis of Bute the Rib Room restaurant is a great place to shake off the brutality of long distance, with its genteel service from a by-gone era, sweeping views across Gibraltar Bay, the Spanish mainland and Morocco’s Rif mountains the food is five star. I can’t imagine a better place to refocus and reenergize. In the morning I would leave this very interesting place and heading to Palermo where I would rejoin my girlfriend/chef for the remainder of the journey to Greece.
http://www.rockhotelgibraltar.com/
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003IPD3CQ Buy the Mental Hygientist for Kindle
www.gibraltar.com
I had made a deal with Janice that I would take her as far as Gibraltar. After a night of fitful sleep, I awoke in a fog as thick as the fog covering the great rock of Gibraltar. I would bid her farewell after my coffee and get going after one more night of rest. My yacht was as damp as a wet shoe. Remember this is the first week in May and spring temperatures are still a little fickle. This morning was cold and damp. I called to Janice. There was no answer. After the last four days I wasn’t about to stand on ceremony. I opened her cabin door. She wasn’t there, but the pungent smell of urine was. She wet my bed! Just as my brain started to process the situation she stumbled down the companion way drunk. “You pissed on my bed!” I screamed. I was completely unhinged with anger. I demanded her to pack her belongings and get the hell off my boat. She refused. She claimed to have the right to stay on the boat as long as she wanted. Without saying another word I walked off my boat and directly to the small police office at the end of the dock. The police officers were very kind. I showed them my documents, which proved I was in fact the owner and captain of the boat certifying I had the right to throw her sorry drunk ass of my boat. A few minutes later after some yelling and screaming all from Janice the Bobbies escorted her off the boat to the station. I was free of her drunkenness. I was free from the demons and anger. I was alone and relieved. There is a part of me that felt bad about kicking her off the boat. A note about kicking crew off your vessel: International law states that a captain must provide travel and expenses back to the crew member’s country of origin. I should have kicked her off in the Azores, but giving her a second chance and considering the cost of flying her back to England with expenses Gibraltar made sense since it is British.
After spending the morning doing laundry, washing the bed covers and mattress, inspecting the vessel from top to bottom, I changed clothes and caught a taxi up to the top of the rock. If you visit I recommend taking a taxi up and walking back down through the gardens and parks. I looked West toward Sicily. Wandering through the caves and tunnels of the rock is an amazing experience. The thousands of hours spent chipping away at solid rock to make an impenetrable fortress is impressive. I watched the Barbary apes scurry around the tourists leaping from rock to rock chiding us. They took nuts from the hands of children. The fought for position to get the next handout. Some seemed disinterested and preferred to sit and preen themselves. A small microcosm of social interaction applicable to both man and ape, I couldn’t help equating them to my last crew. Cruel? Only to the apes by comparison. I strolled down the rock as so many captains before me have and went to dinner at the Rock Hotel. Built in 1932 by the Marquis of Bute the Rib Room restaurant is a great place to shake off the brutality of long distance, with its genteel service from a by-gone era, sweeping views across Gibraltar Bay, the Spanish mainland and Morocco’s Rif mountains the food is five star. I can’t imagine a better place to refocus and reenergize. In the morning I would leave this very interesting place and heading to Palermo where I would rejoin my girlfriend/chef for the remainder of the journey to Greece.
http://www.rockhotelgibraltar.com/
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003IPD3CQ Buy the Mental Hygientist for Kindle
www.gibraltar.com
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Square Waves
I was reminded yesterday by my good friend and drinking buddy, Steve Heller to keep the audience in mind. For those who are just joining me on this journey, my journey began in Trinidad where I built a new bow sprit from a massive teak log. Under the pressure of a strict schedule to cross the Atlantic to Rhodes Greece where I am to pick up a charter for a very lucrative three week cruise along the Turkish coast I’ve picked a lousy crew who abandoned me in Horta, Azores after a rather difficult crossing leaving me alone with a sixty-five year old alcoholic woman who I have contemplated killing. You find me thirty miles outside the Straits of Gibraltar plowing into a force ten gale. My drunken crew member is locked in her cabin.
My CT 72 is motoring directly into a fifty mile an hour wind under a high sky and blinding sunshine. The coast of Spain lies to port and Morocco lies to starboard. The straits are crowded with container ships and massive super tankers rushing out of the Med no one seems to be going into the Med except me. Timing the tides after a long journey of three days is generally hit and miss. A couple of hours either way and you could be gliding effortlessly with a five to eight knot current or as I am doing bucking a five knot current. I entered a transition point between the Atlantic and its long smooth swells and the Med with its short choppy waves. The waves in the Med are square and generally there is a shorter distance between them. Each wave is shaped like a wall that rushes toward the boat slamming into the bow with great and disturbing force. The yacht rose and fell between the waves with such force and speed I felt weightless. Crashing down the bottom of the waves was enough to buckle my knees every nine to ten seconds. The rigging slackened and shook. The mast waved like a wet noodle at the sky. My sturdy bow sprit dug into the ocean and tossed hundred of gallons of water over the yacht. At times it appeared that my yacht was totally submerged. The scuppers full of racing sea water pouring over the cap rails. At the helm I stood in a constant foot of water. I had donned my snorkel mask so I could at least see. The pummeling wind, the sting of spray and the bite of salt on my skin kept me alert. It took eleven hours to travel twenty miles with the motor racing at top speed. And then around four o’clock in the afternoon someone turned off the wind and told the sea to quiet down all seemingly within minutes. I was officially in the Med.
I went into the customs office after docking wet, tired and very proud I had made it through. The custom’s officer asked for my papers. When he read I had come for the Azores, he dryly commented, “Congratulations you have just sailed through a force ten gale. Welcome to Gibraltar.”
Running head long into walls of square waves is to be avoided. Some fool once said adversity measures character, after this trip I preferred to measure my character by the shot glass. Thanks Steve.
Buy The Mental Hygientist
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003IPD3CQ
My CT 72 is motoring directly into a fifty mile an hour wind under a high sky and blinding sunshine. The coast of Spain lies to port and Morocco lies to starboard. The straits are crowded with container ships and massive super tankers rushing out of the Med no one seems to be going into the Med except me. Timing the tides after a long journey of three days is generally hit and miss. A couple of hours either way and you could be gliding effortlessly with a five to eight knot current or as I am doing bucking a five knot current. I entered a transition point between the Atlantic and its long smooth swells and the Med with its short choppy waves. The waves in the Med are square and generally there is a shorter distance between them. Each wave is shaped like a wall that rushes toward the boat slamming into the bow with great and disturbing force. The yacht rose and fell between the waves with such force and speed I felt weightless. Crashing down the bottom of the waves was enough to buckle my knees every nine to ten seconds. The rigging slackened and shook. The mast waved like a wet noodle at the sky. My sturdy bow sprit dug into the ocean and tossed hundred of gallons of water over the yacht. At times it appeared that my yacht was totally submerged. The scuppers full of racing sea water pouring over the cap rails. At the helm I stood in a constant foot of water. I had donned my snorkel mask so I could at least see. The pummeling wind, the sting of spray and the bite of salt on my skin kept me alert. It took eleven hours to travel twenty miles with the motor racing at top speed. And then around four o’clock in the afternoon someone turned off the wind and told the sea to quiet down all seemingly within minutes. I was officially in the Med.
I went into the customs office after docking wet, tired and very proud I had made it through. The custom’s officer asked for my papers. When he read I had come for the Azores, he dryly commented, “Congratulations you have just sailed through a force ten gale. Welcome to Gibraltar.”
Running head long into walls of square waves is to be avoided. Some fool once said adversity measures character, after this trip I preferred to measure my character by the shot glass. Thanks Steve.
Buy The Mental Hygientist
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003IPD3CQ
Saturday, May 1, 2010
No Heavy Lifting
By Scott Dodgson
I have had couple questions about my blog. Is it an excerpt from a book? Did the events actually happen? The answers are no and yes. I write a couple thousand words of prose every day. Also, I work on my screenplays and plays. At this time not including the blog Sailor on Horseback which I produce about four a week, I’m finishing a screenplay “The Chinese Box” for a German production company and a play “Homeless in America” for a New York Theater Producer. I am about to take on a MOW, movie of the week script for a client. In two weeks I’ll be revising a screenplay I wrote last month “Actor Adictus” for production. To steal a quote from JJ Abrams “The good news is I write fast. The bad news is I write fast.”
Another question is am I afraid I will burn out? No. Writing requires no heavy lifting, sanding, shoveling, although some readers may perceive that is all I’m doing (Ex-wives fall into this category), knuckle knocking or walking long distances. It does require a thick skin. I reference the film industry for skin thickening as your critics are the most likely the least talented and most powerful.
How can I move between different forms so easily? The answer is I didn’t fall asleep in English class. The first choice to make is about structure. What structure will best suit the story? Screenplays have taught me a lot about structure. I have a defined number of pages, 120 max. I usually have a budget in mind. I also have an idea of the market I want to sell. Once I have decided what seems the best for the story I have in mind I let the characters tell the story and generally they get it right without much interference from me. Plays are a little different. Plays are dialogue driven. I interviewed Edward Albee a long time ago while we were walking around an art gallery. He would look at a painting and ask me what I thought. I didn’t know anything about art, so my answers were short. “I like this one.” “That’s okay.” He would frown or shake his head no. I felt as though the hour we spent together as a one act play between a bitchy master and naïve student. When we were about to part ways I said, “You know I get looking at art as this referential experience to life and beauty, but self indulgent crap leaves me cold.” He smiled broadly. He leaned in close and said, “It’s a great subject for a play.” One feeling, one point of view of a moment in time, one play waiting to be written, Mr. Albee showed me how to think about playwriting.
Where does the story telling come from? Family and in particular my Uncle Willard could start a story Friday evening and keep you mesmerized until Sunday afternoon. He had all the prerequisites, rich history of experience and an innate pace of revelation. I include the long hours of listening to Louis Malle, James Dickey and other men of less repute who could spin a yarn over beer and cigarettes.
So that’s writing for me.
I have had couple questions about my blog. Is it an excerpt from a book? Did the events actually happen? The answers are no and yes. I write a couple thousand words of prose every day. Also, I work on my screenplays and plays. At this time not including the blog Sailor on Horseback which I produce about four a week, I’m finishing a screenplay “The Chinese Box” for a German production company and a play “Homeless in America” for a New York Theater Producer. I am about to take on a MOW, movie of the week script for a client. In two weeks I’ll be revising a screenplay I wrote last month “Actor Adictus” for production. To steal a quote from JJ Abrams “The good news is I write fast. The bad news is I write fast.”
Another question is am I afraid I will burn out? No. Writing requires no heavy lifting, sanding, shoveling, although some readers may perceive that is all I’m doing (Ex-wives fall into this category), knuckle knocking or walking long distances. It does require a thick skin. I reference the film industry for skin thickening as your critics are the most likely the least talented and most powerful.
How can I move between different forms so easily? The answer is I didn’t fall asleep in English class. The first choice to make is about structure. What structure will best suit the story? Screenplays have taught me a lot about structure. I have a defined number of pages, 120 max. I usually have a budget in mind. I also have an idea of the market I want to sell. Once I have decided what seems the best for the story I have in mind I let the characters tell the story and generally they get it right without much interference from me. Plays are a little different. Plays are dialogue driven. I interviewed Edward Albee a long time ago while we were walking around an art gallery. He would look at a painting and ask me what I thought. I didn’t know anything about art, so my answers were short. “I like this one.” “That’s okay.” He would frown or shake his head no. I felt as though the hour we spent together as a one act play between a bitchy master and naïve student. When we were about to part ways I said, “You know I get looking at art as this referential experience to life and beauty, but self indulgent crap leaves me cold.” He smiled broadly. He leaned in close and said, “It’s a great subject for a play.” One feeling, one point of view of a moment in time, one play waiting to be written, Mr. Albee showed me how to think about playwriting.
Where does the story telling come from? Family and in particular my Uncle Willard could start a story Friday evening and keep you mesmerized until Sunday afternoon. He had all the prerequisites, rich history of experience and an innate pace of revelation. I include the long hours of listening to Louis Malle, James Dickey and other men of less repute who could spin a yarn over beer and cigarettes.
So that’s writing for me.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Murder In The Mind
By Scott Dodgson
The sail from the Azores to Gibraltar is approximately 1000nm which translates into three and half days for my CT 72. Janice, my only remaining crew member was locked in her cabin sleeping off her hangover. After ten hours at the helm I was getting tired. I knocked a couple of times on her cabin door and received no response. I returned to the helm. I have sailed solo many times before so I set up a schedule for myself grabbing catnaps every couple of hours. I would sleep longer during the day. This way other vessels would be able to see me more clearly. I set the alarms on the radar so any ship coming within fifteen miles would set off an annoying buzzing. I decided to wait until morning to unlock Janice’s cabin door and see what was going on with her. She could be dead. I thought there is nothing I could do at this point other than take the body to Gibraltar, where they spoke English and since she was a British citizen they could do whatever they do with dead Englishmen. The thought was strangely comforting. The next morning was sunny and windy. I drove East on a reach with main and staysail reefed in a fresh thirty knot wind. The sailing was exhilarating and exhausting. A CT 72 is a big heavy beast. She moves well enough in light winds, but in big winds she seemed to gather a smooth and assertive momentum as if she were coming alive. I got a glimpse of Janice heading to the galley through the salon. I peaked down the companionway and saw her trying to force the liquor cabinet open with a dinner knife. I exploded with anger. “This was no time to go on a bender!” My experience with alcoholics was extensive starting with my father. There is no amount of yelling that changes their behavior especially when they are on a bender. My strategy is put them into a position where they won’t hurt themselves and anyone else until you can get as far away from them as possible. I know it doesn’t sound very compassionate, but at this point racing across the ocean in strong winds and building seas compassion is safety. I made her stand watch hoping against hope the fresh air might sober her up a little. I just needed a couple of hours of sleep downstairs and I would be fine to carry own. Another bit of information, anything that comes out of a drunk’s mouth is not to be believed. I made her stand watch. I checked the galley and found a two bottles of vodka hidden in the freezer. I went to her cabin and found two boxes of wine empty in the shower. I knew there had to be more hidden treasures but I was too tired and too pissed off to look. I threatened her instead. “I will throw you overboard with an anchor tied to your feet if you don’t shape up.” I meant it. The look of fear in her eyes told me she clearly understood I was capable. I laid down on the settee where I could observe her in the cockpit and watch my back. There is a big gap between wanting to kill someone for whatever reason and actually killing someone that is filled with hideous calculations. Could you actually do it? Could I get away with it? Would I be able to live with the moral grief of such an act? I woke abruptly from this insane nightmare and checked on Janice. I had slept for two hours. When I came on deck I found her drinking from a bottle of gin. I took the bottle and threw it over board. She wasn’t upset. She just watched it disappear into the wake. When she looked up at me her eyes told me she would happily follow the bottle if I ordered her to do so. I told her to go back to her cabin until we reached Gibraltar. I wouldn’t be a part of her insanity. Six hours later I could see the lights on the coast of Spain. The Straits of Gibraltar is one of the world’s busiest choke points for shipping. I chose to the hug the coast of Spain to avoid getting run over by traffic exiting and entering the Med. By morning the coast was in clear view. The sky was clear. The sun was very bright and I was motoring into a force ten gale.
If you like this blog check my novel the Mental Hygientist.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003IPD3CQ
The sail from the Azores to Gibraltar is approximately 1000nm which translates into three and half days for my CT 72. Janice, my only remaining crew member was locked in her cabin sleeping off her hangover. After ten hours at the helm I was getting tired. I knocked a couple of times on her cabin door and received no response. I returned to the helm. I have sailed solo many times before so I set up a schedule for myself grabbing catnaps every couple of hours. I would sleep longer during the day. This way other vessels would be able to see me more clearly. I set the alarms on the radar so any ship coming within fifteen miles would set off an annoying buzzing. I decided to wait until morning to unlock Janice’s cabin door and see what was going on with her. She could be dead. I thought there is nothing I could do at this point other than take the body to Gibraltar, where they spoke English and since she was a British citizen they could do whatever they do with dead Englishmen. The thought was strangely comforting. The next morning was sunny and windy. I drove East on a reach with main and staysail reefed in a fresh thirty knot wind. The sailing was exhilarating and exhausting. A CT 72 is a big heavy beast. She moves well enough in light winds, but in big winds she seemed to gather a smooth and assertive momentum as if she were coming alive. I got a glimpse of Janice heading to the galley through the salon. I peaked down the companionway and saw her trying to force the liquor cabinet open with a dinner knife. I exploded with anger. “This was no time to go on a bender!” My experience with alcoholics was extensive starting with my father. There is no amount of yelling that changes their behavior especially when they are on a bender. My strategy is put them into a position where they won’t hurt themselves and anyone else until you can get as far away from them as possible. I know it doesn’t sound very compassionate, but at this point racing across the ocean in strong winds and building seas compassion is safety. I made her stand watch hoping against hope the fresh air might sober her up a little. I just needed a couple of hours of sleep downstairs and I would be fine to carry own. Another bit of information, anything that comes out of a drunk’s mouth is not to be believed. I made her stand watch. I checked the galley and found a two bottles of vodka hidden in the freezer. I went to her cabin and found two boxes of wine empty in the shower. I knew there had to be more hidden treasures but I was too tired and too pissed off to look. I threatened her instead. “I will throw you overboard with an anchor tied to your feet if you don’t shape up.” I meant it. The look of fear in her eyes told me she clearly understood I was capable. I laid down on the settee where I could observe her in the cockpit and watch my back. There is a big gap between wanting to kill someone for whatever reason and actually killing someone that is filled with hideous calculations. Could you actually do it? Could I get away with it? Would I be able to live with the moral grief of such an act? I woke abruptly from this insane nightmare and checked on Janice. I had slept for two hours. When I came on deck I found her drinking from a bottle of gin. I took the bottle and threw it over board. She wasn’t upset. She just watched it disappear into the wake. When she looked up at me her eyes told me she would happily follow the bottle if I ordered her to do so. I told her to go back to her cabin until we reached Gibraltar. I wouldn’t be a part of her insanity. Six hours later I could see the lights on the coast of Spain. The Straits of Gibraltar is one of the world’s busiest choke points for shipping. I chose to the hug the coast of Spain to avoid getting run over by traffic exiting and entering the Med. By morning the coast was in clear view. The sky was clear. The sun was very bright and I was motoring into a force ten gale.
If you like this blog check my novel the Mental Hygientist.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003IPD3CQ
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Am I Okay
By Scott Dodgson
Here is an excerpt from my new play Homeless in America. I'm starting production this summer in New York. An Artist's predicament? Comments would be very welcome.
PETER
You ask if I am ok, I don't know what that means anymore. My spirit is low, my heart aches, a depression has formed around me like a thick dark fog and my will is as brittle as a fall leaf. I don't have a desire to bring down more people who profess their love or kindness towards me. This may be my only noble act. There is hope on the horizon, success lies before me like a newly paved road, but I am bogged down in the rutted, stony mud of missed opportunity. My wheels have turned square with despair and my draft horse is sick and wants to lie down. I can only describe myself in metaphors as the truth continues to wield the battle hammer blow after blow against my fragile body. I am not well. Happiness is just an empty word. Despair is my cold rock. No I am not well. I am an artist and my art is the only lifeline to the world around me. The airs of confidence, joy and hopefulness I give only mask all that and more. I am only a man who has deluded himself into thinking beyond his station. Now the station has turned from a gilded dream to an abandoned shack crushed by time, withered and weather beaten and dilapidated. You ask why I don't turn to God. He will give my faith, but I have no faith in him. He has failed all of us to many times. Will he wipe away the fatigue in the legs of my draft horse? Will he rise up and pull straight and strong? Is it fair to give him blinders so he cannot see the sparrows and wrens that dance wildly amongst the summer flowers? What life is this? What hope is this? I am just a man beaten by life's game. It is just me alone on the road. It is just me crawling to my grave. It is just me buried beneath the earth like some strange experiment of futility. The only mark I have left on this world is the tracks of my bloody knees on the ice of my destiny.
Here is an excerpt from my new play Homeless in America. I'm starting production this summer in New York. An Artist's predicament? Comments would be very welcome.
PETER
You ask if I am ok, I don't know what that means anymore. My spirit is low, my heart aches, a depression has formed around me like a thick dark fog and my will is as brittle as a fall leaf. I don't have a desire to bring down more people who profess their love or kindness towards me. This may be my only noble act. There is hope on the horizon, success lies before me like a newly paved road, but I am bogged down in the rutted, stony mud of missed opportunity. My wheels have turned square with despair and my draft horse is sick and wants to lie down. I can only describe myself in metaphors as the truth continues to wield the battle hammer blow after blow against my fragile body. I am not well. Happiness is just an empty word. Despair is my cold rock. No I am not well. I am an artist and my art is the only lifeline to the world around me. The airs of confidence, joy and hopefulness I give only mask all that and more. I am only a man who has deluded himself into thinking beyond his station. Now the station has turned from a gilded dream to an abandoned shack crushed by time, withered and weather beaten and dilapidated. You ask why I don't turn to God. He will give my faith, but I have no faith in him. He has failed all of us to many times. Will he wipe away the fatigue in the legs of my draft horse? Will he rise up and pull straight and strong? Is it fair to give him blinders so he cannot see the sparrows and wrens that dance wildly amongst the summer flowers? What life is this? What hope is this? I am just a man beaten by life's game. It is just me alone on the road. It is just me crawling to my grave. It is just me buried beneath the earth like some strange experiment of futility. The only mark I have left on this world is the tracks of my bloody knees on the ice of my destiny.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Message On The Rock
Bt Scott Dodgson
By the time the grey light of dawn slipped across the little harbor in Horta I had drunk a couple of cups of coffee. I didn’t shift from or change my constant vigilance of the watch system aboard my boat. By this point in time I had only one crew member left on board, a sixty something drunken chef who locked herself in her cabin. So I gathered my little clay paint pots and set off down the breakwater to find my boat’s logo painted on the breakwater rocks. This was my third trip through Horta; the two previous trips were noted by date and crew list. I considered out of betrayal and anger to just put Janice down as the only crew member. I wanted to practice even judgment when it came to these circumstances. “Stay above the fray” I thought. So I painted their names and made a small notation next to their names “M” for mutineer. To this day I feel good about that “M”. My subsequent trips through Horta (another eight) I march my crew up to the rock to paint their names as a rite and honor pointing out the “M” and its meaning. I have never had a crew member abandon my boat since that trip.
Upon returning I tried to get Janice out of her cabin. She moaned and begged me to leave her alone. So having gained three days on my schedule I decided it was time to shove off. (In previous blogs I describe the goal is to reach Rhodes Greece to pick up a charter) With the aid of a couple fisherman I slid my 72 CT off the wall and into the center of the harbor. This being very tight a man in a dinghy helped push my bow around. He pushed just enough and with little direction to allow me to exit straight out of the harbor. I set course for the Straits of Gibraltar some 950 nm away. I figured I had maybe two or three sleepless nights at the helm ahead of me and once Janice sobered up she would give me a couple of hours of sleep. With little or no wind I motored for the next six hours, before I became very concerned about Janice.
Pick up my new novel on Amazon Kindle http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003IPD3CQ
Thanks
By the time the grey light of dawn slipped across the little harbor in Horta I had drunk a couple of cups of coffee. I didn’t shift from or change my constant vigilance of the watch system aboard my boat. By this point in time I had only one crew member left on board, a sixty something drunken chef who locked herself in her cabin. So I gathered my little clay paint pots and set off down the breakwater to find my boat’s logo painted on the breakwater rocks. This was my third trip through Horta; the two previous trips were noted by date and crew list. I considered out of betrayal and anger to just put Janice down as the only crew member. I wanted to practice even judgment when it came to these circumstances. “Stay above the fray” I thought. So I painted their names and made a small notation next to their names “M” for mutineer. To this day I feel good about that “M”. My subsequent trips through Horta (another eight) I march my crew up to the rock to paint their names as a rite and honor pointing out the “M” and its meaning. I have never had a crew member abandon my boat since that trip.
Upon returning I tried to get Janice out of her cabin. She moaned and begged me to leave her alone. So having gained three days on my schedule I decided it was time to shove off. (In previous blogs I describe the goal is to reach Rhodes Greece to pick up a charter) With the aid of a couple fisherman I slid my 72 CT off the wall and into the center of the harbor. This being very tight a man in a dinghy helped push my bow around. He pushed just enough and with little direction to allow me to exit straight out of the harbor. I set course for the Straits of Gibraltar some 950 nm away. I figured I had maybe two or three sleepless nights at the helm ahead of me and once Janice sobered up she would give me a couple of hours of sleep. With little or no wind I motored for the next six hours, before I became very concerned about Janice.
Pick up my new novel on Amazon Kindle http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003IPD3CQ
Thanks
Saturday, April 24, 2010
The Mental Hygientist
By Scott Dodgson
In celebration of my novel The Mental Hygientist becoming available on Amazon.com, Amazon Kindle, Ebook and MP3 downloads I want to share a little of the opening chapter.
The Lava Lamp
"I woke up abruptly in a sweat. I was dreaming about my life. I stumbled out of bed and looked for my gun. I am a smart guy, real smart, some say a little too smart for my own good. I forgot I had pawned it. I really need that gun."
Pete did not have far to go. A twenty-seven foot Ericson sailboat is not exactly spacious compared to his other boat a ninety-foot custom racing cruiser, but that was another time and this was now. He reached outside through a plastic tarp that covered the companionway for his Tupperware pot. Holding the pot with one hand and his dick with the other hand he pissed. He promised himself he would fix the toilet someday. This was the first promise of the day he would not keep. He coughed. His was a deep smoker’s cough. He filled up his electric pot with water and plugged it in. Next, he turned on his computer. After slipping on his jeans, shirt and flip flops, and after filling the coffee filter, he lit up the first one of the day. He coughed and puffed on his cigarette, until he sat in front of the computer with a cup of coffee. Pinned to the bulkhead was the yellow pawn slip. He looked at it carefully. He checked the date. It would have cost him less money just to hide the gun. This was his careful plan that not only respected the deadly nature of the gun, but also kept him from impulsively taking his life.
His dream kept a strong hold on him all morning as he went through his rituals. Middle- aged men are good at rituals. Although people were often surprised to learn his was fifty- three, they often scoffed at the stories of his life. Pete laughed inside when people would say, “That’s a lot to squeeze in.” “How can one person do all that?” It was true he looked younger than he was, and he was careful not to allow the experiences to age him with undo anxiety, yet emotionally he was exhausted and fat. He opened up his email. There was one message from the producers at Universal. He understood immediately why his dream was so frightening and disturbing. It was yesterday’s meeting. In Hollywood, old men like him do not often get a chance to make movies, unless of course they have been doing it for a long time. Pete did nothing for a long time, except dream. His first dream was to be a writer. He had written off and on all his life. Two months ago, he got a break when on of his screenplays was tapped for development. His hiding was over. It was time to face the music.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003IPD3CQ
Zeke Quesada called it one of the funniest novels I've ever read.
Please feel free to comment.
In celebration of my novel The Mental Hygientist becoming available on Amazon.com, Amazon Kindle, Ebook and MP3 downloads I want to share a little of the opening chapter.
The Lava Lamp
"I woke up abruptly in a sweat. I was dreaming about my life. I stumbled out of bed and looked for my gun. I am a smart guy, real smart, some say a little too smart for my own good. I forgot I had pawned it. I really need that gun."
Pete did not have far to go. A twenty-seven foot Ericson sailboat is not exactly spacious compared to his other boat a ninety-foot custom racing cruiser, but that was another time and this was now. He reached outside through a plastic tarp that covered the companionway for his Tupperware pot. Holding the pot with one hand and his dick with the other hand he pissed. He promised himself he would fix the toilet someday. This was the first promise of the day he would not keep. He coughed. His was a deep smoker’s cough. He filled up his electric pot with water and plugged it in. Next, he turned on his computer. After slipping on his jeans, shirt and flip flops, and after filling the coffee filter, he lit up the first one of the day. He coughed and puffed on his cigarette, until he sat in front of the computer with a cup of coffee. Pinned to the bulkhead was the yellow pawn slip. He looked at it carefully. He checked the date. It would have cost him less money just to hide the gun. This was his careful plan that not only respected the deadly nature of the gun, but also kept him from impulsively taking his life.
His dream kept a strong hold on him all morning as he went through his rituals. Middle- aged men are good at rituals. Although people were often surprised to learn his was fifty- three, they often scoffed at the stories of his life. Pete laughed inside when people would say, “That’s a lot to squeeze in.” “How can one person do all that?” It was true he looked younger than he was, and he was careful not to allow the experiences to age him with undo anxiety, yet emotionally he was exhausted and fat. He opened up his email. There was one message from the producers at Universal. He understood immediately why his dream was so frightening and disturbing. It was yesterday’s meeting. In Hollywood, old men like him do not often get a chance to make movies, unless of course they have been doing it for a long time. Pete did nothing for a long time, except dream. His first dream was to be a writer. He had written off and on all his life. Two months ago, he got a break when on of his screenplays was tapped for development. His hiding was over. It was time to face the music.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003IPD3CQ
Zeke Quesada called it one of the funniest novels I've ever read.
Please feel free to comment.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Tradition of the Sea
By Scott Dodgson
I entered the Horta town harbor from the east. With the volcano to our starboard and a quaint but sturdy lighthouse to port the entrance is easy to navigate. The island of Fial has a population of 11,000 most of which lives in the charming town of Horta. I went directly to the customs dock. There is a large rather worn sign that is easy to see. The officials came out of their office and helped us tie up. The senior customs official greeted me with a big smile. This was my third trip to Horta and he seemed to remember me. I cleared customs and took fuel at the same time. My crew was very impatient. They already had changed clothes. It is always a pleasure when arriving in a new country, especially by sea when the officials are friendly. In my general and not so scientific study of Customs and Immigration officials U.S. are without a doubt the rudest and most unwelcoming organization on earth. Just my opinion, but a survey of Captains will support my conclusion. The Azores top the list of the most accommodating. We were directed to tie up side by side to the breakwater wall. With the traffic of transatlantic yachts I was lucky to get right next to the wall. I wouldn’t have to cross over other yachts to get to shore. The disadvantage was waking up in the middle of the night by a drunken sailor crawling back to his boat. We were finally secure. I turned off the motor and was stuck by the overwhelming silence. After thirteen days of wind and waves it felt as if I had stepped into a vacuum. I pointed out a restaurant across the harbor were we could all meet for dinner. I’m buying! The crew leaped off the boat a disappeared in an instant. I sat quietly in my salon and wrote in my log book. After taking a shower and changing I set off for the bar. We sailors do like rewarding ourselves. I intended to stay for two nights. I wouldn’t hesitate spending the summer going from island to island. If you are one of those been there and done that travelers go to the Azores. It is a magical place. The beauty of the islands is stunning. The people are warm and helpful. I likened visiting the Azores as stepping back in time to the fifties. The islands are unspoiled by the rampant tourism you find in the Caribbean or the South Pacific. Of course, I’m partial to Yachtie havens and Horta in the transit season is no different. Horta was filled with transatlantic sailors. When I met my crew for diner the bar was crowed and loud. It was perfect. I ordered a couple pitchers of the local tinta roja. By the second pitcher I felt a dark undercurrent in my crew’s mood. By the time our roast lamb and fried potatoes arrived I was experiencing a full on mutiny. David started by telling me that this adventure was a little more than he expected. He rationalized he had crossed the Atlantic even though as I pointed out he was a thousand nm miles short. Paul gave me a lame excuse that his family missed him and he had to return as soon as possible. I gave them a long and rather convoluted speech about respecting tradition which fell on deaf ears. They were afraid and had become tired of their fear. I handed them their passports and wished them good luck. There was nothing I could do as they were paying customers. They abruptly left to get their gear and catch the evening ferry to Lisbon. Mike, my first mate sheepishly announced he wanted his passport also, and that he too was catching the ferry. I was less generous and patient with him. I threatened that I would do everything in my power to make sure he never worked on a yacht anywhere in the world. Janice was leaning against the bar drinking shots. I went over to her and explained the situation. I decided to leave in the morning, out of anger and need to get to Italy and pick up my crew. She said she was ready. That evening as the ferry left for Lisbon I stood high up above the town with its sweeping vistas watching as my mutineers sailed. I questioned my leadership. I asked myself what I could have done differently. I came to the conclusion that without the leverage of military service I was impotent. From now on I would only hire sailors who respect the tradition of the sea.
http://www.azores.com/
I entered the Horta town harbor from the east. With the volcano to our starboard and a quaint but sturdy lighthouse to port the entrance is easy to navigate. The island of Fial has a population of 11,000 most of which lives in the charming town of Horta. I went directly to the customs dock. There is a large rather worn sign that is easy to see. The officials came out of their office and helped us tie up. The senior customs official greeted me with a big smile. This was my third trip to Horta and he seemed to remember me. I cleared customs and took fuel at the same time. My crew was very impatient. They already had changed clothes. It is always a pleasure when arriving in a new country, especially by sea when the officials are friendly. In my general and not so scientific study of Customs and Immigration officials U.S. are without a doubt the rudest and most unwelcoming organization on earth. Just my opinion, but a survey of Captains will support my conclusion. The Azores top the list of the most accommodating. We were directed to tie up side by side to the breakwater wall. With the traffic of transatlantic yachts I was lucky to get right next to the wall. I wouldn’t have to cross over other yachts to get to shore. The disadvantage was waking up in the middle of the night by a drunken sailor crawling back to his boat. We were finally secure. I turned off the motor and was stuck by the overwhelming silence. After thirteen days of wind and waves it felt as if I had stepped into a vacuum. I pointed out a restaurant across the harbor were we could all meet for dinner. I’m buying! The crew leaped off the boat a disappeared in an instant. I sat quietly in my salon and wrote in my log book. After taking a shower and changing I set off for the bar. We sailors do like rewarding ourselves. I intended to stay for two nights. I wouldn’t hesitate spending the summer going from island to island. If you are one of those been there and done that travelers go to the Azores. It is a magical place. The beauty of the islands is stunning. The people are warm and helpful. I likened visiting the Azores as stepping back in time to the fifties. The islands are unspoiled by the rampant tourism you find in the Caribbean or the South Pacific. Of course, I’m partial to Yachtie havens and Horta in the transit season is no different. Horta was filled with transatlantic sailors. When I met my crew for diner the bar was crowed and loud. It was perfect. I ordered a couple pitchers of the local tinta roja. By the second pitcher I felt a dark undercurrent in my crew’s mood. By the time our roast lamb and fried potatoes arrived I was experiencing a full on mutiny. David started by telling me that this adventure was a little more than he expected. He rationalized he had crossed the Atlantic even though as I pointed out he was a thousand nm miles short. Paul gave me a lame excuse that his family missed him and he had to return as soon as possible. I gave them a long and rather convoluted speech about respecting tradition which fell on deaf ears. They were afraid and had become tired of their fear. I handed them their passports and wished them good luck. There was nothing I could do as they were paying customers. They abruptly left to get their gear and catch the evening ferry to Lisbon. Mike, my first mate sheepishly announced he wanted his passport also, and that he too was catching the ferry. I was less generous and patient with him. I threatened that I would do everything in my power to make sure he never worked on a yacht anywhere in the world. Janice was leaning against the bar drinking shots. I went over to her and explained the situation. I decided to leave in the morning, out of anger and need to get to Italy and pick up my crew. She said she was ready. That evening as the ferry left for Lisbon I stood high up above the town with its sweeping vistas watching as my mutineers sailed. I questioned my leadership. I asked myself what I could have done differently. I came to the conclusion that without the leverage of military service I was impotent. From now on I would only hire sailors who respect the tradition of the sea.
http://www.azores.com/
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Discovered
By Scott Dodgson
I have received several inquiries from people who have recognized my name asking if I was the screenwriter who wrote Anna Nicole Story, Paris Hilton, The Pat Tillman Story, even a few who were aware, I don’t know how this is possible of my work with Louis Malle and Motown. I admit I am that guy. I was asked what I’m working on when I’m not sailing. Truth be told I have my own production company Day Worker Productions which produces feature films. I am also in a number of partnerships with Latin Beat Media, Nasser Productions and Project8films. At this moment I am putting together a four film slate in one investment pool. The films all written by yours truly are Jack Apple, Dirty Movie, The Fisherman and The History of Water all share the same independent/European film sensibility. This series of intelligent films is directed at the smart audience. I have found that there is a large segment of movie goers who have tired with the commercial fare and have stopped going to the theater. Once while in Antibes France on my boat I had a conversation with Luc Bresson a famous screenwriter and mega European Producer about his effort to take the French or European sensibility of film making and lean it toward the American audience. (La Femme Nikita) I being an American writer having lived in France for many years have wanted to make American films that lean toward the European sensibility. The one great advantage to sailing is the fascinating and sometimes powerful people you meet. I could make a list but I won’t bore you I’ll let it come out in my future blogs on my adventures sailing in the Med and the Caribbean. So I’ll add, and humbly so if anyone has interest in making great films send me a note. Tomorrow I’ll return to the Azores.
I have received several inquiries from people who have recognized my name asking if I was the screenwriter who wrote Anna Nicole Story, Paris Hilton, The Pat Tillman Story, even a few who were aware, I don’t know how this is possible of my work with Louis Malle and Motown. I admit I am that guy. I was asked what I’m working on when I’m not sailing. Truth be told I have my own production company Day Worker Productions which produces feature films. I am also in a number of partnerships with Latin Beat Media, Nasser Productions and Project8films. At this moment I am putting together a four film slate in one investment pool. The films all written by yours truly are Jack Apple, Dirty Movie, The Fisherman and The History of Water all share the same independent/European film sensibility. This series of intelligent films is directed at the smart audience. I have found that there is a large segment of movie goers who have tired with the commercial fare and have stopped going to the theater. Once while in Antibes France on my boat I had a conversation with Luc Bresson a famous screenwriter and mega European Producer about his effort to take the French or European sensibility of film making and lean it toward the American audience. (La Femme Nikita) I being an American writer having lived in France for many years have wanted to make American films that lean toward the European sensibility. The one great advantage to sailing is the fascinating and sometimes powerful people you meet. I could make a list but I won’t bore you I’ll let it come out in my future blogs on my adventures sailing in the Med and the Caribbean. So I’ll add, and humbly so if anyone has interest in making great films send me a note. Tomorrow I’ll return to the Azores.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Knowing the Unknown
By Scott Dodgson
Let’s consider knowledge for a moment. There are three ways of looking at knowledge; those things you actually know, like driving a car, a good recipe for chicken, or baseball. Then there is a rather large category of subjects you are aware of but don’t know, Chinese language, nuclear science or metaphysical poetry. Then there is an even more expansive category of all the things you have no clue exists. Finding an island in the middle of the ocean after twelve days of sailing is a little like experiencing all three categories at once. I know I’ve been sailing to a point in the ocean. At first the crew was confident I would find the island. In the middle of the voyage they spent a good deal of time checking the chart and questioning my grasp of navigation. Near the end was a near panic that we were somehow lost. So on the morning of the twelfth day at sea I spotted what looked like a stationary cloud in the direction of our course. Without betraying my discovery I surveyed the crew. David, my retired businessman seemed to be hunkered down as if he were counting the minutes to go home and escape his cubicle. Janice seemed completely unaware and I suspected drunk. Paul seemed tortured by loneliness and longing for something I was not quite sure and Mike, my so called first mate was brooding. Every conversation I had with him since he fell asleep at the helm was strained and uncomfortable even though I had repeatedly told him everything was cool. I spent a couple of moments privately enjoying my accomplishment of finding the Azores. I quick note the Azores have been called the lost islands for hundreds of years because they had been discovered and lost by the Portuguese, Spanish, English and French. I lifted my binoculars and saw the hazy outline of Mount Pico rising nearly 8,000 feet. One degree to port laid Horta our intended destination. I asked Janice what she had planned for dinner. She replied the last of the salad, soup and fish. I announced it would not be necessary to cook tonight as I would be buying the crew dinner in Horta. With this announcement excitement and relief flooded the crew’s emotions. They had crossed from what they knew to what they were aware of and now stood face to face with an island they really didn’t know existed.
West Marine - The worlds largest boating supply company!
Let’s consider knowledge for a moment. There are three ways of looking at knowledge; those things you actually know, like driving a car, a good recipe for chicken, or baseball. Then there is a rather large category of subjects you are aware of but don’t know, Chinese language, nuclear science or metaphysical poetry. Then there is an even more expansive category of all the things you have no clue exists. Finding an island in the middle of the ocean after twelve days of sailing is a little like experiencing all three categories at once. I know I’ve been sailing to a point in the ocean. At first the crew was confident I would find the island. In the middle of the voyage they spent a good deal of time checking the chart and questioning my grasp of navigation. Near the end was a near panic that we were somehow lost. So on the morning of the twelfth day at sea I spotted what looked like a stationary cloud in the direction of our course. Without betraying my discovery I surveyed the crew. David, my retired businessman seemed to be hunkered down as if he were counting the minutes to go home and escape his cubicle. Janice seemed completely unaware and I suspected drunk. Paul seemed tortured by loneliness and longing for something I was not quite sure and Mike, my so called first mate was brooding. Every conversation I had with him since he fell asleep at the helm was strained and uncomfortable even though I had repeatedly told him everything was cool. I spent a couple of moments privately enjoying my accomplishment of finding the Azores. I quick note the Azores have been called the lost islands for hundreds of years because they had been discovered and lost by the Portuguese, Spanish, English and French. I lifted my binoculars and saw the hazy outline of Mount Pico rising nearly 8,000 feet. One degree to port laid Horta our intended destination. I asked Janice what she had planned for dinner. She replied the last of the salad, soup and fish. I announced it would not be necessary to cook tonight as I would be buying the crew dinner in Horta. With this announcement excitement and relief flooded the crew’s emotions. They had crossed from what they knew to what they were aware of and now stood face to face with an island they really didn’t know existed.
West Marine - The worlds largest boating supply company!
Sunday, April 18, 2010
The Captain of Time
By Scott Dodgson
Long before time ruled our modern life, dicing it into seconds, minutes and hours; commuting, train schedules, appointments, lunch dates and meetings. Before clocks became standard household items, before wrist watches, pocket watches and bell towers, even further into the past when church bells and the call to prayers became the increments to measure our life by, our ancestors measured their time by day and by night. Time as they experienced it was a matter of distance. “Today I will plow the field.” “At dawn I will start and at dusk I will stop.” “After plowing twenty rows I will eat lunch then finish the final twenty rows and come to dinner.” Life was measured in distance. On board, except for the chiming of the ships clock the crew slipped into this strange and unfamiliar way of living. They would check the chart to see how much distance we covered. They would ask what I estimated our time of arrival was. Those who started the voyage standing watch in the dead of night were now rewarded with an evening and morning watch. For the crew there was ritual and watches. Four hours on then eight hours of rest, marked by three well cooked meals and a variety of snacks, personal hygiene time reading time, movie time (I owned a large collection of movies) and the occasional strike of fish on the fishing line we had been trolling with across the Atlantic. For me as the Captain I was in a hurry. I want to plow the field before noon. I have a greater distance to travel. There was not a moment to lose. I am the force of commerce. Time is money. Distance is an obstacle to be conquered.
Long before time ruled our modern life, dicing it into seconds, minutes and hours; commuting, train schedules, appointments, lunch dates and meetings. Before clocks became standard household items, before wrist watches, pocket watches and bell towers, even further into the past when church bells and the call to prayers became the increments to measure our life by, our ancestors measured their time by day and by night. Time as they experienced it was a matter of distance. “Today I will plow the field.” “At dawn I will start and at dusk I will stop.” “After plowing twenty rows I will eat lunch then finish the final twenty rows and come to dinner.” Life was measured in distance. On board, except for the chiming of the ships clock the crew slipped into this strange and unfamiliar way of living. They would check the chart to see how much distance we covered. They would ask what I estimated our time of arrival was. Those who started the voyage standing watch in the dead of night were now rewarded with an evening and morning watch. For the crew there was ritual and watches. Four hours on then eight hours of rest, marked by three well cooked meals and a variety of snacks, personal hygiene time reading time, movie time (I owned a large collection of movies) and the occasional strike of fish on the fishing line we had been trolling with across the Atlantic. For me as the Captain I was in a hurry. I want to plow the field before noon. I have a greater distance to travel. There was not a moment to lose. I am the force of commerce. Time is money. Distance is an obstacle to be conquered.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Of Joy and Triumph
By Scott Dodgson
The struggle between body and mind was never more apparent after four straight days, no 96 hours of pitching and rolling. When you find a secure position lodged between a bulwark and hull you hang on. For the last few hours the wind clocked from the abaft to beam as the low pressure raced relentlessly past us. The roar of the wind in the rigging was deafening. The rushing sound of the ocean passing over the vessel’s hull was thunderous. These epic sounds were occasionally punctuated by a rogue wave slamming against the hull as if someone were driving telephone poles against it. It was startling. Thirty-five knot winds, twenty foot swells and six foot waves wind waves made every second of those hours a test of stamina. I was very happy to be making good way. In fact my overt cheerfulness led the crew thinking I might be little nuts. Truth be told I love this kind of sailing. These are the hours of joy and triumph. My confidence in my vessel was unshakeable. I am constantly reminded when standing at the helm, the sails full and straining from the wind, the great rise of the vessel as if the sea were lifting it to the heavens, that in this place thousands of miles from land that other mariners had passed from Columbus, to the Jack Aubrey’s, to the modern ships of commerce. I was free and in control of my destiny.
As morning broke the darkness with its dissolute grey, the sea laid down as quickly as it had risen. The crew was relieved. Our foul weather jackets came off as the sun struck through the haze. A reminder of the cathedral we call earth. Flying fish littered the decks. Seagulls passed over head curious to see this moving island. We spotted a couple of merchant vessels on the horizon. Everyone was tired, but assured we had come through the worst. I was not so sure I longed for another low pressure or a really deep high pressure. I wanted wind and plenty of it. I might have made up two days on my schedule; however I could lose them just as easily. I was happy to on the sea.
The struggle between body and mind was never more apparent after four straight days, no 96 hours of pitching and rolling. When you find a secure position lodged between a bulwark and hull you hang on. For the last few hours the wind clocked from the abaft to beam as the low pressure raced relentlessly past us. The roar of the wind in the rigging was deafening. The rushing sound of the ocean passing over the vessel’s hull was thunderous. These epic sounds were occasionally punctuated by a rogue wave slamming against the hull as if someone were driving telephone poles against it. It was startling. Thirty-five knot winds, twenty foot swells and six foot waves wind waves made every second of those hours a test of stamina. I was very happy to be making good way. In fact my overt cheerfulness led the crew thinking I might be little nuts. Truth be told I love this kind of sailing. These are the hours of joy and triumph. My confidence in my vessel was unshakeable. I am constantly reminded when standing at the helm, the sails full and straining from the wind, the great rise of the vessel as if the sea were lifting it to the heavens, that in this place thousands of miles from land that other mariners had passed from Columbus, to the Jack Aubrey’s, to the modern ships of commerce. I was free and in control of my destiny.
As morning broke the darkness with its dissolute grey, the sea laid down as quickly as it had risen. The crew was relieved. Our foul weather jackets came off as the sun struck through the haze. A reminder of the cathedral we call earth. Flying fish littered the decks. Seagulls passed over head curious to see this moving island. We spotted a couple of merchant vessels on the horizon. Everyone was tired, but assured we had come through the worst. I was not so sure I longed for another low pressure or a really deep high pressure. I wanted wind and plenty of it. I might have made up two days on my schedule; however I could lose them just as easily. I was happy to on the sea.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Wind and Will
By Scott Dodgson
There are two great forces on the ocean the wind and the Captain’s will. Taking a line from Captain Jack Aubrey in the great historical fiction series by Patrick O’Brian, “There is not a moment to lose.” The Captain drives the crew and his vessel to one purpose moving forward to the next port. “… not a moment to lose” serves not only as a mantra to everyday discipline on board but supports the bulwark of faith and discipline in the Captain’s leadership. Those crew members who lack their own inherent will and question the Captain’s goal of a safe passage will fall prey to their fears and short comings as citizens and men to jeopardize the vessel when rough seas and foul winds pose the obstacles to success and safety. We spent three days with fair weather and calm seas. With nothing more to do than stare at the horizon and record our progress in the log book I learned a great deal about my crew members. I must note that I as a Captain do remain guarded when discussing my life or psychology preferring to communicate with stories and parables to imply lessons learned and failed with the hope that even a mildly perceptive person will get the gentle message. Unless you are in military structure people bristle at being ordered to do something. To successfully accomplish molding a modern crew that listens and obeys without hesitation, the Captain must let it be known that his will and security is their will and security. It was apparent very soon after we left Antigua why Mike my first mate was the last man standing in English Harbor. He was an inciter. An inciter is a gadfly whose sole purpose in life is to create conflict and doubt in authority, no matter how kind and gracious that authority may be. His sailing competency was average, but his social skills excellent; unfortunately he had begun his inciting with David my charterer/club sailor. David was in his early fifties and had received an early retirement from a large chemical company. His sole purpose for making the passage was to test his mettle. Through my observations and over hearing hushed conversations, I sensed Mike was sowing doubt in David about his safety on board. David was an office man who slid through his working career by keeping his head down and allowing the natural attrition of other employees to aid his advancement. I have to give him credit for taking on an adventure of this difficulty, but in retrospect he made a foolish decision. I countered Mike’s political moves by teaching him as much about navigation and ocean sailing with the hope he would gain a new found respect for the knowledge. It was not to happen. Mike took the knowledge and became more emboldened in his perfidious plan. An unconscious plan I might add. It was just his nature. Paul the other charterer/club sailor was quiet and consciousness man in his early thirties. His purpose for being on this crossing was to give him something to talk about with his father and grandfather who apparently had many sailing adventures. I suspected he was disappointed by the three days of uneventful sailing, beautiful sailing. Janice, elderly chef seemed right at home and cooked us some great meals no easy task given the vessel’s natural pitch and rolling. However I did notice one problem with Janice. My wine supply seemed to be disappearing rather quickly not from the front of the rack but from the back! At two in the morning I was fixing a coffee when I heard a change in the sound of the rigging. I dropped my cup in the sink and run on deck. Mike was asleep on watch and the autohelm had turned off and we were floundering. Worse yet, the wind was starting to pick up velocity. With a full moon rising in the east and turbulent angry clouds racing overhead the moon was soon lost above the deepening cloud cover. I quickly set the course and engaged the autohelm. Mike was apologizing profusely, but I would have none of it. Now was the time for action and seamanship. It was time to bend the will of the wind to the will of the crew. We dropped the 150 Genoa and replaced it with the normal 100 Genoa. I reefed the main and the mizzen. This was all tough work requiring we be attached with safety harness. The remainder of the crew came on deck and helped where they could. I give a quick succession of orders which the crew executed flawlessly. In the dim light of the cockpit, I surveyed the faces of my motley crew. Their doubt was replaced by confidence. Once my boat had gained her legs and was running before a freshening twenty-five knot wind and rising seas, I explained this is the reason you are here.
There are two great forces on the ocean the wind and the Captain’s will. Taking a line from Captain Jack Aubrey in the great historical fiction series by Patrick O’Brian, “There is not a moment to lose.” The Captain drives the crew and his vessel to one purpose moving forward to the next port. “… not a moment to lose” serves not only as a mantra to everyday discipline on board but supports the bulwark of faith and discipline in the Captain’s leadership. Those crew members who lack their own inherent will and question the Captain’s goal of a safe passage will fall prey to their fears and short comings as citizens and men to jeopardize the vessel when rough seas and foul winds pose the obstacles to success and safety. We spent three days with fair weather and calm seas. With nothing more to do than stare at the horizon and record our progress in the log book I learned a great deal about my crew members. I must note that I as a Captain do remain guarded when discussing my life or psychology preferring to communicate with stories and parables to imply lessons learned and failed with the hope that even a mildly perceptive person will get the gentle message. Unless you are in military structure people bristle at being ordered to do something. To successfully accomplish molding a modern crew that listens and obeys without hesitation, the Captain must let it be known that his will and security is their will and security. It was apparent very soon after we left Antigua why Mike my first mate was the last man standing in English Harbor. He was an inciter. An inciter is a gadfly whose sole purpose in life is to create conflict and doubt in authority, no matter how kind and gracious that authority may be. His sailing competency was average, but his social skills excellent; unfortunately he had begun his inciting with David my charterer/club sailor. David was in his early fifties and had received an early retirement from a large chemical company. His sole purpose for making the passage was to test his mettle. Through my observations and over hearing hushed conversations, I sensed Mike was sowing doubt in David about his safety on board. David was an office man who slid through his working career by keeping his head down and allowing the natural attrition of other employees to aid his advancement. I have to give him credit for taking on an adventure of this difficulty, but in retrospect he made a foolish decision. I countered Mike’s political moves by teaching him as much about navigation and ocean sailing with the hope he would gain a new found respect for the knowledge. It was not to happen. Mike took the knowledge and became more emboldened in his perfidious plan. An unconscious plan I might add. It was just his nature. Paul the other charterer/club sailor was quiet and consciousness man in his early thirties. His purpose for being on this crossing was to give him something to talk about with his father and grandfather who apparently had many sailing adventures. I suspected he was disappointed by the three days of uneventful sailing, beautiful sailing. Janice, elderly chef seemed right at home and cooked us some great meals no easy task given the vessel’s natural pitch and rolling. However I did notice one problem with Janice. My wine supply seemed to be disappearing rather quickly not from the front of the rack but from the back! At two in the morning I was fixing a coffee when I heard a change in the sound of the rigging. I dropped my cup in the sink and run on deck. Mike was asleep on watch and the autohelm had turned off and we were floundering. Worse yet, the wind was starting to pick up velocity. With a full moon rising in the east and turbulent angry clouds racing overhead the moon was soon lost above the deepening cloud cover. I quickly set the course and engaged the autohelm. Mike was apologizing profusely, but I would have none of it. Now was the time for action and seamanship. It was time to bend the will of the wind to the will of the crew. We dropped the 150 Genoa and replaced it with the normal 100 Genoa. I reefed the main and the mizzen. This was all tough work requiring we be attached with safety harness. The remainder of the crew came on deck and helped where they could. I give a quick succession of orders which the crew executed flawlessly. In the dim light of the cockpit, I surveyed the faces of my motley crew. Their doubt was replaced by confidence. Once my boat had gained her legs and was running before a freshening twenty-five knot wind and rising seas, I explained this is the reason you are here.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The Watch
By Scott Dodgson
Having made two round trips from San Diego to French Polynesia by way of Peru and Hawaii, four round trips to Hawaii, one round trip from San Diego to Australia and this being the beginning of my third round trip from the Caribbean to Turkey I have settled on a watch system of two over lapping four hour watches per crew member. The first hour of their watch they will be accompanied by a crew member serving the last hour of his watch. The middle two by themselves and the last hour with a new crew member just coming onto watch. As the Captain I don't stand watch but always rise and sit with each crew member during their middle two hours. The ritual is when a crew member comes up for watch he fixes the watch captain something to eat and relieves if he needs to go to the head or just walk around. The activity and conversation keeps both crew members sharp. My visits in the middle of their watch help break the long two hours and it allows me to check out our position, trim the sails if necessary and other wise keep an eye on the entire process while teaching them about ocean sailing. During the daytime hours most of the crew is up so the two hours alone really never happens. It's during the night hours from midnight to morning that most problems occur for some unknown and mysterious reason. So I tend to rest more during the day than at night. Once the routine is established it is just a matter of covering the miles and in this case 2500 nautical miles as quickly as possible. I am four days behind schedule. These precious four days are my cushion days, so I can still make it on time to pick up my charter in Rhodes Greece. I still have five rest days built into the schedule and with an inexperienced crew they will definitely need them.
I set the main, mizzen, staysail, and my magnificent 150 Genoa in search of the Westerly's some 600 hundred nautical miles NNE. The crew's mood was happy with a touch of trepidation.
Having made two round trips from San Diego to French Polynesia by way of Peru and Hawaii, four round trips to Hawaii, one round trip from San Diego to Australia and this being the beginning of my third round trip from the Caribbean to Turkey I have settled on a watch system of two over lapping four hour watches per crew member. The first hour of their watch they will be accompanied by a crew member serving the last hour of his watch. The middle two by themselves and the last hour with a new crew member just coming onto watch. As the Captain I don't stand watch but always rise and sit with each crew member during their middle two hours. The ritual is when a crew member comes up for watch he fixes the watch captain something to eat and relieves if he needs to go to the head or just walk around. The activity and conversation keeps both crew members sharp. My visits in the middle of their watch help break the long two hours and it allows me to check out our position, trim the sails if necessary and other wise keep an eye on the entire process while teaching them about ocean sailing. During the daytime hours most of the crew is up so the two hours alone really never happens. It's during the night hours from midnight to morning that most problems occur for some unknown and mysterious reason. So I tend to rest more during the day than at night. Once the routine is established it is just a matter of covering the miles and in this case 2500 nautical miles as quickly as possible. I am four days behind schedule. These precious four days are my cushion days, so I can still make it on time to pick up my charter in Rhodes Greece. I still have five rest days built into the schedule and with an inexperienced crew they will definitely need them.
I set the main, mizzen, staysail, and my magnificent 150 Genoa in search of the Westerly's some 600 hundred nautical miles NNE. The crew's mood was happy with a touch of trepidation.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Crew
By Scott Dodgson
I woke early to the clammer of suitcases being closed and dragged over my deck. My loyal mate/girlfriend was hurrying to catch a flight to London. As a Captain I was familiar with the constant turn over, but watching her leave left me a empty. She was going to London to join friends fo a month of European back packing. I put her in a cab and that would be the last I would see her until Italy. I checked the message board and found that my trusted first mate Tim, left for London the day before to attend to his sick mother. He wrote a long and apoligetic letter promising to join me as soon as possible in Greece. The other two crew members left on another boat. I went to the Nicholson Yact charters to find a replacement. They have always been kind to me. Since the Antigua race week was over the pickings were slim. I hired a 60 year old woman, Janice as chef. She had spent years sailing with her husband. She was not my first choice, but my only choice. I found one experienced sailor, Mike who seemed kind enough, but my "Don't trust him" meter was going off with a flashing yellow light. When I returned to my boat I found my two charter crew member, club sailors waiting with their sea bags and anxious to go. I checked out with the customs house and took the boat to the fuel dock where I would top off. While my inexperienced and unfamiliar crew were settling in I got a coffee in a little cafe off the fuel dock. I sat at an outside table and studied my boat and comtemmplated the next fifteen or so days at sea. This was not what I wanted, but I felt I had enough skill and experience to get us safely across. My thoughts were interrupted when I was asked where I was going? Eric Clapton sat down beside me and introduced himself. He was my idol since Cream. It was the very first concert I had ever seen. I told him I was going to Greece. He smiled and wished me luck. Wow! I finished my coffee and boarded my boat. "Let's go!" The crew looked at me with surprise as if they weren't expected us to ever leave.
I woke early to the clammer of suitcases being closed and dragged over my deck. My loyal mate/girlfriend was hurrying to catch a flight to London. As a Captain I was familiar with the constant turn over, but watching her leave left me a empty. She was going to London to join friends fo a month of European back packing. I put her in a cab and that would be the last I would see her until Italy. I checked the message board and found that my trusted first mate Tim, left for London the day before to attend to his sick mother. He wrote a long and apoligetic letter promising to join me as soon as possible in Greece. The other two crew members left on another boat. I went to the Nicholson Yact charters to find a replacement. They have always been kind to me. Since the Antigua race week was over the pickings were slim. I hired a 60 year old woman, Janice as chef. She had spent years sailing with her husband. She was not my first choice, but my only choice. I found one experienced sailor, Mike who seemed kind enough, but my "Don't trust him" meter was going off with a flashing yellow light. When I returned to my boat I found my two charter crew member, club sailors waiting with their sea bags and anxious to go. I checked out with the customs house and took the boat to the fuel dock where I would top off. While my inexperienced and unfamiliar crew were settling in I got a coffee in a little cafe off the fuel dock. I sat at an outside table and studied my boat and comtemmplated the next fifteen or so days at sea. This was not what I wanted, but I felt I had enough skill and experience to get us safely across. My thoughts were interrupted when I was asked where I was going? Eric Clapton sat down beside me and introduced himself. He was my idol since Cream. It was the very first concert I had ever seen. I told him I was going to Greece. He smiled and wished me luck. Wow! I finished my coffee and boarded my boat. "Let's go!" The crew looked at me with surprise as if they weren't expected us to ever leave.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Sweet Antigua
After a rather uneventful journey from Grenada, the site of Antigua on the horizon was a welcome relief. There are two harbors, Falmouth and English harbor both provide an excellent anchorage and are close to services, I choose English Harbor because at the time this was where the only fuel dock lay. If you never visited Antigua you will quickly realize this is the capital of yachting in the Caribbean and formally the way station for the British fleet during Lord Nelson's time. I'll dedicate a blog to Antigua at a later date when I share my experiences on Antigua race week and the Antigua Charter boat show on my return to the Caribbean. For the moment, my story is filled with urgency to cross the Atlantic! I need to top off my water, fuel and food. Most importantly I need to find my crew and my two club sailors who will pay my expenses. But first an aside about Med mooring. America sailors are generally clueless about dropping an anchor and backing up to a quay and docking their boat. I have witnessed more than one calamity watching an inexperienced sailor crash into million dollar yachts, fouling anchor chains and generally pissing off everyone on the dock. So please practice where you won't do any damage. A couple of notes on how to achieve a smooth docking and impress your neighbors with your boat handling skills. Be prepared! First secure your sails before you start this maneuver. I can't tell you the number of times I've seen a crew member racing around the deck in a panic only to trip over the sails. Put fenders out on both sides of your vessel, especially where the boat is at its widest. Prepare your lines. You will be passing the loop end to the dock. Don't expect the person standing on the dock to be able to tie a knot for you. However, some quays only have heavy iron rings and no bollards, don't worry, you will have to get the person on the dock to pass the line through the ring and toss it back to you on the boat. It is a bit more complicated but I'll get to that in a moment. He or she could be a tourist walking off three bottles of wine in the fresh night air so don't expect much and don't yell! (Been there done that). With your dock lines coiled on the aft deck and the loop passed under the rails, tie a Monkey's paw (fist)to the loop. What you say? A Monkey's paw is a three inch round ball of line attached to a light throwing line. It gives it weight to toss the line. Now I've always taught my mates to coil the line in their left hand in a counter clockwise way making a loop of about eighteen inches making sure to give the line a quarter twist as you set it into their palm. Coil about thirty feet of line with the Monkey paw on the outside of the coil, then divide the coil in half the Monkey paw in your right hand, now you are ready. To throw the line mimic a golf swing. Turn your shoulders and follow through. The line will drop out of the bottom of the coil while the monkey paw reaches the dock. Now the mate is prepared but what about the Captain? First no yelling, it shows you don't have confidence and will only confuse the mate. If you have a remote anchor switch at the helm life will be so easy! You can control the vessel as it makes way to the stern, if not your mate will have to operate the deck switch. Hand signals are perfect for this situation. "Thumbs up. Thumbs down. A fist to lock the winch" Now moving parallel to the quay pick a spot where your dock lines will run straight off the corner of the stern to the bollard or rings. Drop the anchor. English harbor is about twenty feet deep so I let out about a two to one ratio roughly 35 yards from the quay. When you feel the anchor hit the bottom let out a another fifteen feet and stop. Turn the boat and start backing up. A note: most sailboats have props that will pull you to one direction either left or right, take the prop out of the equation. Once you begin moving backward feather the prop just to keep you moving. I find it is easier to steer in reverse if I turn my back to the helm. While backing up you will feel the bow pull a little. Use this to keep the boat on course. Signal the mate to drop a little more anchor chain. The weight of the chain will stabilize the bow. When you think you have sufficient rode out to reach the dock with out the rode rising out of the water and stopping you dead signal to your mate to lock the winch. You should be about ten feet from the quay. They can walk back pick up the tossing line and launch. The person on the dock can reel in the line and place it on the bollard. In the event you are dealing with rings they can pass the line back through the ring and toss the line back to the boat. At this point you should be eight to ten feet from the quay. If they are completely incompetent use a boat hook to reach the line. If the line falls helplessly into the water, calmly pull it out. Captain don't panic and don't use the prop! Now with the line tied off to the dock and the boat go back to the winch and tighten the chain. The boat will be perfectly aligned. Put out your passerail, jump off and kiss the ground. Now using two more lines make a cross left to right and right to left for your spring lines.
Make sure to thank your crew for the good work and to immediately forgive any transgressions, it will make life easier in the future.
Tomorrow more.....
Make sure to thank your crew for the good work and to immediately forgive any transgressions, it will make life easier in the future.
Tomorrow more.....
Monday, April 5, 2010
White Squall and Greasing the Wheels
About twenty miles North of Trinidad the water turns from a deep green to blue. The green is from the Amazon 900 miles away. A factoid of amazement! After a sail of some seventy miles I guided my beauty into St. George the capital of Granada for fuel. At the entrance stood bombed out buildings from the Reagan invasion as it is refereed to here. The Colonial buildings are all black and grey built from volcanic rock. I followed the buoys into a very shallow lagoon which my charts and guide books assured me I would go a ground. I don't trust them because most of the surveys were done in the nineteenth century and a lot has changed. I was reassured when I spotted a very large brig tucked in the corner of the lagoon where I surmised the fuel dock lay. "Surmise" is the right word as I have been fooled before by the large ship in shallow lagoon before. Let's say if you haven't grounded your boat you probably haven't sailed enough. Eventually it will happen to you. Just ask Dennis Connors. More on running aground and the fire drill that accompanies that disaster later. In any case I saw a man standing on the foredeck of this great ship and bellowed in my best seaman's voice, "Where's the fuel dock!" He frantically began crossing his hand across his throat. Was some sort of pirate skulduggery going on? I bellowed again and this time he put his finger to his lips and shushed me. Not very friendly I thought. I called the St George Yacht club on my vhf and got nothing until a taxi driver answered and guided me into a slip. A slip I might add was ten feet too small for my boat. My new bow sprit pointed ominously over the deck of a new power boat inches from his glass doors. Five dollars later I was standing in front of the customs official to check into the country. This went well until he informed me the fuel dock was closed until four o'clock and I would have to see the official minister of fuel and get a paper before I could buy fuel. You have to love it or you will go insane. When I returned to my boat I found a crowd of Hollywood types huddling. I knew what they were from my work on two films before I decided I needed to get some air. They wanted to shoot on my boat for their movie, White Squall. Sorry, I'm late. After several attempts to change my mind by increasing the price to rent my boat, which by the way I was surely tempted. They left to tell the director the bad news. While I was waiting for the Fuel Minister I drank a couple of beers. I should note my appearance. I wore a raggedy pair of shorts stained with grease and teak sap, a ball cap and ponytail. I hadn't shaved in a week and I couldn't remember the last time I took a hot shower. I was still covered with yard dirt and sawdust from the yard. A man walked up to the boat wearing a big Plantation hat, shorts, flowered shirt and shades. "This your boat?" I initial response was to grab my money clip. "Yeah." "We're shooting a movie over there and I thought it might be a good idea if your boat was in it." "I'm busy and late. Sorry I can't help you." "Where are you going?" "Turkey." He gasped a little looked over the boat from stem to stern. He took off his glasses and I recognized it was Jeff Bridges. "You're the real deal?" Just then my mate wearing a bikini top and a sarong popped out of the companionway with two beers. He took one look at her and nervously lifted his jaw off the dock. "Dude, carry on!" "I will and with alacrity." I tossed him a beer. We sat in the cockpit for the next hour swapping stories about Hollywood and sailing, before I had to go see the Minister of Fuel. I left him talking and drinking with my flattered mate never to see him again, except in the movies.
As it turns out the Minister of Fuel and the customs agent were the same guy. He could have told me! I took a seat in his other office in front of a big desk. On the desk was a little church bank with pictures of the congregation and a little sign reading "Donations Accepted. God Bless!" By the time I had seen the donations sign he was telling me it would be impossible to get fuel today or any other day in the foreseeable future. Now! This is very important information! Don't plead. Don't get angry! Don't curse his piss pot country! Don't bring up Reagan! Just smile and say I'm so sorry I was misinformed. The start stuffing that little church with bills until you hear the pounding of a stamper on your documents! Keep smiling! Wish him well and get out of the office before he realizes you only put ones in the bank!
We left St. George about 7 o'clock passed the outer bouy and turned North for Antigua full of fuel, a freshly painted bottom, dazzeling bright work and a rough looking but sturdy bow sprit. A note when sailing the windward islands stay in the lee of them. In the lee you'll enjoy smooth seas and a steady wind making the experience of sailing euphoric, but once you reach lands end be prepared to reef as the wind is funneled around the island and the seas are angry for a little while until you reach the next island.
As it turns out the Minister of Fuel and the customs agent were the same guy. He could have told me! I took a seat in his other office in front of a big desk. On the desk was a little church bank with pictures of the congregation and a little sign reading "Donations Accepted. God Bless!" By the time I had seen the donations sign he was telling me it would be impossible to get fuel today or any other day in the foreseeable future. Now! This is very important information! Don't plead. Don't get angry! Don't curse his piss pot country! Don't bring up Reagan! Just smile and say I'm so sorry I was misinformed. The start stuffing that little church with bills until you hear the pounding of a stamper on your documents! Keep smiling! Wish him well and get out of the office before he realizes you only put ones in the bank!
We left St. George about 7 o'clock passed the outer bouy and turned North for Antigua full of fuel, a freshly painted bottom, dazzeling bright work and a rough looking but sturdy bow sprit. A note when sailing the windward islands stay in the lee of them. In the lee you'll enjoy smooth seas and a steady wind making the experience of sailing euphoric, but once you reach lands end be prepared to reef as the wind is funneled around the island and the seas are angry for a little while until you reach the next island.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Sprit from Hell
To reset the scene, My yacht is resting on the hard, while a crew of painters work on the bottom paint and a crew varnishes the top sides. Sitting on four horses is my great log waiting to be fashioned into a beautiful new bow sprit when a message came to me that I received a wonderful three week charter in Turkey for top dollar! The problem was I had to be in Rhodes Greece to pick them him in 33 days. A quick calculation if I may. I had roughly 6000 nm to cover. My vessel covered approximately 350 nm in 24 hours making a straight trip 18 days. That is if everything including the weather was perfect. However, I would have to make a couple of stops. 2 days in Antigua to pick up my crew and supplies, 2 days in the Azores to resupply and rest, 2 days in Gibraltar at the mouth of the Med, then 2 days in Palermo Italy for fuel and supplies leaving me four days of leeway before the guests stepped on board to begin a three week cruising vacation. I'm tired just thinking about it! First I had to get the old bow sprit off the boat, fashion the new one then replace it and tune the rig! I had just three days to do it before the window closed and I would be late and anger the guests and the broker. Ouch!
This was a time before cellphones and the internet so we relied on a message board system. I called the crew agency in Antigua and had them post a notice for my crew that I would be arriving a couple days late but not to worry. I had also arranged for two new crew members/Charterers actually to join me on the crossing. I always booked a no frills adventure charter for sailors wishing to get a crossing under their belt so they could brag to their yacht club members that had crossed the Atlantic. They paid to be crew and were treated as such. The money covered my expenses for the crossing. Smart? Yes and no.
I employed a forklift to take down the old bow sprit. I idea was in spite of my extensive measurements I would have the original as a template to copy, but when the forklift went to turn the old bow sprit fell off nearly killing the bottom painters and shattered into three large pieces. All the king's men couldn't but this rotten stick together again! Undeterred and feeling reinforced in my decision to change the bow sprit, imagine if this broke in the middle of a storm in the Atlantic and my rig came tumbling down, I forged ahead still confident I could make my deadline.
With every bargain comes some kind of problem. Those of you that have worked with teak know it is a very hard and oily wood, but what I didn't know was green teak was nearly impossible to work. Armed with a chainsaw, circular saw, a full compliment of awls, scrappers, chisels, drills and 1.5 hp router I was impotent in the face of green teak! With the clock ticking and my window closing I cut, chipped, scrapped and cursed my way to fashioning a workable sprit for two and half days. I fore swore rum and lived on coffee, roti chicken, fried plantains and candy yams while I worked into the wee hours of the morning.
Finally on the third day, I had reassembled the bow sprit onto my yacht, even adding a couple of extra turns on the port spider stay to compensate for sun coming from the South as the next month sailing would be east and I didn't want the sprit to look south. Rushing around like a mad chicken, which I might add roam the shipyard with impunity, the lift dropped my baby into the water. It was time to leave Trinidad. I only wished I could have spent more leisure hours on the island. I thanked the guys in the shipyard, who were wonderful and set off for the fuel dock to top off with some cheap diesel fuel before making the run to Antigua, but the fuel dock was closed for repairs! I would make a quick stop in Grenada for fuel and be on my way!
Tomorrow White Squall and greasing the wheels.
This was a time before cellphones and the internet so we relied on a message board system. I called the crew agency in Antigua and had them post a notice for my crew that I would be arriving a couple days late but not to worry. I had also arranged for two new crew members/Charterers actually to join me on the crossing. I always booked a no frills adventure charter for sailors wishing to get a crossing under their belt so they could brag to their yacht club members that had crossed the Atlantic. They paid to be crew and were treated as such. The money covered my expenses for the crossing. Smart? Yes and no.
I employed a forklift to take down the old bow sprit. I idea was in spite of my extensive measurements I would have the original as a template to copy, but when the forklift went to turn the old bow sprit fell off nearly killing the bottom painters and shattered into three large pieces. All the king's men couldn't but this rotten stick together again! Undeterred and feeling reinforced in my decision to change the bow sprit, imagine if this broke in the middle of a storm in the Atlantic and my rig came tumbling down, I forged ahead still confident I could make my deadline.
With every bargain comes some kind of problem. Those of you that have worked with teak know it is a very hard and oily wood, but what I didn't know was green teak was nearly impossible to work. Armed with a chainsaw, circular saw, a full compliment of awls, scrappers, chisels, drills and 1.5 hp router I was impotent in the face of green teak! With the clock ticking and my window closing I cut, chipped, scrapped and cursed my way to fashioning a workable sprit for two and half days. I fore swore rum and lived on coffee, roti chicken, fried plantains and candy yams while I worked into the wee hours of the morning.
Finally on the third day, I had reassembled the bow sprit onto my yacht, even adding a couple of extra turns on the port spider stay to compensate for sun coming from the South as the next month sailing would be east and I didn't want the sprit to look south. Rushing around like a mad chicken, which I might add roam the shipyard with impunity, the lift dropped my baby into the water. It was time to leave Trinidad. I only wished I could have spent more leisure hours on the island. I thanked the guys in the shipyard, who were wonderful and set off for the fuel dock to top off with some cheap diesel fuel before making the run to Antigua, but the fuel dock was closed for repairs! I would make a quick stop in Grenada for fuel and be on my way!
Tomorrow White Squall and greasing the wheels.
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