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 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.
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