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.

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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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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/

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.

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.








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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.

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.