Mike Jastrzebski's Blog, page 81

A Picture's Worth??

[image error]Why is it that after five years and an untold amount of blood, sweat and tears, the book has not REALLY seemed real to me until I had an image to go on the front cover? Indeed, today, I finalized the cover from my cover artist Robin Ludwig, and I'm very excited about this cover and the title of the new book.

Okay, but once again I must ask you to back up for a minute. Remember, I am both a writer and a sailor, and sometimes there is just too much to write about between wearing both those hats. And I want to share what that is like.

So I've been worrying about two major issues lately, my book cover and my main sheet traveler. This is the life of a sailing writer. Day before yesterday (what day was that?), I anchored in Harness Creek because it is the anchorage closest to the local West Marine Store that would be receiving all the bits and pieces for my new Harken mainsheet traveler. I also needed propane, so yesterday morning, I went ashore at the Quiet Waters Park kayak dock with my roll cart and my propane tank and I hiked a little over a mile through the park and out to the street.  The park is a lovely forest and en route, I saw two juvenile deer grazing on the grass alongside the road.   I stopped for several minutes and we gazed at each other before the two fawns wandered off into the woods. And to think, I was only a few miles from downtown Annapolis!

So, I finally arrived at West Marine and picked up all the parts for my new traveler, including almost six feet of high beam track. The return walk with all the parts, the newly filled propane tank and the track on my shoulder was not nearly as fun as the morning walk! Now that I have all the parts, the next step is to remove the old track.

But that will have to wait as this weekend is the Seven Seas Cruising Association (SSCA) Annapolis Gam. I upped anchor this afternoon and motored over to the Rhode River where there must be 40 – 50 boats anchored.  You must understand that I use my iPad as my chart plotter, so while underway I am able to check my email, and it was while I was negotiating the buoys and markers that I got the email with the final version of my book cover. It was a narrow part of the river, but how could I not look?

Yes, the book is titled CIRCLE OF BONES, and the viewers of this blog did help me choose the title for my next book.  I followed where the votes took me.  Sometimes, as writers, we have to admit that we have no clue as to what readers want.  For example, I really liked the title FAULTY INTELLIGENCE.  You can see how highly that rated.

But you can see that CIRCLE OF BONES  was clearly the winner, so I went with that.  I have come to like this as the title for the book. The book deals with the senior society known as Skull and Bones at Yale University and the idea is that there exists an inner circle of Skull and Bones members – a group that has their own agenda – hence a Circle of Bones.

But after checking out the new cover art, I had to switch back to my navigation program and find an anchorage spot here in the Rhode River. The first serious sessions of this cruisers' meeting start tomorrow, but I decided that I needed to stay aboard and write during day #1.  I will only attend the cocktail party tomorrow night — if I have worked hard all day.  On Saturday, I'm going to spend all day at the Gam with the cruisers, but I'll still be wearing my writers' hat and hoping to interest a few new readers in my books.  Sunday, I'll be back to writing.  then one day next week, I'll have to devote a full day to trying to install the new mainsheet traveler.

I continue to struggle with the two hats thing — and am I a writer who sails or a boater who writes? But today, in spite of the fact that I am at the SSCA Gam and surrounded by dozens of other cruising boats, I am still humming with the thrill of seeing my new cover. Tonight I am 100% a writer, and I would love to hear what you think about the new cover.

Does it pique your interest in the new book?

Fair winds!

Christine

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Die, darlings, die!

C.E. Grundler

One of the best things about being a writer is how we get to create our own little imaginary worlds, populated with fascinating characters of our design, who say and do as we chose.  Oh, the power!  Through the wonder of self-publishing, we get to share this world with as many strangers as we can entice into visiting, and with any luck, they like what they see and tell their friends. If enough people start visiting, that's good reason to keep writing, and that works for me.

But recently the rules have changed. As I said last week, I've signed on for a two-book deal with Thomas & Mercer, and part of that deal involves some serious editing for Last Exit In New Jersey. T&M is extremely author-friendly; my contract states that I have the right to refuse any and all editorial suggestions they advise. It's my book, and they will publish it exactly as is if I so chose.  But I realize I'm being given the opportunity to work with people who have far more experience editing and marketing books than I could ever imagine. If they have suggestions for where we can improve my writing, I'm going to listen.

T&M tells me a book like mine, ideally, should fall between 85,000 and 100,000 words. Not 122,000.  They'd like to cut 15,000-20,000 words. I saw this coming. Over and over I've been reassured I don't HAVE to, but in the back of my mind I've always known some radical cutting would improve things, only I didn't know where to begin. I knew this would be painful, but I vowed I'd listen carefully to each and every cut my editor suggests.  Does a passage truly serve a purpose? Does it move the story forward, or simply fill the page with some witty dialog or lovely descriptions that do nothing for the story as a whole.

Well, so far, we've trimmed away over 10,000 words, and we're just getting started. Some of it is simply cleaning up my writing. This is my first book, a book written by a writer who admittedly stopped paying attention halfway through high-school, briefly attended college, and never studied anything remotely related to writing. Other than the input of some cherished friends and family, I've been flying by the seat of my pants, But now it's time to take this up a notch, to make it professional. If a professional editor marks off some of my dearest darlings for elimination and I can't prove to him or myself that they serve any other purpose beyond making me happy, it's time for them to go. Ah, the blood-bath!

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Oh, The Places You Will Go!

What I love about boating is all the places you can go…and all you find there.

Our latest voyage has been to Biloxi, Mississippi.  And, this is what I found.

 Pickin' Peas

            The day sweltered like only a day in Mississippi can. There was not a single whistle of wind. I felt like Spanish moss on the live oak trees, drooping over the branches, unable to move.  I dragged my feet across the open parking lot to the farmer's market, feeling my skin sizzle with each step.

In the shade of the Ocean Springs-Biloxi overpass, a woman sat on an overturned orange paint pail, protected from the suns rays burning between her tight cornrows. Her shoulders hunched forward, and her elbows rested on her knees. Her fingers were thick and cracked with years of hard work, yet nimble as she used her thumbs to split apart dark purple bean pods. She ran her index finger down the pocket, extracting the green-tinged beans. The same deep purple color marked the center of the bean surrounded by a pink oblong splotch.

            "Are these black-eyed peas?" I asked.

The woman sucked the scorched air between her teeth and let out a laugh that filled the parking lot. Her dark eyes glistened. "No, child. Thems have black eyes." She ran her hands through the plastic bowl between her knees and scooped up a handful of peas.  "These here have pink eyes." She pointed to the center of one. "Theys called purple-hull pink-eye peas."

Sometimes, I can be so dumb.

            "These here." The woman pointed to an almost identical pile of beans. "Theys called crowders. And over here." Another pile lay on the far end of the table. "These are small lady peas."

"Which one is your favorite?" This was a variation of the question I asked everyone at every market around the world. How would you cook these for your family?

            The woman turned teacher in an instant as she demonstrated zippering the beans and shelling the peas from the center.  "You take these and boil thems with bacon and some seasoning. These here crowders make lots a gravy to mop up with cornbread."

I lowered my eyes. "My cornbread recipe is not so good."

The woman looked like I just used the Lord's name in vain. "Girl, you gets some of that self-raising flour and fresh ground corn." She slapped her thigh and her whole bosom jiggled.  "My secret is you mix in a spoon of mayonnaise to make it moist." She kept shelling peas the whole time we spoke.  "You do that, and you'll have good cornbread." She scooped and bagged the crowders and moved over to her original bowl of pink eyes.

            "Now, these here are better for salad." She reached over the table for a field-ripened bright red tomato. "Boil them and mix them with tomato, peppers, some chilies, and corn." She picked up two thin cobs, the silk still woven through the kernels and placed it on my growing pile of vegetables from her farm. "These are the last of the Silver Queens for the season."

As the woman slipped the produce into my cloth bag, I couldn't help but feel I was living a scene straight from the pages of Kathryn Stockett's The Help.  I was Skeeter, not asking advice on cleaning, but learning to cook Southern dishes. Or, maybe, I was Miss Celia, leaning over Minny  learning how to fry chicken.

"You come back next week and I'll bring you some of my cornbread to try."

I stepped out of the refuge and into the blazing sun, hardly registering the rise in temperature since we began talking. I practically skipped to my car, arms laden with bags of Mississippi-grown produce and recipes for the next day's lunch, eager to return on Tuesday for my next cooking lesson.

Mississippi Caviar

 

2 pounds pink-eyed purple hull peas, shucked OR 2 cans black-eyed peas (15-ounce), drained and rinsed
1 tablespoon sea salt
2 ears corn, shucked
2 large tomatoes, seeded and diced
1/2 red onion, diced
1/2 green pepper, diced
½ yellow pepper, diced
½ orange bell pepper
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 bunch cilantro, chopped
1 jalapeño pepper, seeded and finely chopped
2 limes, juiced
1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil
1/3 cup red wine vinegar


 1 teaspoon sea salt

 

In a large pot, boil 2 gallons of water with the shucked peas and 1 tablespoon sea salt for 20 minutes until tender. Drain.

Boil 2 gallons water and sea salt. Boil ears of corn for 3 minutes. Remove from water and cool. Slice the kernels off the cob and mix all the ingredients together until well combined.

 

Serve with tortilla chips for dipping or as a salad.

 

Makes 8 cups

 

Victoria Allman has been following her stomach around the globe for twelve years as a yacht chef.  She writes about her floating culinary odyssey through Europe, the Caribbean, Nepal, Vietnam, Africa and the South Pacific in her first book, Sea Fare:  A Chef's Journey Across the Ocean.

SEAsoned: A Chef's Journey with Her Captain, Victoria's second book is the hilarious look at a yacht chef's first year working for her husband while they cruise from the Bahamas to Italy, France, Greece and Spain; trying to stay afloat.

Victoria has been a columnist for Dockwalk, an International magazine for crew members aboard yachts for the past three years.  Her column, Dishing It Up, is a humorous look at cooking for the rich and famous in an ever-moving galley.

You can read more of her food-driven escapades through her web-site, www.victoriaallman.com

 

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More Trawler Writers

by Tom Tripp

As the apparent lone proponent of the "dark side" of living aboard (AKA "powerboating"), I sometimes feel left behind in the oh-so-pristine wake of all the sailors here on Write On The Water.  So, from something of a defensive viewpoint — and because misery loves company — I bring to your attention the many blogs of the Nordhavn trawler liveaboards.

While it's true that some of these Nordhavn owners do not live aboard full time, that's not uncommon for most liveaboards.  Many of these Nordie bloggers, however, do liveaboard full time and in fact, cruise full time.  In fact, some of them have accomplished some of the most spectacular passagemaking this planet has to offer.

Ken and Roberta Williams, aboard Sans Souci, a new Nordhavn 63, led a group of three Nordhavns across the Bering Sea from Alaska to Japan.  Dubbed "The Great Siberian Sushi Run," Ken and fellow cruisers aboard Grey Pearl and Seabird documented some new territory for cruisers, particularly regarding their experiences in Japan, a country with practically no recreational boating.

Milt and Judy Baker's Nordhavn 47 "Bluewater" on a Transatlantic Passage -- Photo Courtesy of Milt Baker

Milt and Judy Baker, aboard Bluewater, a Nordhavn 47, have some of the best technical experiences and documentation (next to Ken Williams, above, who has blogged in extreme detail since the Nordhavn Atlantic Rally in 2004).  Want to know how well paravanes work as stabilizers and what to remember when relying on fin stabilizer systems?  Read Milt Baker's blog for the answers.

"Three at Sea" is both the boat name and blog of David and Kathryn Besemer, who have, together with their daughter Ayla, produced a series of videos about life aboard from a kid's perspective, called "From the Pilothouse, with Ayla."

Lots of folks driving stinkpots (not an apt description anymore, by the way, since the advent of electronically controlled diesels) are also writing about life aboard.  It doesn't take millions of dollars to live aboard a trawler, although that would certainly be an ultimate lifestyle and some of these Nordhavn owners are there.  See what's out there. It may be you can afford to live on the dark side, too.

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It's that time again.

By Mike Jastrzebski

Those of you who follow this blog know that Mary and I originally planned to leave Ft. Lauderdale at the same time Christine Kling took off this summer. We made a decision to concentrate on the writing instead of prepping the boat and as a result I published Dog River Blues (A Wes Darling Mystery) last month. I have also made substantial progress on the rewrite of my next book–but the weather is beginning to cool a little and it's time to think about getting away from the dock.

The biggest obstacle to our taking off this winter is our engine. We have an old Atomic Four that has not run in two years. If the engine starts then we're out of here. There's really no reason it shouldn't start, it has every other time I've tuned it up and cranked it over. Still, we all know that with boats if it can go wrong it will.

If the engine has any major problems we may be stuck here for awhile longer, but it won't stop us from going. Right now we're starting on some other projects. Mary and I made a bimini this past spring and Mary is going to start working on the dodger this week.

It's amazing how much work there is to be done, but we have checked a few items off our list. I'm hoping to finish up the rewrite of the new book by the end of October; my self imposed deadline is November 1st. If the book isn't finished by then it goes back into the drawer until next year.

In the meantime, I'm checking my list, adding a few projects, and trying to decide what projects can wait until we're at anchor somewhere in the Bahamas. We've decided we're not going to let that list delay our departure. (Engine excepted)

Wish us luck–we're going crazy sitting here at the dock.

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The Fixer

by Christine Kling

My friend Bruce has told me for many years about the glorious Indian summer days on the Chesapeake during the month of September, and a week ago, I was about ready to call him a liar.  In fact, when another friend posted on Facebook, "Do they sell arks in Home Depot?" I didn't even have to check his profile to see what part of the country he lived in.

But this week, I've had to take it all back.  The weather turned glorious last Sunday, and we saw the passing of the full moon mid-week. I decided to shed my outboard and row my doggy dinghy runs through the anchorage at dawn and dusk so I could hear the birds and smell the scents of sun-warmed brush and flowers. Yesterday afternoon when I shoved out into the creek from the dinghy landing, the late afternoon light was golden and the peaceful anchorage was still aside from some distant music.  I rowed over to the swing bridge and there sat the bridge tender on a metal folding chair out on his deck with his boom box playing Patsy Cline's "I Fall to Pieces." 

I thought to myself, "Geez, that could be my theme song these days."

It's not like I'm obsessive/compulsive or anything, but it does bug me when things aren't right. I just want to fix things.

fix: verb

repair, mend, put right, put to rights, get working, restore (to working order); overhaul, service, renovate, recondition.

I received my Dometic 24 qt. cold box this week, so I am back in cold beer. That's important. I know that I haven't really fixed my refrigeration, but  somehow I will fix it once I get back to Fort Lauderdale. I can live with this short-term solution. And after combing the aisles at Bacon's used marine hardware store and pricing out the pieces for the proposed jury rig, I just went ahead and ordered the parts for a brand new Harken mainsheet traveler. The jury-rig would have cost me a quarter of the price of a new rig. And it's going to be sweet to have that roller bearing car sliding on that slick new track. Then with Bruce's help, we ran a new wire and solved the alternator and engine hours meter problem. Finally, I took one more run up to the top of my mast and attached a line to my jib halyard and managed to winch the thing down.  In other words, I fixed lots of my problems.

There are others that I am going to have to decide what to do about.  Take my autopilot, for example.  In a perfect world, I'd love to go out and spend $4,000 on a proper linear drive autopilot.  But I don't have that kind of money.  So, as with many of my projects, I'm having to say, can I live with it the way it is?

However, I received my manuscript back from the professional editor today and I added it to "The List" of things that need fixing around here.  That one's going to be a big job!  She did a fantastic job of identifying many of the problems that I knew in the back of my mind were there but didn't really know how to solve.  The most difficult fixes are those that you don't even want to admit are problems in the first place.  A favorite saying among writers is that one must learn to "Kill your little darlings."

I can fix boats (or find someone to help me do it) and I can fix my book.  But the one thing I cannot fix is the beautiful smiling face in the photo at the top of this page.  My sweet darling puppy is now sixteen years old and he is both deaf and blind (cataracts).  The vet will no longer clean his teeth under anesthetic and he has several infected rotting teeth.  He has sebaceous cysts that require draining with a hypodermic needle, and more and more he is suffering from doggy dementia — he no longer really knows when and where to go pee and today we hit a record of three times in the boat – once immediately after we returned from shore.

But, tonight, we've had a cold front come through and the forecast is for temperatures down in the high 40's overnight.  I have him dressed in his doggy Snuggie to stay warm and he is so sweet and sleepy and lovable.  And again I'm asking myself, can I live with it the way it is?

Of all the things that I have to fix, what I wouldn't give for the ability to fix all that ails my much beloved old dog.

Fair winds!

Christine

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New Horizons…

C.E. Grundler

As I've said before, much of my life moves at displacement speed. Through this continuous and ongoing journey I've found myself re-routed, detoured, delayed and occasionally dumped right back at 'Go' without the complimentary $200. Dreams have shifted, goals have changed, but through it all I keep moving forward. I haven't always ended up where I first intended but I've come to learn it's much easier to make headway when you go with the flow. The publishing world is a far different place than it was when I first began writing Last Exit In New Jersey. I can only imagine where it will go in the years ahead, but I do know one thing: change leads to new horizons and new opportunities.

Just over a year ago I noticed what was happening in the epublishing world and decided to take a gamble: I would forego the traditional publishing route and release my book as an independent. It was slow at first but gradually things began to pick up. Apparently my book caught the notice of someone at Amazon and wound up in a single promotional email, and even with a slightly scrambled description, sales skyrocketed. It was a fun ride, one I knew would eventually wind down, and gradually things slowed back to a pre-promo pace. Through it all I stayed my course, working away at completing No Wake Zone, which I intended to release by late fall of 2011. But during that time, people within Amazon's Editorial Acquisitions were watching, and apparently they liked what they saw. And I saw what they could offer me, providing the benefits of professional editing, marketing and promotion. If anyone knows epublishing, it's Amazon, and they've made their contract very forward thinking and author-friendly, allowing authors to retain control over their content and covers. I liked what I saw, and I signed a two-book deal.

Last Exit In New Jersey and No Wake Zone will be published in Spring 2012 under the Thomas & Mercer imprint.

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Vessels of Freedom

(Elizabeth Islands – off the coast of Massachusetts)

The September air in New England is cool and dry with the joys of late-season boating upon us. A happy time for all. Unfortunately, it's a brief happy time. Soon, the slings and boat lifts that set vessels into the water this past spring will be taking them out for the fall.

Perhaps, then, it's the right moment to toss your belongings aboard your craft, quit your job, and aim for the islands. Head down the "ditch" (aka The Intracoastal) making nightly stops in search of the best waterfront cafe, or maybe lash the tiller on a single tack across the Gulf Stream heading for Bermuda and on to the Windwards.

This all sounds good to me. Unfortunately, I've been reading recent Write On The Water blogs by Christine Kling on the realities of setting off to sea. What's more, I've been reading Christine's Blog at the same time I've been taking in The Self-sufficient Sailor by Lin and Larry Pardy. The lesson from these seasoned ocean sailors? Life at sea ain't so easy either. Mechanical problems, unexpected expenses, unforeseen weather. Damn.

Is this the end of the dream? Heck no.

Can we keep the dream going? Absolutely!

Maestro, cue the music. Kenny Chesney, please. "Boats, Vessels of freedom, harbors of healing…"

Unfortunately, Chesney's song only lasts four minutes and sixteen seconds, and we all know it's a lot easier having a boat if you sell millions of records as a pop star, and most of us don't.

But before we crash back to reality, consider the plan of one dreamer who's tied-up down the dock. The way he sees it, in this down economy the market for used power boats is incredibly buyer-friendly, especially when it comes to fuel-hog yachts. With this in mind, this dockside dreamer plans to:

1) buy a big-honking power boat, the bigger the better;

2) yank out the engines and fuel tanks;

3) sell-off the electronics, fighting chairs, and outriggers and use that money to buy a new flat screen TV, solar panel, and a large ice chest;

4) use the money he gets from selling the engines to buy a used Boston Whaler equipped with a reliable engine and an exceptionally heavy tow line;

5) buy a big tub of sun screen and plop himself down in paradise aboard his new floating home.

And if he has some extra cash from selling the engines and electronics he's going to put deep-sounding woofer speakers in the old engine room so he can mimic the sound of starting up the diesels when he's at the slip.

Live this dream and you end up being a dockside yachtsman sans fuel costs or worries of combustion. The Whaler will serve your boating needs, you can add a sunfish of you get the itch to sail, and if you wear out your welcome in paradise you can tow your battle wagon to a new homeport (arriving at night so nobody catches on that you own a giant piece of castrated fiberglass).

Personally, I'm more inclined to keep reading Christine's advice on making the sailing adventure work. But if you happen to see an old Hatteras or Bertram show up at your marina with a Whaler close by, keep an eye on the engine exhaust when those big diesels crank over in the morning because it might just be that dreamer with a sly smile on his face. If it is, give him a wave. My guess, he welcomes you aboard his vessel of freedom while he's cooking steak tips on the grille, getting ready for football on the flatscreen.

A Sample of "Boats" by Kenny Chesney: http://audiko.net/ringtone/Kenny+Ches...

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A little taste of Stairway to the Bottom

I am working on my deadline for Stairway to the Bottom, so instead of doing a blog on writing or boating or Key West, I thought I'd give you chapter one of the book and maybe whet your curiosity. Of course you can read more of it on my website – www.michaelhaskins.net – along with sample chapters of my other books. Let me know what you think.

Chapter One

If I hadn't gone to watch the comedy showcase at the People's Theater of Key West, I wouldn't have silenced my cell phone. If I hadn't silenced my cell, I would have answered Dick Walsh's first call at 1:10 A.M., and then things might not have gone so badly. If is a damn big word for only having two letters.

I unplugged the cell from its charger in the morning and the lighted screen reminded me it was on silent mode and that I had five messages.

Each of Dick's messages was more frantic and pleading than the last. He needed help, but didn't say for what. By the third message, he was cussing but still wanted me to call and that was at three-fifteen. He didn't sound drunk, like most three in the morning callers do, he sounded scared.

The fifth and final message came at five-thirty-six. He had calmed down, asked me to come by his house as soon as possible and gave me the address. His composed voice assured me I would understand the problem after I arrived and he would be in touch later.

"Mick, I need you to believe me, it isn't what it looks like. Please help me," his message ended with a quiet plea.

I dressed quickly in last night's clothing and swallowed cold water from a bottle out of the cooler. Before I got into my Jeep and drove to Dick's house on Von Phister Street, I called his cell but it went to voice mail and I left a message. We were playing phone tag.

Von Phister is a narrow, tree-lined street in a quiet neighborhood of old and new houses. Dick's was an old two-story house with a large gumbo-limbo tree in front and two more in back. He actually had a decent-size backyard, something that is a premium in Key West.

The house was dark. It was almost six-thirty, about an hour since his last call. The sky was a light gray with a reddish-purple sunrise pushing the dawn westward. Only a large yellow tomcat crossed my path on the empty street.

I parked in front and noticed Dick's scooter was gone. I went up the steps to the wraparound porch, rang the bell, and then knocked. Nothing. I looked into the living room window. Nothing. I knocked again and when no one answered, I tried the door. It was unlocked so I went in.

The stench that greeted me in the hallway was familiar. The smell of death was strong and that told me somewhere in the house, death was very recent. Death, if left alone long enough cloaks all other odors, especially in the tropics – violent death even more so.

I called Dick's name but no one answered. I walked into the living room and it looked lived in – a big screen TV, stereo with CDs stacked next to it, a sectional sofa set. A hallway led to a kitchen, small dining room, and bathroom. The stairway on the right went upstairs to the bedrooms.

Dick used the dining room as his office – medium sized desk that was too big for the room, a computer, a printer, and a two-drawer file. I walked through into the kitchen. There was a table for two off to the side, dirty dishes in the sink and a woman's body on the floor.

She lay face down and a large part of her head was gone. Pieces of shattered skull, along with parts of her brain and blood, tarnished the otherwise clean kitchen wall.

Blood and human waste soaked the tile floor and stained her clothing.

The stench of death filled the kitchen. I didn't bother looking for a pulse.

A revolver with a silencer attached lay on the floor, her arm stretched out toward it as if reaching for the gun that had a small stream of brownish blood curled up next to it.

I ran upstairs to check the two bedrooms, calling Dick's name. Both rooms were neat and the beds made. Nothing broken or seemingly out of place. Dick's closet looked full with only a couple of empty hangers in the mix. The guestroom closet was empty.

Dick shot this woman, I thought as I looked down at her body. Whose gun was it on the floor? I didn't touch anything, though I wanted to. My curiosity was getting the best of me.

I'm Liam Murphy, a semi-retired journalist and fulltime sail bum, some say. Key West has been my home for almost eighteen years. Before that, I lived in Southern California and reported on Central American civil wars and when they ended I covered the drug wars for a weekly newsmagazine so a dead body wasn't something that frightened me, it intrigued me.

In Key West, I've made friends with all kinds of characters, including the chief of police, Richard Dowley. We have a two-sided relationship. One side is Richard the cop, the other is Richard the friend. He considered me a friend but always thought of me as a journalist. He says I only have one side. I called him on my cell, sure of catching him at home, and knew I'd be talking to his cop side.

I told him where I was and what I'd found.

"What are you doing at that nut's house?" I could hear him banging around in the kitchen.

When I explained about the messages and Dick's plea, he sighed loud enough for me to hear on the phone.

"Don't touch anything and I'll call it in," he said. "Best thing is go outside and wait for the first unit and I'll make it there too."

"Okay, Richard, but tell the ambulance it doesn't have to hurry," I said and he hung up without replying.

Outside, I sat and waited, thinking of Dick's last message telling me it wasn't what it looked like. It looked like murder, to me.

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Dog River Blues: Now in Paperback.

Dog River Blues: A Wes Darling Mystery is now available as a trade paperback, which means that all three of my books are now available in paper or as eBooks. Links to all of my books are at the bottom of this post.

Here's a brief description of Dog River Blues:

A sexy relative who wants to teach Wes Darling the meaning of kissin' cousins, a priceless centuries old manuscript, a three hundred pound redneck, and an ex-spy who thinks murder is a justifiable means of support are just a few of the things awaiting Wes when he sails into the Dog River in search of answers about the father he never knew.  

Dog River Blues blends the mystique of the liveaboard boating lifestyle and the colorful characters and vagabonds who live, work, and sometimes commit murder on our nation's waterways. This is one voyage to Mobile, Alabama you don't want to miss.

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