The Dogs of Winter

I finished reading Kem Nunn's The Dogs of Winter a few weeks ago and was struck by the beauty of this particular passage.

"At close quarters, it was an unnerving spectacle, and yet a thing to behold, full of terror and fluid beauty. The amount of water involved was such that it was like watching a piece of the earth become liquid, as if in some cataclysm, or at the hour of creation. The wave rose first with great mass, like a hill, but this hill was made of liquid, in constant flux, and even as you watched it, it would change its form, turning itself to a long dark wall as the face went vertical and then beyond vertical as the crest began to feather finally to pitch forward, to strike the water far our in front of the face—thus creating the vaunted green room of surfing myth—the place to be if you were to be there at all, on a board, at the eye of the storm, encompassed by the sound and the fury, bone dry in a place where no one had ever been, or would be again, because when the wave was gone the place was gone too and would exist only in memory, or perhaps, if the right person was there, in the right place, with the right equipment, it would exist on film—a little piece of eternity to hang on the wall."

Through the Night and Wind Excerpt (Chapter 10)

The following is an excerpt from the tenth and final chapter of my forthcoming novel, Through the Night and Wind (available this fall).

We breakfasted on bagels with cream cheese, apple slices
and mango jam. I then crammed my belongings into my great green backpack, caring little for my usual fold-and-roll routine; instead I stuffed and squeezed my dirty clothes in haphazardly with the worry-about-it-later mentality that often accompanies the end of a vacation. As I forced my gear into the bag, I realized that I’d seriously overpacked—in the week I’d been living on my dad’s boat, I’d worn a bathing suit almost all day every day (I brought two and alternated between them), and with the exception of the few times we’d gotten moderately dressed up to go ashore, I’d either gone shirtless or cycled through the few clean ones that floated near the top of my bag. I set out a fresh pair of underwear, cargo shorts and a Hanes pocket t-shirt, then figured I’d better bathe properly before I spent the next day crammed into the closest of quarters on three flights.

After packing, I ascended the stairs to the cockpit as the sun began its long, slow trudge over the verdant chains of islands and into the cloudless blue sky, before it scorched darkened locals and Coppertone-drenched tourists alike with its golden rays, before the light southeasterly breeze breathed life into starched white canvas sails, carrying long, slender boats across the glistening royal ocean and me, aloft in a shiny metal tube, into the nebulous heavens and north before sprinting across the amber waves of grain and purple mountains’ majesties, bound for another ocean, another body of salt water in which I could dip my toes and feel infinite.

Note: Through the Night and Wind will be available via Infinity Publishing's website as well as my own in October; it will show up at Barnes & Noble and Borders by the end of 2009.

Through the Night and Wind excerpt (Chapter 9)

The following is an excerpt from the ninth chapter of my forthcoming novel, Through the Night and Wind (available this fall).

Our driver pulled the cab to the side of the road and we dismounted, leaving the air conditioning behind and stepping back in to the mid-June Tortola humidity. Ken paid the fare, then ushered me toward the most dilapidated, neglected building I’d ever seen. Bomba’s truly was a shack—there’s no other way to describe it. Imagine if someone had collected every piece of scrap plywood and every tin roof from every condemned building and assembled (I use this term very, very loosely) it on the most picturesque white sand postcard beach with absolutely no regard for aesthetics, security or safety. Above the makeshift shanty myriad flags flapped lazily—the red-and-white divers’ flag; a green Heineken promo; the skull-and-crossbones Jolly Roger; the blue British Virgin Islands flag featuring the Union Jack in one corner and a central image of St. Ursula (the patron saint of the BVI, clad in white and flanked by a dozen golden oil lamps).

Across the dirt road stood a younger- and more sturdy-looking row of booths referred to as the vendors’ pavilion, where my father informed me we’d need to purchase tickets ($1 for 1 ticket) that we’d use as currency while at the Full Moon Party. Sidled up alongside the ticket booth were t-shirt and beer stations, all manned by friendly locals decked out in their finest carnival attire. All around us people were singing, dancing, drinking, smoking, carousing, flirting, swearing, puking, buying, selling, kissing, pissing, stripping, shouting in a dozen different languages all at once… and every few feet hand-lettered signs announced in bold, black letters: NO VIDEO. Apparently what happens at Bomba’s stays at Bomba’s.

We approached the booth and bought $20 worth of tickets, enough to get us a few beers and a plastic mug full of mushroom tea at the stroke of midnight. After procuring two cold Coronas, Ken gave me the dime tour of the rest of Bomba’s compound (meaning we took a short lap around the beachside clapboard shack); the most amazing part of the whole enterprise wasn't the fact that the building was still standing—I’d heard that every time a hurricane blows through, the locals all help Bomba track down the strewn pieces and put the thing back together—but the amount of flotsam and jetsam tacked, pinned, glued or otherwise stuck to the walls. It looked as if everyone who had ever visited had signed his or her name or left behind a photograph or some other memento of the visit. “We love Bomba” must have been scrawled a hundred times between rusty old metal beer signs and license plates, busted-up lobster traps, a discarded Coleman lantern, and even an abandoned 10-horsepower outboard motor wedged into the crotch of a tree.

Note: here's a photo of Bomba's Shack for reference.

Through the Night and Wind excerpt (Chapter 8)

The following is an excerpt from the eighth chapter of my forthcoming novel, Through the Night and Wind (available this fall).

Two pair of red-and-green buoys marked the entrance to
Cane Garden Bay, indicating safe passage between the smallish reef off DuBois Point to the north and the long, jutting reef extending out like a hitchhiker’s thumb from Windy Hill and Ballast Bay. I guided us through the short channel into what many regard as the most beautiful anchorage in the Caribbean, the “Jewel of the BVI”. It wasn’t difficult to see how it earned that distinction—a curling inlet where sparkling white sand dissolved into verdant green hills that rolled skyward toward the cobalt blue sky, dotted with cotton clouds that drifted lazily from right to left as if even Mother Nature herself had latched on to the languid island philosophy.

My father stood at the bow with the aluminum boat hook; I brought the Beneteau around the second red buoy and kept to starboard, keeping one eye on the depth gauge and one on the mostly-empty bay before me. I’d driven a few boats in my 26 years, but this was by far the biggest (and I’m guessing the most expensive), and especially after we ran aground yesterday, I was visibly nervous. I’d donned my Cubs hat to keep the sun out of my eyes and realized as I tugged nervously at the brim that I’d sweat through the cap, a combination of nervous energy and the stifling humidity. I promised myself that as soon as we were sufficiently moored I was as good as underwater again.

As I eased the 49-foot craft’s nose up to a spare ball, my father reached out and speared its mooring line, passing the bridle through the line’s eye and securing both ends to our bow cleats. His speed and efficiency were marvels to watch—in marked contrast to the way in which I consistently fumbled with the hook, line, and bridle. Although tying up to a ball was much easier on the helmsman and safer for the ocean floor (as it means fewer anchors scraping across it), I was usually the man manning the bow, and I preferred the no-nonsense approach of simply tossing the anchor overboard and letting gravity (and whomever was steering) do the work.

This time it went off without a hitch, however, and Ken gave me a merited high five as he dropped back into the cockpit. I stifled a yawn as I interlaced my fingers and extended my arms out above my head, letting go of the tension I’d built up since taking the wheel to guide us into the bay.

“We good?” I asked, rolling my head around in a big stretching circle.

“Yeah,” he nodded, looking around at the dozen or so empty mooring balls bobbing in the bay. If the Full Moon Party was all it was cracked up to be, I was certain they’d be full before too long. We’d been wise to leave Jost early; it was barely 2:00 and I surmised in another hour or so Cane Garden would be flush with tourists, cruisers and those simply there for the party.

By the time Ken turned back around, I was already out over the water in mid-dive—part celebratory gesture over my first successful Caribbean mooring, part primitive urge to escape the sweat seeping from every pore in my body. I quickly ditched my hat, sunglasses and soaked-through t-shirt haphazardly on the deck and launched myself out, up and over the aft railing, kicking both feet high above my head and straightening my torso to slice directly into the cerulean bay.

Note: here are a few photos of Cane Garden Bay for reference.

Review of Phish at Shoreline

I finally made it up north to Shoreline. Read my review for the Bay Area NBC affiliate here.

Through the Night and Wind excerpt (Chapter 7)

The following is an excerpt from the seventh chapter of my forthcoming novel, Through the Night and Wind (available this fall).

After a straight run to Tortola’s Western tip, we tacked and headed north, back towards White Bay, before the wind eventually hushed and then died completely. We hauled in the sails and secured a line off one of the rear cleats, then engaged in the same mad scramble that Jude and I used to whenever the sails came down in the middle of the lake—trying to strip off shirts, hats and sunglasses to see who could be the first into the water. I won by leaping low over the railing while my father climbed atop it for a higher dive, costing him precious seconds. The sun, hiding behind a grayish wall of haze, wasn’t nearly as oppressive as it’d been the past few days; the water was refreshing regardless, as we were still in the midst of mid-80s temperatures.

It was some 50-odd feet deep where we swam, making it fruitless to bother with the anchor; even though the wind was barely blowing, the boat was constantly drifting, although not so quickly that we couldn’t grab a hold of the line we’d tossed out to go along for the slow ride. I hoisted myself onto the swimming platform off the stern and remembered that I’d brought a tennis ball for this very moment. Soaking wet, I clambered quickly down to my berth, trying to drip as little as possible, eventually emerging victorious in the cockpit, little yellow-green ball in hand. I tossed it out to Ken, comfortably lazing behind the boat. With one hand fixed around the rope, he caught it easily in the other.

“Ready?” he asked, warming up his throwing arm. I climbed up onto the top of the cabin, standing to the port side of the boom and facing the water. He cocked his right arm back and counted “One. Two. Three!”

He winged it good, a high floater. I bent my knees and jumped, keeping my eye on the ball as it sailed toward me, although a little above my head. As I plunged into the ocean, I stretched both hands above my head, cupping them together into a basket for the ball to drop into. Instantly I went under, but felt the fuzzy ball slap against my left hand—I grabbed it tightly and held it aloft, above the water, as proof of my catch. I surfaced a moment later, still holding my prize atop the surface while wiping the salty water from my eyes.

“Nice grab,” he commented as he swam towards the boat for his turn. When he used to play these games of catch with me and Jude, we’d position two of us on one side of the boat and one on the other, then toss the ball back-and-forth like jugglers, trying to time our jumps and throws just right. Even describing it for you now makes the game sound ridiculously simple and a slightly pedantic, but it was one of those rituals that families have, like scratching the living room ceiling with the top of the always-too-tall Christmas tree (a mark for each year) or being the first person to say “rabbits rabbits” to the rest of the family on the first day of each month (it’s supposed to bring good luck). Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much I missed our ridiculously simple and slightly pedantic game, though, and I found that familiarity comforting, like a soft, dry towel wrapped around my shoulders after a long swim.

Ken threw the ball back to me as I grabbed hold of the rope trailing behind the boat. I didn’t give him as good a throw, however, and the ball sailed wide, a few feet past his outstretched hand. He swam after the floating yellow sphere and the game continued for a while—leaping, splashing, swimming, throwing, catching, missing a few here and there. It was every American family’s backyard version of father and son playing a game of catch, only our backyard was now a turquoise stretch of tropical ocean instead of a green patch of suburban lawn. The camaraderie was the same, though, just as it had been when there were three of us playing the game, back and forth. We laughed and teased each other good-naturedly when someone threw an errant pass or fudged a catch off his fingertips.

After a half-hour of the game, I climbed atop the cabin for one last jump and noticed that Ken’s attention was focused on the horizon. I looked off to the west and saw what had caught his eye. Remember those amorphous low-lying cumulus clouds I described during the gorgeous sunset last night? Well, they were back—lurking hands curling into menacing fists, their color deepening from a frosted light gray to a tarnished, inky blue. All around us the sea flattened to an eerie glassy calm and I shivered as the temperature dropped; my dad swam quickly to the boat and pulled in the line behind him.

“I should’ve known when the wind died that this was coming,” he muttered, turning the key to fire up the engine. Rubbing the goose bumps back into the flesh of my arms, I climbed down into the cockpit and cautioned a look back at the giant anvil-shaped cloud sweeping toward us, already releasing its payload on St. Thomas, some ten miles away.

“You think we can outrun it?” I asked.

“I hope so,” Ken replied. “Just to be safe, why don’t you throw the sail cover on while I get us going.” I ducked below and grabbed the royal blue canvas cover, then hopped up and snapped it in place over the boom and the lower section of the mast as my father eased the throttle down, steering us back toward Jost Van Dyke and Great Harbour.

Note: I received my first proof from my publisher on Monday. Here's a mock-up of the cover: