All you rogues at heart - THIS is your day...Aarrgghh

Its be a while; launching one book, writing another and preparing for the next, but I couldn't let the annual 'Talk Like a Pirate Day' slip by without my contribution.
If you happen to be in a seaport town, or America's oldest seafarers city which just celebrated its 450th birthday, you'd know it.
Enjoy!
  ~~~

Talk Like a Pirate Day

by Jack M D Owen

Derek Flynt had a perfect description of the assailant.

But the Ancient City Police Department dispatcher just laughed at him.

Derek described the perp as somewhere between five to six foot tall, depending whether he was stooped under his tricorn hat or standing upright on his peg-leg with the pink Rubber-Maid non-slip tip. There was a tendency, between witness statements, for the black eye-patch to switch from left to right, but the brown orb against a black-blue and purple blood-shot background, was consistent.

Unfortunately for the St. Augustine Glamor Mall Security Guard, males of all ages and shades had chosen that date, September 19, to partake in the 'Talk Like a Pirate Day” as part of the long-weekend celebration of the Ancient City's 450^th Birthday. Derek was getting reports from Hymie the Jeweler, the SmartFone Depot and even the Tittilating Truffles & Tidbits confectioner, of being robbed.

“Its no joke.” He complained to a laughing dispatcher.

Derek waddled as fast as his stretched gray-polyester pants, with broad brown-stripe down the outer seam, would allow, glowering at mini-pirates waving plastic bendy-blade swords tethered to mothers juggling shopping bags, mobile-phones and car-keys in the Friday shopping frenzy.

Every door of every store revealed its Jack Sparrow or Long John Silver replicate. Some flashed glittering medallions on gold chains framed in an open-neck blousy-shirt, one hand on a cutlass handle while the other juggled a flickering cell-phone being sprayed with cookie-crumbs. Several folks swayed like seasoned sailors stepping on-shore from a six-month cruise, augmented by an aura of rum-fumes ranging from Pinacolada to Pusser's Navy. Eyes, left, right or dual – with obligatory patch perched on foreheads – were inevitably cross-hatched pink

The rent-a-cop fan of NCIC forced himself past the 52-Variety Donut Store toward the PetsStore and its 'Treasure of the Week', a doleful-eyed, floppy-eared, saggy-dugged blood-hound. Clutching a sliver of chartreuse material, reportedly ripped from the pirate's breeches on the jeweler's security-door screen, Derek pushed through the 'Adopt-a-Pet' crowd to the manager.

“I need to borrow your sniffer dog.” 

He pushed through shoppers to the head of the line. His plea was ignored in the litany of items being rung up:

“...and two bags of gourmet rat-feed, the deluxe water trough with Avian-attachment, together with vitamin pills, sleeping pills, urinary infection and band-aids, $213.53 plus tax...” Each verbal note accompanied, with electronic pinging sound-effect, flowed uninterrupted.

“Slide here, sign-three, put your PIN in.”

Whirring sounds produced a foot-long listed of items thrust into the bag with purchases.

“Next”

Derek stood in an unbroken sea of swashbuckling weekend sailors, “Aaaarrring” and “M'Hearty'ing in a plethora a pronunciations.

Ignored.

“Can I get some attention, here?”

“Take a ticket, sir. We'll get to you.”

Derek's pale skin gained a tint which bloomed through shades of pink to red to scarlet bordering purple at the unwelcome attention many mono-eyed faces focused upon him, while the cash-register pinged on uninterrupted.

He flourish his badge.

Nothing.

His hand moved to his gun

“Aaaarrrgggh.” The crowd cooed.

The blood-lust was almost palpable.

The blood-hound bayed, sensing the game was afoot.

But Derek gulped hard, removed his hand from hip and bid a farewell to the store clerk; in a gesture hard to discern on later re-runs of the security-camera, shook his head and left.

“Where's Rin-Tin-Tin when you need him?” He muttered.

Derek waded through waves of shoppers of all shapes and sizes clad in some semblance of a piratical nature.

Overhead the sound of speakers hollowly called for parents to gather lost or dumped children. Some parents routinely diverted recalcitrant replicates toward the Lost & Found kiosk for the holding-pen staffed by retirees and liberal-art students. The kids would be retrieved in a couple of hours, well-fed with finger-paint globs on clothes and play-dough blobs in hair; baby-sat at no cost but a scrub in the tub and another load of washing – later.

Sounds of the distinctive city-cop cruiser sirens bounced off the walls through the automatic sliding doors.

Derek gained his minuscule security office which housed a wall of monitors following the ebb and flow of shoppers, fire and security alarm systems together with ingress and egress controls.

He smacked a large red-button, flicked a couple of direction switches and hefted the clump of pass-keys on its retractable chain clipped to hi broad belt before setting off to meet the ancient city's finest. Jaunty was not a term normally applied to Derek's progress through the mall but, there was a certain light fillip to his step.

The multitude was congregating at the triple-door main entrance while new customers pushed through the one-way entry. Several,who tried to exit against the flow, were brushed aside and back into the mall.

Stocky Officer Darlene Lacey and horny K-9 Monty, on full-exposure as usual, stood waiting.

“What...”

“Robbery, three places. Threatened assault, with a cutlass, by an assailant decked out like a pirate.”

Her eyes rolled backward.

“Y'gotta be...”

“Nope. No joke. This SoB blooded the jeweler when he nicked him after he loaded the sword-blade with chains and medallions. He's gotta look like Mr T if he's wearing all that bling.” 

Dekek ignored the jeers and jaunts from the swelling crowd.

“So?”

“I've got this,”Derek held the scrap of icky-looking material between thumb and forefinger. His eyes switched to Monty who was treating himself to a slobbering full toiletry, much to the entertainment of children and chagrin of parents.

“Monty's no bloodhound.”

“But the perp doesn't know. How many pirates do you see in this color bloomers.” He shielded the sliver to display before Darlene.

“And...” she prompted. “There's more?” 

“Yeah.” Derek smirked.

“What?”

 

“Once we've matched the patch – we've got him cold.”

“How?” 

“Pirates don't have no receipts for booty, matey.” Derek declared. “Har-har.”

ends... 

Pssst... Don't tell anyone yet, but the KINDLE version of 'David Porter, Philadelphia & the Barbary Pirates' broke free and launched itself. Something to do with the wrong button getting pressed. Anyhoo...she's out there now, undergoing self-imposed sea-trials...prior to a few tweaks to the rigging; relaunch and the paperback version soon after. Check it out - a cock-up on the chapter-heads layout on smaller screens - otherwise text looks good. How's it read?

Visual Up-Date on Progress of Next Book

The Beta Readers are sending their zingers back to be mulled over, before the line-reading edit by a pro.

The current session is to ensure the cast of characters (you don't want to know) doesn't have a eye-color shift, a hair-change and new name somewhere with the 2-300 page saga.
For those who have not been paying attention, this is book Two of a planned Seven based on the epic nautical struggles of David Porter from Midshipman in America's War of Revolution  against George III's henchmen, to the cusp of the break-up of the Ottoman Empire and his role as Ambassador in Constantinople.

Porter, along with 305 other American sailors, were captured, held hostage and enslaved at Tripoli in1803. Sound's familiar, eh?. All will be revealed in 'David Porter, Philadelphia & the Barbary Pirates'.  If you'ver ever wondered where that line "...to the shores of Tripoli" came from, in the USMC Hymn...read the book. Out soon in Kindle and paperback.

Here's a preview of the unadorned cover as a copy of the 1803 etching - and one I goosed with with some color tinting.

Guess which one I'm going with ...

Pssst...the next book is based on events surrounding the involvement of the yacht America in the Civil War. Hope to launch her in time for the America's Cup Race in Bermuda, 2017.

A Memorable Date For Me Marks A Remarkable Review for Midshipman David Porter

Was most happy to receive this 'gift' on my birthday, Nov. 16, in the form of a book review written by Marie Vernon, which appeared in the Living section of the St. Augustine Record, daily newspaper.

 

Although  Midshipman Porter did not call into St. Augustine, the oldest city in the new world was on the front lines of every conflict in its centuries old history. It has known the footsteps of conquerors, conquistadors, pirates, privateers, buccaneers in the era of sail - and is still in the combat zone for cyber hackers, smugglers of dope, contraband and illegal immigrates of many nationalities - friend and foe.

 

These are early days in the young adventurer's career, but the dastardly practices performed by evil scoundrels were  ancient before man set out to explore the seas and conquer the world. Book two in the saga in on the slips, fitting out  and eager to be launched. It bears many similarities to current events, despite the passage of time.

Cruelty and greed have no expiration date. But hopefully bravery and heroism will keep it in check.

 

 

 

[Reprinted]

LivingSunday Life

 

Book review "Midshipman Porter: In Harm's Way"

Q&A with Jack Owen

Posted: November 16, 2014 - 12:08am

Jack Owen author of 'Midshipman Porter: In Harms Way'

From page one, “Midshipman Porter: In Harms Way” immerses readers in the era when tall ships and the men who sailed in them played an integral role during our nation’s infancy. The British have imposed unreasonable taxes on the American colonies and have blockaded vital ports up and down the east coast to prevent tax-free smuggling. In a time when roads were marginal at best and transportation slow, this presents a severe hardship to the colonists who rely heavily on merchant vessels, both for transporting goods and as a source of communication. As further insult, British captains are authorized to seize merchant vessels and to impress captured sailors into service for the Royal Navy.
When the blockade makes life difficult for his family in Boston, Captain David Porter, commander of a merchant ship, relocates his family to Baltimore, where the port remains open. It is there that David Porter, Jr. spends his childhood, immersed in the city’s rich culture of seamanship. By the time young Davy is grown and ready to put to sea, the War for Independence has ended, but an uneasy peace prevails. Ships plying their trade between Baltimore and the Caribbean Islands are in danger from ships of the Royal Navy as well as French and Spanish privateers.
While historic events form the spine of Owens’ story, it is the details of daily living in that crucial period, both at sea and on land, that create an indelible picture. For instance, the importation of salt from Bermuda, a British colony, is critical to the American colonists and can only be accomplished at great danger to American merchant ships. Battles at sea are described with attention to infinite detail such as the fact that the sailors loading the cannons below decks wore felt slippers and worked behind wetted canvas to prevent stray sparks from igniting the gunpowder. Likewise, readers will experience what it felt like to cling to rigging far above the ship’s heaving deck during a tropical storm.
Owen’s prose is both precise and colorful, as in this description of the procedure when Porter’s ship docks in a Santo Domingo harbor: The bum-boats bearing bananas, plantains and citrus fruits surrounded Eliza before the anchor-scope settled on the sea bed. Naked ebony boys flashed white teeth...holding up fruit in one hand and the appropriate amount of fingers up with the other.
As Midshipman Porter makes his way upward through the ranks, he experiences disasters and moments of jubilation, capture and escape. He serves under captains who are harsh to their crews and others from whom he learns much about the craft of seamanship. In a Philadelphia brothel, he has his first — but not his last — sexual encounter. The vessels on which he sails vary from small coasting merchant ships to sleek privateers to the pride of the newly formed Continental Navy, the Baltimore-built Constellation, launched in 1797.
This novel captures the imagination with its distinctive characters and uniquely intimate access to events and personages that helped to determine our nation’s destiny. It will appeal to those who love a good sea-going tale and to historians who appreciate meticulous research.
Q&A with Jack Owen
Where did you obtain your extensive knowledge of seamanship?
Observation and osmosis of things nautical. I grew up in a seaside resort on the English side of the Channel with an active fishing fleet competing for the same patch of water as weekend sailors. I learned about lines, lies and salty language at an early age. Five years voluntary service in the Royal Navy, starting as a boy at age 16, probably helped, too. As a journalist, investigative crime reporter and boating columnist in south Florida for half a century, plus contributor to National Fisherman, Boating, and Good Old Boat, some of that information stuck.
What resources did you find helpful in researching the history of America’s post-colonial period?
Books and Broadsheets from that period and about the period were invaluable sources of confirmation. Its made much easier, but with less thrill of discovery, with the advent of Google, etc. As a former maritime journalist and antiquarian bookseller, both my Old Book Shop stock in Palm Beach and my own library of Porter specific tomes, helped. Personal visits to some locations, in and out of the service, plus associations with naval families, also worked.
Is the Porter family based on actual persons?
Very much so. Dig into any naval or military action from the Revolution to today, and somewhere a Porter will crop up. I test-read an early chapter to a pod of writers in Gainesville, several years ago. One of the group, an esoteric experimental author, turned out to be a Porter descendant. She had no idea great-great-great-great grandfather was such a sporty lad. Quite took the wind out of her sails.
Are the encounters Midshipman Porter and his family have with various historic figures such as Captain Horatio Nelson, Patrick Henry and the Poe family of Baltimore based on fact?
Some are so, some are near-misses. Back in the day, populations of major cities were pretty cozy. Baltimore was home to 13,503 homeowners in 1790; St. Augustine’s population this year is 13,113 people according to Internet sources. Like-thinking folks are liable to move in the same circles. Merchants, shipowners and politicians socialized within the society they created. Many Porters, historians and biographers have recorded “the facts,” according to them. My excursion into “Faction” adds flesh to the bones and a light in the eyes of historical figures, dates and events.
What is next for Midshipman—now Lieutenant—Porter?
A smashing yarn of tragedy, horror and honor, which began with the capture of USS Philadelphia by Barbary Pirates on the night of Halloween, 1803. Villains and heroes of that era outmatch anything Hollywood screenwriters could invent. The legendary incident, which created the line “to the shores of Tripoli” in the U.S. Marine Corps hymn, has sunk into dry history texts. But the capture and enslavement of 307 American sailors, their 18-month captivity, the germ of a naval academy, the first regime-change warlike overseas action of the fledgling county and the raising of the American flag on foreign soil involved David Porter.

Sea Spectres Live On in 'The Jekyll Island Enigma'

Please accept this gift - can be read during the hall-time show - as a teaser to tempt you to read the full, expurgated story...later.

Except from 'The Jekyll Island Enigma' by Jack Owen

(gift-read between plays)

Bremen Departs

Konig wrinkled his nose at the acrid smell of burning oil and cordite filtering into the grimy, camouflaged car as it approached Lorient.

“This is worse than my cigar, eh ?” he rubbed sleep from his eyes, peering at shipyards smoldering from another English bombing raid. Dockyard workers ignored the car bumpily edging through their midst. German uniforms and military vehicles were a common sight to battered and bewildered Frenchmen following the country’s defeat in June, 1940.

Konig glanced back toward the other passenger, Gerhardt Muni, perched on the back seat with him. He braced himself when the car swayed to skirt bomb craters which had turned the road into a perilous patchwork of holes.

Muni merely nodded and shrugged, following an established pattern to Konig’s friendly conversational attempts. Muni only voluntarily spoke once during the long drive, to protest when Konig lit up a cigar.

“Is that necessary ?” Muni asked petulantly, winding down his window. The draft disturbed his carefully coifed flaxen hair, depositing dust motes, which he fastidiously flicked off the surface of an immaculately pressed new navy uniform.

“Yes.” Konig said curtly. “When you have spent most of the war under water, breathing in the stench of hot machinery and unwashed bodies, you seize every opportunity to enjoy the little comforts life has to offer.”

Muni coughed delicately into a fresh linen handkerchief extracted, like a magician, from the sleeve of his uniform jacket. “That may be, but put it out,” he ordered.

Konig’s eyes narrowed briefly and a slight tremor flecked his cheek. He drew a deep breath, slowly shaking his head before he exhaled and tapped the single gold stripe on Muni’s arm before glancing down at the two gold rings of command on his own sleeve.

“I suggest you read up on Naval insignia, and rank, if you’re going to wear the uniform,” Konig said softly.

Muni’s mouth opened to reply before he saw Konig’s lopsided smile was not reflected in his dark eyes. Muni clamped his mouth shut and shifted to the far end of the seat. Konig took advantage of the hours of chilled silence to doze, not waking until they reached Lorient.

In the distance Konig saw the mouth of a tunnel leading to the protected submarine pens, beyond the gauntlet of civilian road laborers and dockyard workers.

One of the French workers casually glanced up from his mundane task of sizing cobblestones at the curb-edge, closely observing the car’s occupants when it swept past. He noted their uniforms and rank, turning his head slowly to follow the direction of Konig’s pointed finger.

The submariner was oblivious to the workman’s curiosity.

His attention was riveted by the sight of three sea-going tugs maneuvering a badly shelled half-submerged U-boat, into a fortified basin containing several other battered Boots.

“Mein Gott, look at that!” Konig cried.

“You won’t find what you’re looking for there Captain.”

Muni spoke up from his corner, carefully straightening his double-breasted jacket to fasten the buttons.

“I think I can recognize my own boot, Leutnant, even in that scrapheap. I can’t imagine what dumpkoff left those boots out in the open like sitting ducks for air-attack.”

Konig spun around to face Muni who was busy adjusting his high-peaked cap at a jaunty angle. “You can forget your mission now, I think.”

“I think not Captain. What you are looking for is not there.” Muni responded haughtily, adding smugly, “Admiral Canaris will no doubt be amused at your description of him. He ordered the pens emptied for my mission.”

“That wreck is my boat!” Konig, ignoring the comment, thrust a leather-gloved finger at the submarine being supported, pushed and towed by the tugs.

“Your command is in the bunker, safe beneath 15-feet of reinforced concrete and steel.” Muni curled back his lip in a smiling sneer at the puzzled look on Konig’s face. “You’ll see.”

Konig clenched his fist so tightly his knuckles threatened to burst out of his gloves. Muni represented the power and authority of a man held in high esteem by Der Fuhrer, and Konig obeyed orders. But that did not mean he liked it.

The French workman’s eyes followed the car’s progress until it reached the tunnel entrance, while his hands automatically maintained their mechanical task. Beneath the shabbily dressed, unshaven man, a mind schooled in the minutia of espionage logged the non-incident to memory for his next intelligence report to England, along with the damage caused by the air-raid, and number of trucks entering Lorient’s marine arsenal.

Artificial light emphasized the strained lines etched on Konig’s face when the car entered the tunnel. If the wreckage of U-122 was not his to command, he wondered which of the Type IXD Class boats he had been assigned to.

While his brain engaged in matching captains to supply boats, his eyes narrowed at the sight of the submarine which filled his view. It looked like a steel anachronism from his youth: a dull-gray fat cigar-shaped hull with a plumb bow, canoe-stern, and an open catwalk raised along the length of its upper deck.

                      Deutschlander, sister-ship to lost Bremen, unloading in New London, Connecticut,1916

“Wh-what in God’s name...?” He muttered.

“Your new command, the late Great War blockade runner Bremen.” Muni indicated with a disdainful hand gesture.

Konig stared, mouth compressed into a thin tight line, at the ghost of the legendary merchant submarine Bremen. He vaguely recalled her reported disappearance with all hands shortly after sailing from Germany in the summer of 1916.

When Konig stepped out of the car the spectral ancient hull solidly blocked his horizon.

He turned to face Muni, dozens of questions poised to pour out in a torrent.

“Not now Captain, please. Your crew and command await.”

Muni waved his hand imperially.

Konig squinted against the lights illuminating the cavernous submarine pens so they were brighter than a sunlit day. The uniformed men assembled along the dock were his own crew. He swallowed hard, bracing his shoulders and stepped forward to greet his First-Lieutenant, Oberleutnant zur See Walter Cremer.

Several hours later, after the formalities and inspection of crew and boat were completed, Konig sat in the small wardroom with his second in command, and Muni. A bottle of schnapps miraculously appeared on the small table, with three squat stainless-steel thumb-sized tumblers.

Konig poured with a steady hand while he directed questions at Muni. “Why was I not warned about this tub? Didn’t think I’d take it, eh ?”

“You would have been shot if you had refused. You knew too much. Danke!” Muni matter of factly answered. He grasped his tumbler, raising it in silent salute and downed its contents in one gulp.

The others followed his lead.

Konig refilled the glasses before firing off his next round of questions. “Where in the world did she come from ?”

He looked about the cramped cabin with its stark furnishings. Pipes and valves jammed overhead and along the inner hull.

“Her maiden voyage through the British blockade was almost her last trip, “Muni said. “When she approached New York harbor on the surface she was spotted by a squadron of American frigates. They refused to accept her as a legitimate Merchant vessel. Bremen’s commander submerged to escape capture, but was depth-charged. He managed to escape by leaving a decoy of oil and personal items - including a lifering with Bremen’s name on it - to fool the Americans.”

Muni spun his tale in a bored, monosyllabic tone to the two submariners straining forward to listen.

“Once Bremen was far enough out in the North Atlantic, off the convoy routes and away from enemy patrols, she re- surfaced and made a run for Spain, a less aggressive ‘neutral’ country. Bremen was presumed lost at sea, and Naval Intelligence used her loss to enlist the sympathy of pro- German factions in America. Protests against the brutal and ‘cowardly’ sinking of the unarmed Merchant submarine proved to be a better propaganda weapon than her survival.” Muni shrugged, holding his tumbler out again.

Konig hesitated before pouring again. “Her survival could have been embarrassing to the High Command, I suppose. So Bremen remained hidden from sight in Spain for two decades and no one said anything ?”

“It took a bit of persuasion, and a lot of palm-oil to keep it quiet.” Muni stroked one hand across the palm of the other.

“And the crew ?” Cremer, the pudgy, older First Officer, asked.

“They had a long holiday in German East Africa patrolling Lake Victoria on an armed steamer. Until a maniac Englishman sunk them with a home-made bomb mounted on the bow of his piddling little boat, the ‘African Queen’. He, and the English slut with him, perished in the explosion.” Muni smiled with satisfaction. His death’s-head insignia signet ring rattled against his tumbler impatiently.

Konig glanced briefly at Cremer, involuntarily shuddering at the fate of the Bremen’s crew, before pouring another round of schnapps.

During the next 48-hours Konig absorbed every facet of the ancient submarine he could. It was a weird experience to tour a boat presumed ‘dead’ for 25 years. He felt as though he had suddenly been given command of a salvaged ‘Titanic’.

Teaser Ends..

Available in paperback or Kindle - you know where...

http://www.amazon.com/Jekyll-Island-Enigma-Jack-Owen-ebook/dp/B005AV9PT6/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1413133286&sr=1-1&keywords=the+jekyll+island+enigma

First Time Television Apparance - A Classic Event with Joan Rivers

Sad to hear about the passing of Joan Rivers, a pro who still performed, beyond her prime.
The clips below are TV-stills taken from 'The Joan Rivers Show', recorded in New York, November 16 (my birthday), 1992, which launched my book "Palm Beach Scandals - The First 100 Years". I was flown up there along with Count Jean De La Moussaye, ex-boyfriend of Roxanne Pulitzer, for a show focused on SCANDAL.
It was a classic.

During it, Joan got into a hissy-fit with Jessica Hahn [Google it] - off-set via satellite in California(?), which ended with Joan's riposte: "Well, at least I don't have to wear knee-pads to get invited to parties."
Fade-out, panic behind the scenes, hilarity amongst the audience and tears in California, according to eye-witness and next guest; Zsa Zsa Gabor.

A launch I'll never forget!
RIP Joan, a true showbiz trooper.
[pics clipped from tape of Joan River's Show - forwarded to me later]

A stone in the pond

 Far Flung Consequences

 Just heard about the death of Canadian writer Farley Mowat, at 95.
RIP/
I'm amazed he lasted so long at the rate he expended energy and intensity, from conservation of the environment to resuscitating boats beyond their sell-by date.

 Back in the mid-70's during that Watergate summer, I was on the west-coast weekending in Seattle while working on a Post-Intelligencer Sunday magazine story [African Queen in Oregon - I think] and was weathered in a a girl's parents house (don't ask). That is one rainy city.  Found a book with the intriguing title 'The Boat Who Wouldn't Float', inhaled it and wrote Mowat's publisher pal Jack Stewart of McClellend & Stewart - THE Canadian Publishers - querying a coffee-table art book based on Canadian maritime artist Jack L. Gray.
Lot of Jacks here, eh.
I'd met Jack Gray living aboard 'Gypsy Queen' in Palm Beach Marina one season when he was gargling Liebfraumilch by the crate, between trying to finish oil paintings of an East Ironbound dory-man sculling and hauling cod, to be viewed by the caviar-set at The Worth Avenue Gallery .
One sure way to determine if a painting at a gallery-opening was a genuine Jack Gray - just touch it.
That led to my first book-contract, a drive across Canada via the TransCan Highway from Seattle to Lunenburg, months of work, followed by midnight-oil writing/assembling, followed by second wifey's demand for bigger slice of royalty, followed by deep-six of project by publisher.
So, yes, Farley Mowat had more of an impact on me than the average author !
RIP, indeed.