Getting to Work...

Settling back down into serious writing after Stella Madison and friends reeked havoc with my psyche during our great adventure, has been harder than I thought it would be. Not to mention working while adventuring was also harder than I planned. Not being in my own cozy little office I left nearly three years, ago, hasn't helped, either. But I think I'm onto something.

I only hope I can survive the impact of such a discovery. A great element of which depends on making some big changes in...um...me. More about that, later. Today, I am sitting in my “virtual office,” while I'm really in the middle of a rainforest. Not a hardship, since I also discovered that I absolutely love rainforests. The sound of rain on the roof always stirs my creativity. The remote aspect has been something of a problem, but I think I've got that covered, too (Thank you, God).

The only trick is going to be to find some way to balance my wonderfully exciting new story with the real-life adventures that have no regard for the “do not disturb—writer at work” sign I usually hang out. But if I do that, I might miss an adventure. Or an insight. Or a new article idea. Or the Captain reminding me how much we like to walk in the rain.

But for now, I'm off to spend some time with my new characters. Who were here a few minutes ago, but seem to have disappeared somewhere. Hmm...that reminds me how much more difficult it can be working with the younger ones. Easily distracted, always interjecting their own ideas, and too quick to take off in the middle of something important. 

Now, that I think about it, I recall spending a good deal of my time on that last project we worked on together, just trying to round everybody up. Shouldn't be as hard in this environment, though. Because I'm pretty sure I can guess right where they are. Out walking in the rain with the Captain.

The hardest thing about working is getting there.

Alaska Report #3… A Sailor's Eye

By the time the sun was high enough to finally reveal where we were… Shale Kenny and I were traveling through the middle of nowhere. A breathtakingly beautiful nowhere, but nowhere, never-the-less. The Taku was making a steady sixteen to twenty knots through wide choppy channels (hold on!), or slowing down to about six when it wound its way through such narrow passageways I could have spit over the rail and hit dirt. Except the icy wind (eighteen degrees) would have blown it right back at me. No one was out on deck at that hour.

Instead, they were either sleeping, enjoying a quiet cup of coffee in one of the observation lounges, or heading toward the cafeteria for an early breakfast. People were sleeping all over the place (you get to do that on the ferry). Some even brought their own pillows, sleeping bags,  and blow-up mattresses. Should you be the more private type, they will even let you set up a tent. Which people do mostly out on deck during the summer, when it's warmer. 

Traveling by ferry seems to have the same effect on people as being snowed in, or stuck in an airport with all planes grounded, due to weather. One simply settles down for the wait. No one is in a rush to do anything else, and they are all very friendly. On the Taku, there is a movie room (large comfortable seats with headrests), a computer room (lots of little desks and plug-in areas), and several various observation areas surrounded by windows for the best panoramic view. All very relaxing and enjoyable. 

Until sometime mid-morning, when there was a drill. 

First there was a blast of emergency bells, followed by the directive to disregard all announcements until a second round of the bells. Between those bells we heard running feet (all hands to stations!), "Fire on the car deck!" (roll out the hoses!), and other various scenarios played out and practiced for. 

When it was over, everyone went back to whatever they were doing while the huge (really huge) spectacular scenery continued to roll past the windows. Like a movie. Because those big, rugged, snowy peaks were outside. And inside--where we were--was a comfortable seventy degrees throughout the entire vessel. However, I couldn't really go back to enjoying that scenery until I had a closer look at the emergency instructions glued to the back of our cabin door…

YOU ARE HERE. In red. With an arrow pointing to our cabin. Then "Should you hear the emergency alarm, dress as warm as possible, proceed to the nearest muster station, then wait further instructions from a crew member." Hmm… two muster stations…upper decks…surrounding the lifeboats. Little red dots leading to the closest route up there (a person can get lost in all these corridors and stairways).

All of which suddenly reminded me to take a better look at what I was here for. The sea. And how it tended to behave (or not) in all these wild, meandering places. My conclusions? Some of those cantankerous straits, you couldn't pay me to try and cross in our little boat. But the calmer coves and passageways could be heaven on earth. Of course, I didn't see how I could ever tell that to the Captain. So, instead, I took lots of pictures and videos, so he can decide for himself.

I'll let you know how that turns out (on the other hand, I definitely know how it is going to turn out for Stella and friends!).

Alaska Report #4 coming up on Friday.

Hugs and blessings,

Lilly

(who is waving hello to Karla Akins, today… "Ahoy, fellow adventurer--wish you were here!")

Alaska Report #2… A Cold Beginning

We arrived in Juneau, Alaska with thermometers pointing at twenty degrees, and a boarding time set for 4am the next morning aboard the MV Taku, for a 5am departure. It was dark when we got up at 3, and the sun didn't come up until around 7. We were headed for Sitka, the farthest western point of our journey.

So it was that Shale Kenny and I truly began our adventure. You might wonder why someone would come halfway around the world to Alaska in winter, when most towns (the ones we were visiting, anyway) seem to literally "roll up their streets" until spring. For me, it was an opportunity for a "sneak peek" at the very route the Captain and I will be traveling on the Glory B during my 2014 Mystery Tour. Not to mention a bit of research thrown in for a current WIP (work in progress).

For Ms. Kenny, it was a welcome reprieve from the sweltering Australian summer. More than that, really. Because for years, she's had a special place in her heart for Alaska. Shale Kenny has explored this vast state from Ketchikan (in the south), to Nome (in the north), all the way to the end of the Aleutian Islands that are strung out like pebbles strewn from some giant hand across the Bering sea, landing only a "stone's throw" from Russia. 

She even did a seven-month stint as a team member for a former Iditarod contestant. Which should tell you something about her determination to experience the "real Alaska." In fact, it was at a gathering of mutual Alaskan friends, several years ago, that I first met Shale Kenny. And now, we were in for this bit of a "working vacation" for both of us. What better inspiration for work than a warm and quiet cabin with a window that looked out onto some of the most beautiful stretches of wilderness in the world as we passed by?

We both agree ferry travel is the absolute most enjoyable way to do all that. 

Of course, I was caught off-guard (as I always am, in Alaska) at the spectacular beauty of this amazing place. It is truly awe-inspiring at every turn. Of which there are many, when you are winding in and out of narrow channels, and passing across wide straits that lead out into open sea. The "big water," as I like to call it. Which is what I really came here to look at. And--boy howdy-- did I see some!

Which is what I'll tell you about on Wednesday.

Hugs and blessings,

Lilly

(who is "waving hello" to Linda Mapes, and Melanie Backus, today… "Ahoy, ladies!")

Man Overboard!

Changing dreams into reality is hard work. Of course, anything worthwhile usually is. Between all the interruptions of holidays, computer crashes, and unscheduled trips that had to be made to take care of emergencies, we finally came to that momentous occasion for all boaters... the shakedown cruise. It's the first time you actually take a new boat out onto the water. Or, an old one you're trying to restore to its former glory, like we are.

The GLORY B. passed with flying colors. Along with the wonderful family crew the Captain put together for the occasion. Personally, I only had one bit of a meltdown. It happened when my son (who happens to be in the Coast Guard and takes these things seriously) decided to surprise everyone with a “man overboard drill.” Because that's how they happen in real life. By surprise. Believe me, one never plans to lose anyone over the side.

Before I go any further, I should explain that as a writer I get very attached to certain things. Odd things, mostly, that have to do with my sense of atmosphere. Shells, rocks with gold veins running through, a particular tea kettle, and the Captain's mustache (which he has had for all the years I've known him). One of my favorite things aboard the GLORY B, other than the mermaid hooks to hang things on, is the life ring that frames the porthole on deck. For some reason, I love that old thing. So, imagine the horror when my son suddenly flings it out to sea when we are clipping along quite nicely and hollers, “Man overboard!”

The exercise being to see how long it takes to get the boat turned around, and come up alongside close enough to recover it, again. Just keeping it in sight all that time was nerve-wracking. Especially when it would disappear for a few seconds in the trough of some little swell of sea. Not that I couldn't replace it with a brand new one if we should happen to fail the test. It's just that it was one of the boat's original items, older than our crew, and one of those magical things that had gained a bit of life “by reason of use.” Sort of a touchstone, you might say.

It took us five minutes to recover. Due partially to being slowed down by about a foot of sea-growth trailing from our bottom that we haven't scraped off, yet. Which is not good enough (if it had actually been a human), but we will get better at it, I'm sure. At least we got it back! Alas, I have no film of it, since the last thing on my mind during all the excitement was pushing the button on the camera. Something else I learned about myself, and will have to adjust to, or there will never be any truly exciting shots of our adventures.

I did get a few pictures, though. So that you wonderful armchair travelers could get a bit of a sense of what it's like to come aboard...

Not Going Home This Year...

A long time ago (when I was quite young), I had an opportunity to travel across the United States and stop at any place I would like to see. Being an avid lover of history, such an opportunity felt like Christmas, to me, and I got busy making spectacular plans. 

I wanted to follow the Santa Fe Trail, visit ghost towns and gold mines (yes, I had gold fever even way back then), canoe through the Everglades, touch the crack in the Liberty Bell with my own hands, put flowers at the feet of the Stature of Liberty, and eat lobster, fresh off a fishing boat, in Maine.

I bought a U.S. road atlas, and spent many enjoyable hours planning that trip. When I finally turned it over to the Captain (who had said we could go anywhere, and do anything I wanted), he was a bit shocked. Which was somewhat devastating to me, because I had been so sure we liked the same things. “Oh, it isn't that,” he said. “It's just that a trip like this would take at least three years.” We didn't have three years. We were simply going across country to attend college. Many years later, we did do that trip (it was an anniversary present), and it took us six.

A very wonderful six years.

Now, it seems we are on the verge of doing something of the same thing, only this time, by boat. A wonderful boat, that is turning out to be so much more than we originally believed. And, once again, I have scheduled way too much in too short a time. Starting with the fact that during the five months I scheduled for my MYSTERY TOUR, we have only made it to half the destinations, so far. Which the Captain says is quite all right, because who would want to hurry through the “adventure of a lifetime,” anyway?

So, we are not going home this year.

We are going on...

Someone you should know...

Well, since we aren't exactly on the road, yet, and just testing out the system, this week, we haven't had many Tuesday encounters to share. But I am not beyond pulling something up from the past. So, here's one that gave me some of my most distinctive impressions of the character and personality of Mary Kingsley: that most amazing woman explorer that inspired me to write GOLD TRAP. 

Mary Kingsley

I think it was her courage that impressed me most. Which was almost always linked with stark honesty and rare sense of humor. Considering only one way tickets were sold to West Africa in her day (because most people didn't survive the journey), you would think only a woman of steel would have even considered it. But, no, she was far from it when she started out. Here are some of her first impressions of the place in her own words…

First when she arrived by ship…

"The mangrove-swamp follows the general rule for West Africa, and night in it is noisier than the day.  After dark it is full of noises; grunts from I know not what, splashes from jumping fish, the peculiar whirr of rushing crabs, and quaint creaking and groaning sounds from the trees; and - above all in eeriness - the strange whine and sighing cough of crocodiles.

Available free at Gutenberg.org

Five times have I been now in Bonny River and I like it.  You always do get to like it if you live long enough to allow the strange fascination of the place to get a hold on you; but when I first entered it, on a ship commanded by Captain Murray in ’93, in the wet season… a sense of horror seized on me as I gazed upon the scene.

While your eyes are drinking in the characteristics of scenery you notice a peculiar smell --  that’s the breath of the malarial mud, laden with fever, and the chances are you will be down to-morrow.  If it is near evening time now, you can watch it becoming incarnate, creeping and crawling and gliding out from the side creeks and between the mangrove-roots, laying itself upon the river, stretching and rolling in a kind of grim play, and finally crawling up the side of the ship to come on board and leave its cloak of moisture that grows green mildew in a few hours over all."  

And later when traveling by canoe with native paddlers, through unexplored cannibal country...

"The mangrove-swamp may be only a fringe at the mouth of the river, or it may cover hundreds of square miles.  The clay cliffs may extend for only a mile or so along the bank, or they may, as on the Ogowé, extend for 130.  And so it is also with the rapids: in some rivers, for instance the Cameroons, there are only a few miles of them, in others there are many miles; 

Mary and her native paddlers

We hadn’t gone 200 yards (from a native village) before we met a current coming round the end of a rock reef that was too strong for us to hold our own in, let alone progress.  On to the bank I was ordered and went; it was a low slip of rugged confused boulders and fragments of rocks, carelessly arranged, and evidently under water in the wet season.  

I scrambled along, the men yelled and shouted and hauled the canoe, and the inhabitants of the village, seeing we were becoming amusing again, came, legging it like lamp-lighters, after us, young and old, male and female, to say nothing of the dogs.  Some good souls helped the men haul, while I did my best to amuse the others by diving headlong from a large rock on to which I had elaborately climbed, into a thick clump of willow-leaved shrubs.  

They applauded my performance vociferously, and then assisted my efforts to extricate myself, and during the rest of my scramble they kept close to me, with keen competition for the front row, in hopes that I would do something like it again.  But I refused the encore, because, bashful as I am, I could not but feel that my last performance was carried out with all the superb reckless abandon of a Sarah Bernhardt, and a display of art of this order should satisfy any African village for a year at least.  

From a domestic with no formal education, to
an explorer of world renown

At last I got across the rocks on to a lovely little beach of white sand, and stood there talking, surrounded by my audience, until the canoe got over its difficulties and arrived almost as scratched as I; and then we again said farewell and paddled away, to the great grief of the natives, for they don’t get a circus up above Njole every week, poor dears."

The most valuable thing I learned from Mary Kingsley? That even the most inefficient of us can become strong if we do not give up our aspirations to follow our hearts.

Something that still holds true in 2012.