Tag: Sailing

Ted’s Letter To Jim…Part Two

Red JewelAvailable on Amazon.com or Amazon.ca

Ted’s Letter To Jim – Part Two

(Part One was posted 28 July)

“….Yet I was a product of the times Jim. I was reared in a depression but
loved and raised by very simple people who were honest, hardworking
folks. They depended on their faith in God and each other for their
well being and their sense of belonging and their strong sense of
community. Patriotism and love of country, of God, were not the false
ideals or beliefs that the young people of today view as archaic, old
fashioned and irrelevant. You could depend on your neighbor or even
a stranger to do what was right. Their sense of decency was instilled
upon us. So, you can imagine how we felt when Pearl Harbor was
attacked without provocation. It was our call to action, a collective
alarm to grow up. Grow up in a world that was extremely dangerous.
Perhaps we were naïve in believing that everyone in this world was as
principled as we were and had the same values and beliefs as we did.
In that sense, Pearl Harbor was our wakeup call.

Before he continued on, Jim paused to reflect on Ted’s words for a
moment.

Saipan changed my life forever Jim. It may have a profound impact
on you too. I can’t say for sure. I don’t know. Unfortunately for me
Saipan will forever be associated with death. It will forever be the
harbinger of the sheer terror of a Banzai attack by four thousand
hysterical Japanese soldiers coming down at you intent and bent on
one thing only…your demise…your death.

“Holy shit, Ted.”

“…or the horror of having to kill your enemy…a young man just like
you…at such close quarters as to be able to sense and feel his palpitable
heartbeat and hyperventilating breath on your face or the sweat of
his fear in your nostrils…or to see the lifeblood drain out of another
human being with just a single bayonet thrust and one pull of a trigger:
to see the light of his eyes extinguished forever…or to be responsible
for the deaths of ten little Chamorro school girls due to some reckless
miscalculation in combat…or to witness a mass suicide at the Marpi
cliff s of hundreds of faceless Saipan islanders for no other reason than
a falsehood perpetrated by the Japanese lie of American atrocities and
barbarism. No, no one should ever have to experience what I went
through on Saipan Jim. Nobody. That is why I could never return
there after the war. The memory of the place is haunting. It exerts a
pall and a pox over me whenever I think about it.”

“Christ Ted. I wouldn’t have known”

“You may think of me as being dead emotionally Jim after an experience
such as Saipan but you would be wrong. I am not. In spite of all of
the atrocities, death and suffering I witnessed or was a part of during
the Battle of Saipan a simple gesture of kindness and understanding
saved my soul. As I lay there in the field hospital recovering from the
amputation of my leg, feeling sorry for myself, a young Chamorro boy
came to me and touched me with his small, delicate fingers. As he
did so, an overwhelming sense of peace enveloped me. It was as if he
was trying to tell me, telepathically, through his touch, that all was
forgiven and that everything was going to be just fine.

“This young boy was or is named Shoichi Mizutani, Jim.”

“Nooo.”

“He is the son of Akira and Mariko Mizutani.”

“No way Ted? No way. I can’t believe it.”

Chills ran up and down Jim’s spine. The hair on the back of his neck
stood up. He continued to read. Tears began to form.

“They were the family I saved from certain death from a thrown
Japanese grenade. That is how I lost my leg Jim. When you told me
of your plans to visit Saipan on your sail with Nigel and stay with
a Mr. Mizutani I could not believe it. After all of these years his life
was coming back into mine…indirectly perhaps…through you, but
a reconnection nevertheless. Accordingly, I felt a strong impulse to
relate my experiences to you. I had to. If you meet Shoichi I want you
to thank him with all of my heart for his simple gesture of kindness
and forgiveness for me. I want you to tell him that that simple gesture
saved me from a life of trauma, anxiety and nightmares.
You see Jim it was through Shoichi that I was forgiven. It was
through him that I was saved…from myself. I was born again.”

“Oh my God, Ted.”

“So, there you have it Jim, my war story. It is one that I have never
told anyone except my dearly departed wife who died of cancer in
1972. I am telling you all of this because I have detected a kindred
spirit in you. You are sensitive, observant of your fellow man, kind
hearted and vulnerable. Consequently, like me, you will probably
experience many setbacks and disappointments over the course of
your life because of your nature but do not fret. These are strengths
Jim. Believe you me. They are gifts, gifts from God himself. Have
faith in yourself, your own ability and how you treat your fellow man.
A strong character will never let you down.

“That is all I have to say Jim. It was a pleasure knowing you. I hope
to see you again soon.”

God bless you.
Sincerely, Aye
Ted Culp
Bremerton, Washington,
Ala Wai Marina, January 1974

Jim was dumbfounded by what he read.

Red Jewel: The Dart

 

Red Jewel

 

An excerpt from “Red Jewel.” It is available on Amazon.com or Amazon.ca.

Classic sailing yacht

 

“Ruth and I grew closer and closer as the months turned into years. Often times we would go out on the Dart in “Lilly” and explore the area stopping from time to time on a bank of cool grass upriver a way. We talked…erm…she talked of many things.  She was a young woman now. Gone were the boyish locks. Her hair now fell to her shoulders, fashionably coifed with natural curls that were interspersed and intertwined within wave upon wave of strawberry blond tresses that were particularly radiant in the afterglow of a late afternoon sun. Her complexion was flawless and was all the more exotic and welcoming by just a hint of makeup. She was naturally beautiful. Well proportioned, athletic, strong. Her breasts were mature and full, not large, just perfect for her physical size.  She had her mother’s eyes I was told. Hazel green for the most part with the slightest touch of grey and an intimation of violet if the sunlight graced her features just so. You could almost detect the coloured hint of violet in a surprise reflective measure of sunlight only to lose sight of it on closer inspection.

“Whaaaat” she would say, teasingly, as my gaze burrowed into her eyes.

“Your eyes Ruth.” I thought they to be green, hazel perhaps, but just then I could detect some violet. Violet, for heaven’s sake?”

“My eyes are green Nigel Filtness.” she laughed as if she needed to scold me, turn me straight. “Maybe a tad hazel but green predominantly.”

Predominantly…predominantly? She had a better way with words than I will ever have. Her diction and enunciation were precise, flawless really, unlike the guttural slang that came out of my mouth. I was intimidated by her yet she never belittled me.

“I like you Nigel Filtness.” she would announce, as if she was my queen and I her peon…jester. “King….Nigel”, never the Queen. I may be female but I would be KING of all of England, and Wales, maybe Scotland, Ireland perhaps. No, no never Scotland as I can never understand the brogue there.” She giggled. “But Ireland? Ah, the land of song, poetry, romance and tragedy. Oh forlorn and suffering, tragic Ireland be: the Emerald Isle.

“Ireland?” I would ask of her as I lay on my back, my eyes closed, the sun high in the sky but on with its western slide.

“Yes Ireland Nigel” she sat there, smiling, as if pleased with her own insight, sitting as she was with her legs flat out across the grass in front of her with her arms back and to her sides holding her up. “Yes Ireland Nigel, the land of Yeats, of Shaw, of Oscar Wilde…”

“Oh the “poofter” I interjected.

Not saying a word she looked down at me with a scorn that could mortally wound.

“Of Oscar Wilde, Joyce, Michael Collins…” she paused and sighed a long passionate sounding sigh…of the revolutionaries, 1916 Ireland with Padraigh Pearse…”

“Who?” I countered.

“Padraigh Pearse Nigel. Padraigh was an Irish romantic: a poet, scholar, barrister, revolutionary of the 1916 Irish Rebellion. He was a tragic figure – a naive Irish ideologue hero. He was executed as one of the Irish rebels of the Easter Riots.”

“Oh, you don’t say” was about all I could say. I felt extremely low intellectually whenever I was with Ruth.

Nevertheless Ruth and I became inseparable. “Lilly” and “Lillian” were our common thread; our common bond; and our common love for sailing. Soon, the intricacies of Lillian’s unique gaff rig configuration became second nature to both of us. We knew “Lillian’s” quirks like the backs of our palms. It was not long before Mr Sommers had full confidence in both of us. And before long it was not an unusual sight for the Dartmouth and Kingswear sailing community to recognize us both for what we were: respected local seafarers. “Lillian,” and us, became synonymous with the regulars of the sailing community, particularly those members of the Royal Dartmouth Yacht Club, of which Mr Sommers was a lifetime member, as an icon of the Dart maritime environment. Even the Royal Naval College took note of us, particularly Petty Officer Brand.”

It was fun researching and writing this book. Sailors and non sailors alike will enjoy this story.

Quote of the week!

What happens when banks lose your money?

They charge you a finder’s fee of course.

Shakeyjay is out.

Red Jewel

An excerpt from my latest book: “Red Jewel”

Ruth was excited and beside herself as she ran up the shallow slope to Castle Road. Looking east and then south she became enamored by the sight of a long dark tree tunnel that was formed by a canopy of leaves and deciduous bushes and hedges that lined both sides of the road, as if they were, according to Ruth, ancient guardians and sentinels of the medieval castle itself. A broad imagination Ruth had.

“Oh daddy, daddy, look, look at this.” she said, excitedly. “A wondrous tree tunnel that goes on and on forever and ever. To our magical castle estate. Oh King Sommers.” lowering her voice. “Come your highness, King of Wessex itself. And I am Queen Matilda, or Empress Maud, a woman who would be King of all of England.”

“Yes you are my darling Ruth.” Mr Sommers said, laughingly, looking at me with a high browed grin.

“But who am I your highness?” I mocked at her.

“Oh…oh” she paused, unsure of herself for the moment. “Well never mind you…you…you are just my servant boy, my peon from East Meon. You shall do as I say…as I order you or you shall curse the day that you were born. To the chopping block and off with your head if you refuse my bidding” She laughed then giggled and then ran down the shadowing laneway, happy and excited, exuberant. I followed suit while Mr Sommers walked slowly behind us, enjoying and savoring this moment with his daughter.

You could see the shadows dissipate as the tree tunnel ended with a burst of brightness of the mid afternoon sun. There we were, at the entranceway to the castle, in the gathering area just outside of the main gateway…or drawbridge as Ruth would refer. We were the only ones there. She ran ahead as we followed her into a narrow passageway that was lined with ancient stone walls, ramparts and buttresses. It was almost 600 years old and along with a castle on the Kingswear side Dartmouth Castle protected the entrance to the Dart estuary from French invasion. It held an array of cannon in its tower as well as a mechanism to use a cable that was employed in conjunction with Kingswear on the opposite bank to halt the ingress of enemy shipping.

The castle was imbued with many passageways and lookouts that were focused on the entrance to the Dart and approaches to the estuary from the channel beyond. There were gunrooms and powder-rooms, storerooms, quarters, cooking houses and various laneways. Many of the rooms were connected by narrow, dark passageways with low hanging stone ceilings. It was very cool, almost cold in these dark and damp rooms that were only lit by the natural light that came in from the outside through cracks and doorway openings. In one spot Ruth became frightened and held on to my arm. As her anxiety lessoned with my presence beside her she moved her arm down until she could feel the warmth of my hands. There, she entwined her fingers through mine. We were holding hands. I felt a slight tinge and weird sensation through my entire upper being. It felt strange but wonderful.

We held hands and felt our way back up a flight of stone steps and then out and into a small open square that was surrounded on all sides by old stone walls. They were only about four feet high except on the southern side where the wall formed part of the gun tower. We walked over to the east side of the square where we could look out at the expanse of the English Channel. It was so bright and clear that you could almost see across to France or Guernsey. We looked around and back up where we could see Mr Sommers above us on a stone rampart. We waved.

“Let’s eat.” He yelled down at us. “Meet me outside the gate.”

Ruth and I left the square to make our way back up through the various rooms and passageways to the outlying path that led to the entranceway to the castle. On our way, Ruth abruptly stopped and turned toward me then gave me a peck on my cheek, and then another. She smiled at me and said. “You may be a poor peon from East Meon Nigel but you are my peon and I like you very much. You may be my knight Mr Filtness. Rise Sir Nigel.” as she tapped me on my shoulder. And with that she ran off ahead of me giggling and excitable like the young schoolgirl that she was to meet with up with her father.

We spent the next hour or so having a picnic of mutton chops, some salad, chips butty, tea sandwiches and some tea. I could not remember how that went or if the food was good for my mind was racing with that short memory and sweet innocent embrace from Ruth. I may have only been thirteen years old but it did not feel as yucky to me in the least. I was smitten.

As we sat down to our late lunch on a grassy embankment close to the outer western wall of the castle, Mr Sommers told us about the history of the place and the role it played during the many wars with France including our most recent past of World Wars I and II against Germany. It was a fascinating account of adventure, bravery, fools, pirates, kings and queens, smugglers and rogues. He also touched on the varied history of Dartmouth and Kingswear as well as the advent of the Royal Naval College and Britannia. Ruth would look at me from time to time during this discourse to steal a glance and to share a smile. I was beginning to see Ruth in a different light. It was wonderful to know her and Mr Sommers. Indeed it was wonderful to be alive I thought if even for a short respite on this perfect, sunny August afternoon in Dartmouth. For soon reality will bite me squarely in the ass as I make my way home. I tried not to think about it.

We sailed back hardly saying a word. We were exhausted. The wind had come up somewhat but ours was a run before the wind, so it felt as if it was a nice comfortable leisurely sail. A few times Mr. Sommers had to grasp the tiller firmly in this wind and following sea so as not to lose control. Nevertheless the strength of the wind never became apparent to me until we altered directly into it as we came to the mooring buoy on the Kingswear side. It was brisk. Finally, safe and secured to our buoy, Mr Sommers guided the punt to take us ashore one by one. Saying goodbye to Ruth and thanking Mr Sommers for everything I made my way home.

Check out my books via the links at the top of the page. Support a struggling Canadian author. They would make great Christmas gifts. Thanks.

Forget Covid, Climate Change, BLM, Antifa. Woke-ism.

Relax. Go for a long walk. Consider doing a Camino. I have done two now.

Badfinger classic. Sad story surrounding this group. Two guys on the left committed suicide. The group was ripped off by American music suits. Almost penniless.

Red Jewel

Red Jewel_cover_KDP_hardback

An excerpt from my book Red Jewel:

…As I said this Ruth turned toward me. Slowly, ever so slowly she moved
her head toward mine. Her arms came up and touched my shoulders. I
did not know what to think or do at that very moment. I followed her
lead. Our eyes met. She smiled aff ectionately at me, then, instinctively,
we embraced. We were drawn to one another, naturally. We kissed. A
sweet short kiss followed by a long, warm touch. It was wonderful. I was
becoming aroused.

“I will not be leaving you Ruth. Not ever. I will be back. I promise you.”
Saying nothing she smiled at me with her eyes, with her mouth and
with her expression. She stroked my facial features and my hair with her
soft hands.

“Promise me Nigel? Promise me again and again.”

“I promise Ruth.”

“I think I love you, Nigel. I do love you.”

She loves me? I thought. She loves me. What does that mean?

No response. I said nothing.

What a wonderful afternoon we spent together. Walking back to
Kingswear hand in hand: playful, laughing and boasting in jest, stopping
from time to time to embrace. Time…and the world around us stood
still. The walk to the lower Kingswear Dartmouth ferry melted away —
too quickly. As she boarded the ferry to Dartmouth, I stood there and
watched her go. In her giddy way she jumped up and down…for joy…as
she waved goodbye to me over and over again until she was out of sight.
For the first time in my life, I was extremely happy. Happy!

Click on the Red Jewel link at the top of the page for more information about Red Jewel. Available through Amazon.

Red Jewel: An Existential Event

Here is an excerpt from my book “Red Jewel.” Read more about this story through the link above:

“There was one incident that occurred to me about a month before we
left . It had a profound effect on me. It happened just before the New
Year — that week between the holidays — when nothing of importance
is really going on. Red Jewel was berthed on the breakwater, bow in
and facing the shore, the stern secured to some hard point on the stone
breakwater. On one side of me was Skip. On the other was some dude
named Peter of whom I barely knew. He seemed to be out of his depth,
nerdy looking, about thirty I would expect. We never really hit it off as
friends or neighbors. He kept to himself most of the time other than the
odd hello, good morning and small chit chat like that. But one evening
he asked if I would accompany him to a meeting in Waikiki. This I did.
He took me down to a small building located on a short side street
that bore north off of Kalakaua Avenue down in the Waikiki district of
Oahu. There in an upstairs room we met up with about twelve people
all of whom appeared to be close associates of Peter. It turned out that
Peter was a born again Christian and part of the Jesus movement here
in the Hawaiian Islands. This was not surprising to me as the Jesus
movement was huge in the early 1970s. I witnessed it first hand in my
home town of Toronto where many of the young people I knew, many
of whom were juvenile gangsters, petty criminals, drug dealers and users,
converted to the movement and became fanatical in their beliefs and
their personal convictions. They wanted to share their enlightenment
with a non-suspecting audience of their own personal road to Damascus.
There were many a Saturday night in the parking lot of the local pool hall
where I was caught up in their rhetoric and preaching with no escape
route in sight. That is not to say I was not a Christian or a believer. No,
I was just more subtle with my faith. I was not an in-your- face kind of
guy when it came to spirituality and the supernatural. My relationship
with God was a personal one.

Nevertheless, I spent the evening with Peter and his friends singing
Psalms and praising the Lord. I was more of an observer than an active
participant but I did admire their commitment and tried to be seen as
among them as an active colleague of the Lord. I was impressed with
their devotion, especially those young men and women, who were not yet
worldly or experienced in life. Living on blind faith alone brought them
all a sense of peace and wonderment, fulfilment, purpose, happiness.
My only hope for them was that the burden of life, of living, of making
a living would not undermine their contentment and positivity with the
aura of cynicism and despair that life’s burdens can deliver.

Peter and I left the meeting with a renewed sense of self, at least for
him as I had always been a believer. It seemed to me that these people had
to justify their spiritual beliefs, their existential existence in the world
and their faith overtly. The revival meetings became their lifeline from
the real danger of backsliding into a world of pleasure and deception.
It was that world that many of them knew too well and were keenly
frightened of.

We got back to our boats and said goodnight. Nothing more was said.
I fell asleep mindful of the evening events. A sense of peace enveloped
me. I was content. I was out for the count. The next morning Peter stopped me before I could leave for my morning routine of coffee, smokes, and “S” square times two.

“Jim…Jim, I hope you enjoyed the meeting last night. I hope we weren’t
too presumptuous in our faithful exuberance with you.”

“I did Peter…and no you weren’t. Th ank you very much for inviting
me.”

“Just one thing Jim” Peter went on, “I had a hard time falling asleep
last night so I came back topside for a short spell to clear my mind,
rationalize my thoughts.”

I nodded to him

“The strangest thing occurred to me Jim. And I hope you don’t feel
ill with me for telling you this as I know how this sounds. But it is the
truth, so help me God.”

He had my undivided interest now.

“Yeah, go on”

“While I was sitting there in reflection of the night’s events, a vision
enveloped my senses. It came over me, smothered me with warmth but
more importantly it came over Red Jewel. There in the pulpit of your
sailboat sat an angel. It, or she, or he was resplendent in white: a brilliance
of righteousness with an aura of holiness. It was a guardian angel Jim. I
know how this sounds but I swear it to be the truth. I had to tell you.”

“Really?” was about all I could say.

“I know…I know…I know Jim. I know this sounds crazy but it
happened. As God is my witness. He paused for a brief moment to collect
his thoughts and then continued. “Then the angel looked directly at me
Jim, and smiled, and then looked over your boat. It spread its wings out
and then in as if to signal to all of the world…to me…protection. Don’t
you see Jim? You and Nigel have nothing to worry about, Red Jewel has
the protection of the Lord. You will be safe.”

I didn’t know what to say to Peter. All I could do was offer a grin of
questionable understanding. It was an uncomfortable moment: for Peter
to tell me this and for me to acknowledge his supernatural experience.

“Thanks for that Peter. It is reassuring for sure.”

I looked forward to the pulpit. Th ere was nothing there but the
stainless-steel guardrails and the boats beyond the bow. Nevertheless, I
smiled, and nodded my head to whoever may be there, unseen, except in
the spiritual domain.

A sense of security came over me and I felt extremely happy.

We need another one…for sure.

I mentioned Al Stewart in my last post’s music segment. Here is his perfect song. Perfect in that the lyrics are poetic and lyrical and it has piano, strings, acoustic and electric guitar and a haunting sax. Enjoy:

“She comes out of the sun in a silk dress running like a water color in the rain…”

Pray for Maui and Lahaina.