Thursday, January 31, 2013

Friends, We Never Were.


The next day we left from the job in Key West. When we arrived back at the house, Andy decided we were going fishing. It wasn’t a choice for me to go along because he needed me to help man the boat. As we loaded it with gear I pointed out that the water line on the canal was ten inches lower than it had been, as indicated by the wetness on the coral. Though I am a novice when it comes to the ocean, it sure looked to me like the tide was out, which meant we couldn’t get out of the canal, past the coral flats that separated us from the ocean. Andy rudely said that we were fine, and that I didn’t know what I was talking about. 

Well, maybe I didn’t but it was a big boat with a draft that barely passed through the flats when tide was in. We only had one route to take that was marked by flags that were not very easily seen. Even though I knew it was a mistake, I got on the boat and he raced to get us to open water. As we raced across the reef, we kicked up a hell of a cloud of muck, leaving a grey and yellowish trail ten feet wide and spreading as we sped along. 
Thoughts of the last time we had been out, and how I was working the bow, keeping at the ready for anchor duty, were running through my head. A sense of pride filled me as I held me eyes steady on the horizon that day, letting my knees bend in response to the waves moving the boat as it rose and fell beneath me. 

When I weighed anchor at his command, to move to a different spot, the turnbuckle had worked itself loose by the boat tugging in the rough waves. The pin had backed itself out completely, so we lost the anchor. It surprised me when I pulled only a line out of the water. I instantly sensed that there must be some kind of nautical folklore about it- perhaps an Omen or a superstition regarding some kind of doom. It was shameful of me to not have inspected the fastenings but then again, it was HIS boat, he should have said to do it. HE was the Captain, and I was in his care. That’s all there is to it. Filled with pride for having adapted to being on a boat in the ocean, I never revealed my thoughts or my willingness to foolishly accept responsibility for Andy’s boat and anchor. 
We ended up cutting the fishing short because we were taking on water, as indicated by the lights on the dash that said the bilge pumps were not shutting off. We raced back to the house.
The next day, we awoke to find the boat sunk where she slept. Seawater was two feet over the water line, which meant that the bilge pump couldn’t keep up with the leaking. The battery had become shorted out when the water reached the terminals. The entire Pentax Diesel engine was under water- under SALTWATER. 

Andy became agitated and in a panic, while scratching a hole in his thick skull as he tried to awaken what was left of his brain in order to come up with an idea. So badly, I wanted to say that I tried telling him not to take it out when we did but I kept quiet as his rat ran on the wheel in his head, chasing cheese it would never get. We unloaded the boat in a mad scramble.
After the boat was emptied, I asked him if we could use the boat winches mounted on the seawall where she was tied up. They looked like they were used for lifting boats out of the water, to me. They were rated for fifteen tons each according to the stamped information on them but, of course, one didn’t work. The winch at the stern did work, which I explained is where all the weight is at, and most likely, the leak. He said that wasn’t what they were for, and that I didn’t know what I was talking about. His genius idea was that he was going to run to Home Depot-a two hour round trip, to buy treated lumber, so WE could build a dry dock to put it on, while making the repairs. 
After remaining quiet and biting my tongue, I asked him, “How would we get the boat on it, if we could possibly build such a thing?” A long back and forth argument ensued, trying to get him to listen to me. We had the crane system, the winches or one at least. All we needed to do was attach it to the stern, take the weight off so it would stay afloat, letting the water run back out of the leak to sea level- at least. Then He could get under it to inspect the hole and possibly repair it, with some type of marine product for underwater emergency repairs, long enough to get her to a place where it could be tended to properly by a competent marine mechanic. He kept dismissing me- even though I was a highly skilled carpenter with a builder’s license, and all the expertise to help solve the problem at hand. Andy insisted that I was to bow to his supreme knowledge- even though he knew that I knew he could barley sling paint. 
What was going on in his head? I can only intuitively speculate. He must have started feeling a range of worries and emotions that were a result of his own insecurities. Everything came to a head while on our way to Marathon to get supplies for building a failure.  
 
Despite my assistance, he insisted on building this, so-called “Dry-Dock”. God only knows what he thought he was going to build. Every time he asked me something, my explanation or idea only conveyed to him that he was clueless, to which he’d say that I didn’t know what I was talking about. 
Finally, it sinks in that Andy and I are not, nor had we ever been, friends. He had been jealous of Danny and I since we met him in 2000. He had ruined expensive equipment at Prospect Studio, bringing Cocaine, Heroine and dirty skanks with him. Andy had stolen from us, and ripped us off for over fourteen hundred dollars when we worked for him on a Crystal Springs project in Grand Rapids. What was I thinking? Here I was, over twenty five hundred miles from home, trying to salvage my reputation with the court, win my kids love and admiration back, while trying to piece my life back together- all while working for someone who has never treated me right or even deserved any of my time. Holy crap! Had I made a mistake or what? Even though I am realizing I am being abused, it doesn’t really sink in until the phone rang. 
Andy happened to pull into a Tom Thumb convenience store, so he could buy a pack of Camels and some Sparks, when Julie called me. Andy then say’s, “You better not be talking to your ol’ lady when I get back”. As he gets these words across my ears, I see a claw hammer on the floor between the seats in my peripheral vision. Instantly, I saw myself bury the claws into the right side of his skull, ripping a large piece of bone from it, killing him. I imagined how I would spend my life in prison for losing control of myself, which frightened the hell out of me. Andy wasn’t worth that. What Julie and I said to each other, exactly, I cannot recall but as soon as he was out of the van and into the store, I jumped from the van and dashed across the highway to a marina Tiki-bar.
Coincidence or irony, I am not sure, but I immediately called my friend Dennis Smith who explained that he was in the Keys working with a roofing crew. I quickly explained that my distress was presently in the Keys, where it looked as though I might be stranded. Quickly, I became pleasantly astonished that my very good friend was also in the keys. And he was not just in the keys but right across the street from where I had ran to hide! How could it be that so many people that I knew, were here?

Escaping The Despondent Sea is available on Amazon Kindle Unlimited, and is receiving 5 star reviews on Goodreads.com 


Monday, January 7, 2013

Robbery of the Heart


We all get robbed, in a way, robbed by a loved one, or someone we depend on. In this day, and age, it happens a lot but we forgive him or her anyway, for ourselves. It’s the only way we can carry on, fulfilling our obligations to those who are entitled to them, our loved ones. The constant reminders of being victimized by my ex-wife, coupled with the loss of my family, identity, business and manhood was the main source of fuel for the vehicle that slowly carried me toward complete destruction- a final release that I miserably sought for subconsciously one drink at a time. The words of my ex-wife would, and sometimes still, echo in my head like a movie that I am being forced to watch. Visions of her and our children bombard me. Little did I realize it was part of my medical condition, Frontal Lobe Syndrome, compounded trauma and PTSD- Shell shocked. My days would come and go, unknown to me. I rarely know what day it is or what time it is. My life is sometimes a blur and I am a madman. Some one should have hospitalized me. Alcohol was the only medication readily available. It was as if I was a Marionette. I had little to no control of anything. Food is of no concern. Bathing and grooming are of no concern. My only concerns were tobacco and alcohol, and weed if I could manage them. I didn’t drink to get high. I drank to die.