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Good Morning Diego Garcia—Excerpt Chapter 11

GMDC-seal-300

Trincomalee, Sri Lanka—1975

At 3:32 PM local time, on 19 July, 1975, Alon cut the rope tied to the
anchor and Zozo danced about in the water. I looked at the ship’s
clock and noted it in my journal, and placed the journal back in its
protective pouch.

We were no longer tied to the shore or the seabed. We were afloat.
I grabbed a life jacket, and quickly put it on, making certain it was
tied tight. Knowing psychology is an important tool for survivors, I
reminded myself of the importance of a positive image in dangerous
situations and imagined myself floating in the life jacket until rescued.
We were on deck as we set sail. Alon, Charles, and Mia scurried about,
preparing lines and sails while Dylan piloted the yacht out of the harbor.
I sat in what appeared to be the safest spot on deck, the center
seat, and clung to the seat and the railing. I gripped the railing tighter
when the ship pitched side to side.

Pots and pans rattled in the galley below, I realized this would be more
of an adventure than I had ever imagined. I saw a pan fly loose in the
galley and heard a loud thunk when it landed. Hope Toto didn’t get hit!
The crew on another boat waved goodbye. I waved back. A sudden
shift threw me forward. Forget waving. Hang on for dear life!
The harbor bobbed upward and downward, and the boat rocked back
and forth as we entered the open sea. The incessant waves made me
off-balance and dizzy. Queasy. No time to vomit now. No place to
vomit now.

Water slapped my face and drenched the deck. I watched Charles stumble
across it and stagger down the stairs. He must be feeling sick as well.
In an instant, the boat turned sideways, quickly straightened out, and
shot full speed ahead.

Dylan yelled, “storm overhead.”

I almost lost my lunch, but not my hold on the rail.

Dylan’s adjustment of the sails forced me to sit upright, again tightly
clutching the rails; determined not to be tossed overboard before we
even got out into the open ocean.

“It’s okay,” Mia said in a loud voice. “Dylan turned the wheel to change
course, and get us away from the storm.”

As we lurched ahead, south-west in the direction of the Seychelles. I
questioned why I had ever agreed to this crazy adventure. I wanted to
scream, Stop, let me off, but instead I moaned, “I feel sick.”
“It’s normal,” Mia said. “You’ll get used to it. Just remember to keep
your eyes on the horizon.”

“I’ll try,” I said, trying hard not to vomit or cry.
When I looked back, I saw black clouds covering the port of Trincomalee.
Large sheets of rain moved across the dark sky. The ships in
port became small dots on the horizon as Zozo moved forward into a
blue sky. Terra firma was going away as we sailed into the unknown.
Dylan unfurled and hoisted the sails.

Much to my surprise, the yacht became more stable with wind.
A few minutes later, I heard Dylan announce, “six knots.” He was
smiling. The wind whisked us ahead at a smooth speed.

Remembering Mia’s words, my eyes searched for land. I turned round
and round. Trincomalee had disappeared. No land in sight. Only
water as far as I could see. A water horizon surrounded me. A strange
feeling, one I had never experienced before.

“How far away is it?” I queried Dylan.

“To where?” he asked.

“The Seychelles,” I answered.

“Only 3198.5 kilometers,” he said smiling. “As the crow flies.”

“From Trincomalee to the Seychelles?” I asked again.

He nodded. “1725.9 nautical miles.”

“Almost 2,000 miles!” Oh to be a crow.

“Correct,” he said. “With sailing and tacking, it becomes more.”
“How much more?”
“If we change course and head into the wind, it will take longer.”
“How long will it take?” I asked.
“Depends on the weather,” Dylan answered.
I couldn’t even imagine traveling 2,000 miles across the ocean and not
seeing land. “Is there any land between here and there?” I asked.
He shook his head no. “Open ocean.”
The wind blew stronger. Still feeling nauseous, I decided to go inside
to be near a toilet. I took my time zigzagging across the deck, and
moved lower into the galley.
I picked up the fallen pots and pans and tossed them into the kitchen
sink. I slumped on a chair and waited for the motion sickness to go
away. I looked around for a sign of Toto, but my eyes failed to focus.
How long will this last? It seemed too hot and stuffy inside, so I got up
and moved toward the steps to the deck, gripping the railing for balance.
Got to have fresh air, I thought. Air will surely help. Straddling
the stairs, I clung tight to the railing, and waited for my eyes to focus.
A hand reached down. It was Mia’s, helping me climb up.
“Thank you,” I said, taking her hand and stepping onto the deck.
The waves had subsided, and the boat was gently bobbing along the
sea. Charles was also back up, sitting on deck. I asked him how he
was feeling.
“Sick,” he answered looking ashen. “I’m going back to bed.”
“Mia says it’s best to keep looking at the horizon.”
He shook his head no, and headed to the stairs, weaving about like a
drunk sailor.
“Hang on to the rails,” Dylan yelled. “It’s fairly calm now. If the seas get
rough, we’ll secure ourselves with life lines.”
Good, I thought. So we don’t get thrown overboard.
I remembered the ginger root remedy. I got up, and in slow motion
crossed the deck and snaked my way down to the galley.
Mia was in the galley making coffee for Dylan. She had put a kettle of
water on for tea. I peeled the ginger root and placed slices of it in cups
for me and Charles. When the kettle whistled, I poured boiling water
in the cups and let the ginger steep.
“Are you okay to carry it?” Mia asked.
“I’ll drink mine first and take a cup to Charles later,” I answered. Sipping
slowly, I starred at the coffee pot and let the warm, spicy bite of
ginger sink in. No wonder the coffeepot stayed in one place. It was
secured with nuts and bolts. A good thing. The way Dylan drank coffee
around the clock; rough seas or smooth sailing.
Mia took a fresh cup of coffee up to Dylan.
When she returned, I asked if she had seen Toto.
“Not today,” she answered.
“Do you ever get seasick?” I asked.
“Not anymore. You’ll get used to the motion,” she answered.
“Sure hope so,” I said.
I took the ginger tea to Charles and told him about the 2,000 mile
distance from Trincomalee to the Seychelles.
“I know,” he said. “I saw it on the map.”
“It’s a long way to go without charts,” I said.
He nodded his head. “Dylan assures me he can navigate by the stars.”
“Like Christopher Columbus?”
“We’ll see,” Charles said.
“What if the sun doesn’t shine?” I asked.
Charles shrugged his shoulders. “He’ll measure sights between the
horizon and a celestial object.”
“Like the moon or other planets?”
“Yes.”
“How does he do it?”
“With an instrument called a sextant, It determines the angle between
the astronomical object and the horizon.”
“Hard to imagine how it’s even possible,” I added, feeling worried.
“Dylan will take a sighting from time to time to know where we are,
and write it in a log book.”
“I’m heading up for fresh air and more ginger tea. Would you like
another cup?”
“No thanks!” Charles waved me away.
We had agreed to work four hour shifts. Feeling dizzy and queasy, I
couldn’t even imagine being of help to anyone today. Hopefully Mia
is correct in thinking it will pass. I didn’t like having wobbly sea legs.
I made more ginger tea, then worked my way back up the stairs to a
center deck seat.
I heard Dylan tell Alon we had a good wind and were making headway.
“How many miles do we go in an hour?” I asked.
“About five,” Dylan answered.
I figured it out in my head. “So, we’ll travel 120 miles in a day?” I asked.
“More or less,” Dylan said. “Depends on the weather.”
That’s like crawling, I thought. How many days would it take us to
reach land? The thought made me dizzier.
“Make yourself comfortable and enjoy the trip,” Alon said, smiling.
I sighed. Wishing it so.
The weather was nice the first two days, but feeling so disoriented
wasn’t fun. No thinking clearly, hanging on for dear life to anything I
could find. I wasn’t able to help do my shifts and neither was Charles.
My legs continued to wobble and I knew I was going to vomit clear
across the deck. I took a deep breath and talked to myself. No need to
vomit. Nothing in your stomach to vomit. Keep drinking ginger tea.
This feeling will pass.
And it did. By the morning of the third day, I could move about without
hanging on to anything. The seas were calm and the cool of the
breeze was soothing. I even enjoyed a stew Mia had made for our main
meal early afternoon. Charles was also feeling better, but didn’t want
to risk eating anything yet.
I offered to help Dylan, and sat on deck during his watch. He drank
cup after cup of coffee and never seemed to need a break or sleep. My
job was to be the lookout and make certain we avoided collision with
another ship or any other obstacle. All I could see was mile after mile
of water and waves.
As I sat watching the sea in the evening under the moonlight, I realized
Dylan really did look like Sinbad; snagged-tooth smile and all. Bet he’s
had some amazing adventures in his life. I wanted to ask. But Dylan,
like Charles, didn’t share much information about his past. He seemed
to have secrets. He did hum and whistle though, which I enjoyed.

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Good Morning Diego Garcia—Excerpt Chapter 9

5star-shiny-web
Trincomalee, Sri Lanka 1975

The sun lowered and began its descent. Time to stop for the day and go
to dinner. Alon insisted on staying with the boat, and urged Dylan to
go with us and enjoy an evening out. Dylan agreed, if we could stop on
the way and check on the navigational charts at the ship’s agents office.
The clerk was on the phone when we stopped by. Dylan suggested he
wait and meet us at the Chinese restaurant.

He joined us a few minutes later and announced, “still no charts.”
“Unbelievable,” Mia said, “We’ve been waiting for weeks.”
“What are the charts for exactly?” I asked.
“Nautical charts of the Indian Ocean, from Trincomalee to the
Seychelles,” Dylan answered. “Maps showing water depth, buoys,
obstructions; information which ensures safe passage.”
“They sound essential,” I said.
Mia nodded in agreement and rolled her eyes.
“I’ll give them another week,” Dylan said.

A smiling waiter took our drink order.
Dylan and Charles ordered beer. Mia ordered tea.
“Wine for me, please!” I said.
Since Mia and Dylan had eaten here many times, we suggested they
order their favorite dishes.
They did and more too; wanting of course to have plenty to take back
to the boat for Alon.
“Can you sail without charts?” I asked Dylan.
“Best not to,” he answered, “but if necessary, I can navigate by the stars.”
“Celestial navigation,” Charles said. “I’m impressed.”
Dylan looked excited at the thought, and smiled.
“Your eyes sparkle like Sinbad the Sailor at the idea,” I said.
Dylan laughed.
“You’ve read about him?” I asked.
“Of course. He was a gutsy dude.”
“And story teller,” I added.
“Famous for his adventures and navigational skills,” Charles said.
“He saved a ship and found a map to the hidden treasures of Alexander
the Great. And he had all those fantastic adventures without charts,”
Dylan said.
We laughed, clinked our glasses of drinks and toasted, “L’chaim!
Without charts!”
The food was amazing. We left fully indulged, and I wondered if our
cuisine would be as tasty in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Somehow,
I doubted it.

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Good Morning Diego Garcia—Excerpt Chapter 8

Trincomalee, Sri Lanka

July 1975

We wandered around town and found a small cafe.
“Isn’t this one our taxi driver also recommended?” I asked Charles.
“Yes.” Charles nodded.
We went inside and ordered toasted cheese and meat sandwiches. No
coffee, but tea was served and it was delicious.
“Ceylon tea,” the waiter said proudly. “Best in the world.”
“Your English is good,” I said.
“Thank you! I worked on cargo ships for many years. I sailed all over
the world.”
“Are you a Sri Lankan?”
“Yes. I returned home to look after my family.” he said, looking around
to make sure no one else was in the cafe. “We’re Tamils.”
“We read about the Tamil Tigers in the newspaper,” Charles said.
“We’re calling for an independent state, where we are respected,” the
waiter said.
“I understand,” I replied. “Are the Tamils a minority in Sri Lanka?”
“Yes, and we’ve formed a group to fight for our rights. There is no other
alternative. We will fight to the end.”
Charles and I sat silently, taking it all in.
“I’ll bring you more tea,” the waiter said.
“Is it the group the police think took the dingy from the boat?” I whispered
to Charles.
Charles nodded.

The waiter returned with more tea. Charles ordered another sandwich.
I told the waiter our nice taxi driver, from Colombo, had recommended
his cafe.
“My cousin,” he said, and in a hushed voice warned us not to talk publicly
about the politics of Sri Lanka. “It’s not safe.”
“In America,” I said, “minorities also have to fight for their rights.”
He nodded.
“Your cousin is a nice man,” I said.
He smiled. “He also sailed the seas for many years. But the Indian
Ocean is different because of the mawsim.”
“Mawsim?” I asked.
“Monsoon in English. Arabic in origin, mawsim means fixed season.
In the North the winds blow from the northeast from November to
March, and then switch and blow from the southwest. The fixed seasons
are called the Northeast and Southwest Monsoons.”
“Is this what causes cyclones?” Charles asked.
“No,” the waiter said. “Cyclones are tropical storms. They form over
tropical oceans with high winds of hurricane force.”
“Oh dear,” I said. “They sound dangerous.”
“If you cross the Indian Ocean in mawsim season, you are guaranteed
a few cyclones.”
Charles asked a few more questions about the Trincomalee area and
asked for the bill.

Going out the front door, I almost tripped over a grossly disfigured
man sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall, outside the cafe.
He held a tin cup, hoping for coins. I asked Charles to give him some
change.
Our waiter appeared in the doorway and told us to drop the coins in
the cup.
“He’s a leper. An outcast,” the waiter said. “Sits here most days. I feel
sorry for him.”
My mind reeled, remembering images I’d seen of leper colonies in
films. Leprosy was common in Bible times, and was used as an example
of sin’s destructive power. ‘Unclean, unclean,’ a leper was expected
to call out. To think, this terrifying disease has been around since
ancient times. The thought made me shudder. Why was this man here
and not in a leper colony? Why wasn’t he receiving help?
“Isn’t leprosy an infectious disease?” I asked Charles.
“Yes, but not so contagious. Children are more likely to get it than adults.”
“From contact with body fluids?”
“Yes. From someone with untreated leprosy.” Charles answered. “That’s
why our waiter told us to drop the coins in his cup.”
“What a horrible disease,” I said. “Remember the man we saw in India
with the giant elephant legs? Elephantiasis?”
Charles nodded.
“Everyone else was so skinny; people and cows. And the poor man
could barely move with his heavy legs.”

We stopped in the crowded souk. Colorful displays of green beans,
carrots, peas, and yams got our attention, and the prominent exhibit
of fresh fish impressed me. The market was alive with noise and the
sweet smell of spices and local fruits. One stand was cooking freshly
made stuffed patties. We bought several, and some fresh fruit to take
back to the boat.
Processed milk products were relatively new to Sri Lanka and local
cheese was hard to come by. We found a cheese made from powdered
milk; bought a small piece and sampled it. Not the tastiest, but hey
when in Sri Lanka.
We discussed whether to buy a chicken or seafood, and decided to
wait until we talked with Mia about what foods were needed on board.
“I suspect Mia is a bit territorial in her kitchen,” I told Charles.
“No doubt,” he replied.
The locals were friendly and helpful. A few spoke some English, but
we mainly communicated by pointing. “International sign language
is amazing,” I remarked, as we headed back to the boat.

 

 

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Good Morning Diego Garcia! Excerpt Chapter 3

Good Morning Diego Garcia, by Susan Joyce

GMDG-300

Bombay, India — 26 June 1975
The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new lands but seeing with new eyes. —Marcel Proust

We arrived in India at 7:00 AM. On final approach, I pointed out to Charles the hundreds of shacks, surrounding the airport. Endless clothes lines strung across roof tops to dry laundry.
“Welcome to Bombay, gateway to India,” the flight attendant announced.
We pulled our belongings from the overhead bin, and waited for the cabin doors to open.
Exiting the plane with us was a beautifully dressed Indian woman, in a sari which appeared to have gold threads woven into it. “Be careful in the terminal,” she said in a thick British accent. “There are bands of thieves who steal valuables. Keep your suitcases close to you at all times.”
“In the airport?” I questioned.
“Yes, It’s terrible. Crime in India is out of control. The government needs to do something about it.” “Oh, thank you,” I said, “we’ll be careful.”

With only ten minutes to catch our scheduled flight to Madras, we stopped at the airline desk to ask them to hold the plane for us.
“What is your final destination?” the airline clerk asked.
“Colombo, Sri Lanka,” Charles answered.
“I’m sorry,” the airline clerk said. “It’s not possible. You’ll need to collect your baggage and pass through customs.”
“Customs?” I asked. “We’ll never make the flight.”
“I can book you on the next available flight to Madras in two days time, and on to Colombo,” she said.
We wondered aloud how to contact our friends in Trincomalee. No clue how to let them know.
“Surrender to fate,” I said.
“Not much we can do,” Charles said. “Book us on the next available flight out.”
“Since the delays are Air India’s fault, we will book you into a luxury hotel and pay your expenses,” the clerk informed us.
“Where will we be staying?” I asked.
“The Taj Mahal Palace Hotel,” she answered.
“The Taj Mahal?” I asked. “Fabulous!”
“It is,” she said. “It’s been renovated and is beautiful. It’s Bombay’s first harbor landmark and the first licensed bar in the city.”
“Sounds great.” Charles smiled.
“It’s legendary,” she said. “Ask the hotel staff to tell you about its history. The ballroom has a gorgeous view of the Gateway to India.”
“Exciting,” I said. “Thanks!” I turned to Charles. “Time to see the sights of Bombay.”
Charles nodded.
“But for now, all I want is a shower and a comfortable bed,” I announced.

With our tickets re-booked, we followed the crowd into the baggage area.
After two frustrating hours, we found our luggage and proceeded through customs.
We lugged our heavy suitcases along a long corridor in the direction of the exit. Charles walked ahead of me, trying to locate a bank so he could change money. Seeing none, he suggested I stay with the luggage while he explored.

I pushed our suitcases close together and stood waiting for him to return.
Disembarking passengers thinned out. All at once, the terminal seemed eerily empty.
Out of a side corridor, three young Indian men appeared, moving toward me.
I quickly straddled the suitcases and sat, legs dangling across them.
Approaching, they asked if I wanted help moving them.
“No, thank you!” I said, firmly. “I’m waiting on my husband.”
“We help you,” one young man said, reaching for a suitcase.
“No,” I shouted, looking around the terminal for help.

I noticed a sea of orange robes heading my way. A group of young women chanting and dancing in brightly colored orange saris.
“Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare, Hare Rama, Hare Rama,” their chant grew louder and their dancing got wilder as they neared.
The three young men backed away and disappeared into a dark passage.
When the dancers reached me, they smiled.
One introduced herself as a devotee of Krishna, and offered to sell me a booklet to benefit the starving children of India. Others continued to chant and sway.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“New York,” she said. “And you?”
“I’m from LA. Why are you in India?
“We’re here to sell our books and spread the word about Krishna Consciousness, and build a temple to honor our Swami, Srila … ”
“There are thousands of starving children in New York,” I said.
“We worship the Hindu god Krishna as the one Supreme God,” another young woman chimed in, ignoring my comment.
“So you’re missionaries?” I asked.
“We’re evangelists. We believe in reincarnation …” one follower wanted to explain their beliefs, but another interrupted, while others continued to chant.
“I believe in reincarnation,” I said. “But I don’t think I need to sell it to others.”
They kept chanting and dancing around me.
“How many times do you have to chant this?” I asked.
“Sixteen,” a young woman answered.
I shook my head in disbelief. Where the hell is Charles?
“We’re vegetarians, and abstain from worldly pleasures,” the young woman said.
“Does chanting help?” I asked. I must have looked confused.
Another young devotee explained they practiced being celibate.
“No drugs or alcohol,” another chimed in. “The temple will be our heaven on earth when it is completed.”
They tried again to sell me the book.
“No. But thanks,” I said, my eyes searching the corridor for Charles and grateful for the diversion which drove off apparent predators. What was taking him so long?
When the Krishna believers realized I had no intention to purchase a book, they moved on.

I looked again for Charles and sighed, relieved to see him coming back. His smile told me he had found a place to exchange money.

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Good Morning Diego Garcia! Excerpt Chapter 2

Good Morning Diego Garcia, by Susan Joyce

My new book will be released as soon as I receive feedback on nautical terms and lingo from my beta reading sailor friends. Needless to say, I’m anxiously awaiting their feedback.

Thought you might enjoy an excerpt from Chapter Two, while we wait. Hope it
resonates with you.

GMDG-300

I glanced at Charles. He was sleeping.
My eyes closed and I returned to remembering the first big travel adventure.
From JFK Airport we flew to London, and boarded another flight to Tel Aviv. A driver, holding a sign with our family name on it, greeted us at the Lod Airport in Tel Aviv, and showed us to a sherut (a shared taxi) which took us (along with other new emigrants) from Tel Aviv, through the Negev desert, to the village of Arad, where we studied Hebrew.
“Amazing adventure,” I said.
Charles patted my knee. “Were you dreaming?”
“Remembering; same thing,” I said, smiling. “And now we’re up and away again; seven years later. Another adventure. It’s exciting”
“Chicken Marsala or Beef Stroganoff?” the hostess asked.
I put my seat forward in an upright position and lowered the food tray.
“Chicken for me, please,” I answered. “And Chardonnay.”
Charles chose the Beef Stroganoff and red wine.
“You look like Dr Ben Casey,” the airline hostess told Charles. “I love his show.”
“So, I’m told often,” Charles said smiling. “In fact, I’ve never seen the show.”
“You haven’t?” she asked. “It’s a great medical drama. A neurosurgeon at County General Hospital. Anyway, enjoy your meal.” She moved on down the aisle.
I uncovered a steaming dish of chicken smothered in mushrooms with pasta. “It’s true,” I told Charles. “You do look like Dr Casey.” I took a bite. “This is delicious. I hope the food is as good on Air India.”
“Maybe better,” Charles said.
“Charles?” I asked, touching his arm.
“Yes?”
“What will you do, when we return to California?”
“What do you mean?”
“Workwise? If your company doesn’t have a new assignment for you?”
“I’m sure they will by then.”
“And if not?”
“Something will turn up. Why do you ask?”
“We’ve been in limbo a long time. When we lived in Virginia Beach, The Little Theatre there advertised a play by Samuel Beckett.”
“And?” he asked, giving me a strange look.
“I wanted to see it, but arrived too late one evening to get in.”
“What was it about?”
“Two people waiting for someone named Godot—wanting someone else to move them forward; prove their existence.”
“Sounds ridiculous.” Charles grimaced.
“Of course Godot never shows.”
“Why on earth would you want to see that? Sounds ridiculous.”
“It reminded me of our situation. Waiting on your firm to tell us where to go next. Like we have no free will. “
Charles didn’t answer. He finished his lunch and went back to reading.
I went back to remembering.
Following the upheaval of the Cyprus War in July 1974, we were homeless and confused about where we’d live. After our evacuation to England, Charles awaited news daily from his employer, a Swiss firm, on where they planned to send him. He had worked for them for years, both in Europe and in the Middle East, and they hoped to place him somewhere. So we waited, and waited some more. I read lots of books, took long walks in the English countryside, and wished for a place to call home.
After weeks of waiting, Charles received a telephone call one day telling us to book flights to Virginia Beach, Virginia, where Charles would work out of the company office near Langley.
Upon our arrival, we found a beautiful, fully furnished home for rent on the 10th hole of the golf course, near the beach; bicycles included.
I stared out the plane window and watched billowing clouds float past. The flight attendant stopped to ask if we’d like more coffee or tea.
“Coffee please,” I replied.
“Cream, sugar?” she asked.
“No thanks. Black please,” I answered. “Smells fresh.”
Charles said no thanks and continued reading.
She smiled and moved on.
I took a sip of coffee.
“Since when do you drink black coffee?” Charles asked.
“Since Virginia Beach and visiting the Edgar Cayce Library.” I answered.
“The Cayce Library?” he questioned.
“Yes, while you were busy visiting military bases, I spent my days riding the bike along the boardwalk to the public library; researching the Cyprus War. One afternoon, by accident … ” I hesitated. “There are no accidents,” I added.
Charles nodded.
“I rode past the Edgar Cayce Foundation Library. People laden with boxes were busy moving books. A volunteer worker explained hundreds of books were being moved from the old Cayce Hospital Library to their new home. She invited me to go on in, have a look around, and make myself comfortable.”
“And you did,” Charles said.
“Yes. Entering the library, I felt as if I had discovered a secret chamber of knowledge; a vault filled with mysterious truths. My head tingled with excitement, so I knew I was in the right place.”
“What does this have to do with black coffee?” Charles asked.
I told Charles all about Edgar Cayce, “The Sleeping Prophet” and how he had the ability to put himself into a relaxed sleep state and connect his mind with all information in time and space. From this state he could respond to any question asked: from practical to trivial, to secrets of the universe. His psychic insights became know as “readings” and were recorded by a stenographer. People from all over the world sent letters requesting information on someone or something. All Cayce needed to know was the name of the person requesting the information and their location before he went into a trance and collected information.
I thought Charles would go back to reading his book, instead he seemed to be listening to me.
“The library was divided into several sections,” I continued. “I found myself drawn to one about discovering your mission in life and another section with books and articles about exploring ancient mysteries. Although I had always felt there was more to life than this life, the Cayce Library was my introduction to the idea of the existence of souls, and how they live on and on after physical death. I felt certain I had experienced past lives … and been lucky in all of them.”
“You were lucky in Cyprus,” Charles said. “We were lucky to get out alive.”
I nodded and continued. “I was soon lost in a sea of information on Edgar Cayce and his thousands of readings.”
“What does this have to do with black coffee?” Charles asked.
“Oh,” I answered. “Cayce talked about diet and the importance of balancing alkaline-producing foods with acid-producing foods and eating locally grown, seasonal foods. And he gave a list of things to avoid like not eating large quantities of meat or cheese with starchy foods.”
“Such as?” Charles questioned.
“Enchiladas, for example.”
Charles laughed.
“Milk, cereal, coffee with milk or cream,” I added, sipping my black coffee.
“To each his own,” Charles said. “No one can convince me Mexican food isn’t healthy.”
“I love it too. I stopped eating cereal after the discovery though.”
Charles opened his book and continued reading.
I removed my travel journal from the seat back pocket in front of me and scribbled images of the jagged clouds and noted some random thoughts about the uncertainty of being in limbo.
Uncertain? Unclear. Unsettled. Unknown.

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Good Morning Diego Garcia!

Good Morning Diego Garcia, by Susan Joyce

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PRE-ORDER ALERT from Susan Joyce! Go to http://peelbooks.com/ and click on cover image.

When Susan and Charles receive a letter from Cyprus friends, now in Taiwan, they get a chance to help crew a sailboat from Sri Lanka across the Indian Ocean. They have no clue what to expect. Susan reminds Charles she isn’t a good swimmer. He tells her a life jacket will do the trick, and convinces her it’s the opportunity of a lifetime. A must-do travel adventure. They say goodbye to friends and family in sunny California, fly to New York and on to India, arriving the day the Indian government has issued a state of emergency. And then onto the boat, and into the ocean. In monsoon season. With no charts.

In this true-life travel adventure, Susan keeps a journal and record her bizarre thoughts and telling dreams. A real life thriller, Susan’s monsoon-season journey is about discovery and spiritual realization—one dream at a time.

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Exciting News! Travel Stories!

The Travel Highlights competition has closed and voting is open until midnight UK time on November 30th 2015. An excerpt from my new book, Good Morning Diego Garcia is included. To read and vote, go to
http://www.fd81.net/freds-blog/voting-now-open.

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Lots of great travel stories! Read and vote for three of your favorites. You can vote daily. The Travel Stories and Highlights book is due for release on December 1st 2015 and is available for pre-order at:
http://getBook.at/TravelStories for 99p/99c.
Order your copy now.