Category: Diego Garcia

Posted on

Good Morning Diego Garcia—Excerpt Chapter 14

Indian Ocean, July 1975
A Bit of Calm

You don’’t have a soul. You are a soul. You have a body.—C. S. Lewis

After what seemed an eternity, the winds had died to a whisper, and the threatening clouds had drifted away. The sea became flat and still. So still and smooth, it looked like a sheet of glass on a lake, but we were far away from any lakes. We were out in the middle of the Indian Ocean. I gazed at the peaceful blue sea and sky surrounding us, and walked around the deck at a slow pace, looking into the distance, as far as I could see.

Charles and Alon helped Dylan raise the sails. I heard Dylan complain about the difficulty of moving forward with a broken rudder and the loss of the mizzenmast. “Much harder to steer,” he grumbled.

I went back to our room to have a sea water shower while the weather was cooperating.

When I came back up, I saw Mia sitting alone at the table in the galley. Her eyes were tearing.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She nodded and looked away.

I grabbed a cup of coffee and some dried fruit and nuts and returned to the deck.

Dylan reported he saw a ship on the horizon. I could see something faraway to the west. He went below and tried to reach them on the marine VHF radio, to ask if they could give us a weather report. He tried several times. No answer. He even tried contacting them with a signal mirror. No reaction. I saw his disappointment as they disappeared over the horizon.

I was fascinated with the signal mirror (a disk with a hole through it) and asked Charles about it.

“Standard,” Charles sort of explained. “A valuable communication tool. It reflects light from the sun to a nearby surface like your hand or a raft. Been in use since long before the VHF radio.”

“How does it work?” I asked.”

“You bring the mirror up to your eye and tilt it until you see a small bead of light. Next move the light toward your target. When your eye is in line with the target, you’ll see a bright spot. Pivot the mirror toward the object you want to signal. You can send signals by sending flashes of light. Doing this three times in quick succession is the international distress signal.”

“Oh!” I said. “Good to know.”

At last, Dylan was able to get an accurate read on our location. He told Charles we had gone south instead of southwest and we were heading in the direction of Diego Garcia.

“Diego Garcia? Is it a country?” I asked Charles.

Charles nodded.

So how was he finally able to get a precise reading?”

“During the storm we were pushed off course,” Charles explained. “The rough weather knocked the chronometer off the wall. Mia hung it back up, but forgot to tell Dylan.”

“Is it the time piece which hangs in their room?” I asked.

“Yes, he kept taking a fix on the chart based on the time showing on the chronometer. Unfortunately, it was not showing the right time.”

“How frustrating. How did he find the correct time?”

“Marine Radio. It’s amazing. Latitude can be found accurately using celestial navigation. Longitude, however, requires the exact time-of-day difference between the starting location and ending location. Without the precise information, the mathematical calculation can be off by 150 miles or more. Non-directional beacons from marine radio signals help obtain a fix of geographic location. A fix is computed by extending lines and reference points until they intersect.”

“Sounds complicated,” I said.

“It is,” Charles replied.

“Can Dylan get us back on course?”

“I’m certain he can navigate us to safety.”

“If he can, Sinbad is a good sailor,” I said, wishing it so.

The boat seemed to be sitting still; barely moving. But after so many stormy days, sunshine and a calm blue sea soothed my soul. I sat on deck and read for hours.

Posted on

Good Morning Diego Garcia—Excerpt Chapter 13

Indian Ocean, July 1975

“Dusk turned to night. Gentle swells rolled in from the west, indicating the sea’s unease. I went up on deck for some fresh air. The ship rolled port and starboard a few times, settling into a steep heel because of the strong winds. The full moon night with a complex mix of shadows and light, and the rolling motion, put me into a trance.

“Put on a safety harness.” Dylan yelled. “Click into the jack line.”

I followed his orders and moved closer to the deck’s edge. My eyes searched the deep swirling ocean. I saw screaming faces twirling about, crying out for help. Were they lost souls who had died at sea? Their distraught faces looked identical to the ’‘scream’ painting by Edvard Munch; the infinite scream of nature. I stared at them for quite a while.

They seemed to float in an alternative universe, a different dimension. How had I sensed their screams while no one else seemed to hear them? How did I move into their frequency? I kept staring at them. “How can I help you?” I asked.

My guardian angel whispered. ’‘Tell them to let go and move on.’

“Move on?” I asked. “To where?”

“‘Wherever their souls take them,’ she said.

A bright moon emerged through a break in the clouds. I blessed each soul with the moon’s reflected light and let them know it was okay to let go of limbo, and move on.

In the blink of an eye, the faces disappeared, the wind died, and the boat stabilized.

How could I see images no one else seemed to notice? Was it my imagination forming new images and sensations that are not normally perceived through normal senses such as sight and sound? Am I dead or alive? Perhaps I’m in purgatory awaiting word of release before going on to heaven. That’s ridiculous, I thought. I’m not even Catholic.

Charles was on deck, so I asked him if he had seen and heard the screaming faces.

“No,” he said. “But it’s a crazy time. In addition to feeling sick, I feel like I’m also going mad.”

“The Zozo moved on through deteriorating weather. I unhooked from the jack line and went inside to the galley. I grabbed my journal and made notes about seeing the lost souls, and sketched a drawing of a scream face.

Did the souls move on to another dimension?

Had they died at sea? Perhaps in a shipwreck?

The wind blew steadily for hours. We rocked and rolled on the steep seas. I heard Dylan say the winds were reaching gale force. He said it often as he went up and down the stairs, to refill his coffee cup and check the boat’s compass to verify direction.

“The compass is still the single most valuable navigational tool,” I heard him tell Charles. “Helps us know what direction we’re heading.”

“A good thing,” I heard Charles mumble.

Dylan was having a hard time trying to keep his coffee cup steady as he moved up and down the stairs. Coffee kept spilling over the edge of his cup.

He made notes in the ship’s log to measure distance sailed, and continued to tap the barometer several times a day. When he saw the pressure falling fast, we scurried to prepare for another storm.”

Posted on

Good Morning Diego Garcia—Excerpt Chapter 12

GMDC-seal-300

Indian Ocean, July 1975

I followed and tried to help. Squalls with sudden, violent gusts of wind could sink a boat. We were all acting fast to lower the sails and secure them with lines. Quick action was the only way to keep a boat under control during severe weather.

Sails lowered, we went back to the safety of the galley. Dylan closed the hatch to keep out the wind and rain.

“A sudden gust can topple any sailing ship,” Mia said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you can’t react fast enough to match the sudden change in force.” Charles explained. “You have to keep a close watch of changing skies, so you know before it arrives”

“A sea twister is like a tornado on land, right?”

“Yes, it is a whirling column of air and water mist. A funnel cloud,” Charles said. “And quite destructive.”

I could hear the ferocious wind blowing and see the swells rise higher. Two visible water spouts, about forty feet in the distance, were sucking water from the sea while lightning strikes lit up the dark sky.

“Glad we’re not out there,” I said, as the boat heaved back and forth in the raging sea.

When the worst of the dark clouds and strong winds had passed, Dylan opened the hatch and climbed up on deck to take his turn standing watch for other ships or obstacles in the area.

Not knowing where we were and with sails lowered, Dylan decided to continue letting the winds take us where they would until the storms cleared.

The men kept constant vigil during watch.

Charles mentioned the cross bar on the main mast kept plunging into the water, and jolting back to the other side as the ship rolled side to side with the mountainous waves. “Keeping watch is the only thing which keeps me from losing my mind,” he said.

“Not exactly pleasure yachting,” I said. I knew he was having a hard time dealing with this.

“Watching the ship’s course indicator, and other instruments keeps my mind occupied,” he replied. “Keeps me from going insane.”

“Opportunity of a life time is the way you described the adventure before we left sunny California.”

“What was I thinking?” he muttered, questioning his original thoughts of a fun high seas adventure.

“It will be opportune, when we survive.”

Charles trembled. He looked pale.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Weak from lack of food and sleep.”

“These squalls and waves are overwhelming.”

“It’s difficult to sleep knowing how easily a boat can tip over,” Charles added.

“Let’s hope Zozo’s hull is as great as Dylan claims.”

Charles nodded. “If it takes in water, it will sink. And it will happen fast.”

“A matter of seconds, minutes?” I asked.

“In an instant.” He snapped his fingers. “No time to grab a life jacket or launch a raft.”

We looked at each other and sighed.

Charles bowed his head.

“It is disheartening,” I said. “Hard to think clearly. But I think we’ll make it.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“The ultimate struggle for survival happens mentally,” I said.

Charles looked at me as if I were a stranger. “Have you had one of your crazy dreams?” he asked.

“Several,” I answered.

Squalls arrived frequently. Their strength varied. Some were severe with strong winds and heavy rain while others passed us by with little action or damage. The problem was not knowing how extreme they would be until they were directly overhead.

Huddled together in the galley the following morning, we sat silent again and listened to the angry sea.

Dylan decided it was too dangerous for anyone to be on deck. He closed the hatch and went to his stateroom.

Charles sat in a corner cleaning his fingernails with a penknife, clearly depressed. I had hoped to find alone time to ask him about Mia’s strange question. It would have to wait for calmer seas and clearer thinking.

Mia and Alon also seemed distraught. No wonder! We were all agitated, knowing the dangers we faced. The continual pounding wrought havoc on our frayed nerves.

“Eima, Eima,” I heard Mia call out several times, as if praying for her mother to save her.

“Heaven help us,” I cried out, hoping the skies would clear, and the storm would move on.

But the freak waves and hard winds continued to pound. Waves so steep, I felt like I was on a wild roller coaster ride which couldn’t stop. No brakes! No breaks. We were at the mercy of nature. No place to run. No place to hide. Hang on tight.

 

Posted on

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.

Posted on

Good Morning Diego Garcia—Excerpt Chapter 10

GMDC-seal-300

Trincomalee, Sri Lanka 1975

She grabbed my hand and practically pulled me down the gangplank.

By the time we left the dock and walked along the main road to town, I could feel negative energy building and billowing around us. I stopped twice; once I suggested we go back to the boat.

“Why?” Mia asked.

“So you can change clothes; show respect for the local culture.”

“It’s not my culture,” Mia retorted. “And I’m not local.” She kept walking.

I trailed behind with a growing feeling of dread.

“Come on,” she said. “I want to show you something.”

By the time she neared the entrance to the souk, word had spread about an indecently dressed woman walking the main street in the direction of the souk. An angry, vocal mob awaited her arrival.

I stopped again. Mia shrugged her shoulders and motioned me to hurry up. She was in a defiant mood and seemed clueless to the mounting danger.

“Mia,” I begged. “Please go back to the boat.”

“Why should I?” she yelled back.

“They’re angry at you.”

“Why?” She tossed her long, dark hair aside and kept strutting toward the entrance.

“Because of the way you’re dressed.”

“I don’t care,” she announced, walking on laughing.

As hostility swelled, the crowd grew larger. More villagers joined to show their support.

I stopped every few feet, hoping to reverse this scene.

When Mia reached the main entrance, the crowd surrounded her and began heckling her. They blocked her from entering the souk.
Whap! I heard the loud thud of a rock hit a wall. And another Whap! “Oh my God,” I gasped. They’re attacking her.

Whap! Zap! Thud! I heard Mia scream. The villagers were hurling sticks and stones at her.

“Run,” I yelled, “back to the boat.”

Whap! Whap, whap, whap! Mia screamed again. I saw her turn and push people aside.

“Run!” I shouted.

She took off running in the direction of the harbor, with the crowd chasing close behind. They continued to pelt her with whatever they could pick up and throw.

I slowed to a stop, took a deep breath, and covered my thumping heart with outstretched hands. I listened to my heart beat, and hoped Mia was outrunning the angry crowd.

The Tamil man from the cafe (where Charles and I had breakfast) was standing outside his restaurant as I passed by. He smiled and greeted me in English. “Your friend behaved badly,” he said. “Indecent expo­sure is against the law in Sri Lanka.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I shook my head, not believing what I had just witnessed. How could anyone travel the world (as she had) and not be aware of local customs in different countries. A total lack of respect. Chutzpah, as they say in Israel.

 

Posted on

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.

 

 

Posted on

Good Morning Diego Garcia—Excerpt Chapter 7

GMDC-seal-300

Trincomalee, Sri Lanka
July 1, 1975

Nearing the port city of Trincomalee, our driver pointed out shops
and restaurants which might be of interest.

“Only a short distance to the port,” he said. “What is the name of the yacht you will sail on?”

“Zozo,” Charles told him. “I’m sure if you drop us at the entrance to the port we can find our way.”

“No problem,” he said. “I’ll take you there. I have family who work in the port.”

“Oh thank you! Our suitcases are heavy,” I said, remembering all the books I had packed to read during the ocean crossing

Entering the port, our driver asked for directions to the yacht and
drove us a few hundred feet to a concrete quay. The Zozo was docked
alongside a Greek oil tanker. There were dozens of big tankers in the bay. The yacht looked small by comparison.

We unloaded suitcases, paid our driver, and thanked him for his
excellent service.

“I hope you enjoy your stay in Sri Lanka,” he said, nodding goodbye.

Charles called to Dylan and we climbed the gangplank to the boat.

Dylan answered, “Come on up!” He squatted on deck neatly arranging
ropes. “You made it.”

“A few days later than planned. We couldn’t get out of India.”

“Because of ‘The Emergency’?” Dylan asked.

“Yes. Every flight was full or delayed,” Charles answered.

Dylan showed us to our stateroom below and said Mia and Alon had
gone into the village for supplies and should return soon.

“Alon?” I asked. “Mia’s brother sailed with you?”

“Yes, he’s a great help.” Dylan answered.

He showed us the bathroom and sauna, and explained the sauna and
other luxuries all stop working once under sail and on the open sea.

We unpacked our suitcases. Charles went above to help Dylan sort
the ropes. I stayed in our room and put things away in drawers. I was impressed with the abundance of drawers and the nice size closet. I hung our windbreakers and clothes, put swim suits and underwear in a drawer, and placed my new, non-slip deck shoes on the closet floor. Not one for wearing hats, I put those in a top drawer along with sun protection lotion, a deck of cards, and high powered binoculars. I jotted thoughts in my journal.

Zozo? Where do I know this name from?

When I heard Mia and Alon return, I joined them on deck. I was surprised to see Mia dressed in hot pants and a scanty top. Why does she dress like this when visiting foreign countries with conservative dress codes? I wondered, remembering her almost nude attire when I first met her in Cyprus. Her risqué manner of dress; more undressed than dressed, reminded me of the voluptuous L’il Abner female comic strip characters who ran around half-naked. Men didn’t seem to mind. And, it didn’t seem to bother Dylan either.

“Hi Mia,” I greeted her.

She smiled and said, “Welcome aboard!”

Alon greeted me with a bright smile. A young, handsome man, he
looked like a suntan lotion advertisement. Tan and fit, with perfect
white teeth.

“Alon, nice to see you again,” I said.

Mia made fresh coffee. We joined her in the galley below.

Posted on

Good Morning Diego Garcia—Excerpt Chapter 6

Calcutta, India
June 1975

I smiled and said hello, happy to have reached a peaceful place amid the squalid chaos. How fortunate we are, I thought, to afford a refuge from the bedlam outside.
In the lobby, I heard a television reporter claim “The Emergency has put Indian democracy to death.” In the discussion, another reporter said, “the matter is extremely urgent and the situation is dangerous.”

Checking in, I asked the hotel receptionist if things were getting worse.
She shrugged, not keen to talk about it openly. “No problems for tourists,” she assured. “Travel rules have changed for Indians.”
“It happened to us in Cyprus last year,” I told her. “Foreigners were allowed to leave the country, but not Cypriots.”
She asked about life in Cyprus before the war. I told her it was paradise … until it wasn’t.
Nodding, she went on to explain the central location of the hotel (near the central business district, markets, and cultural landmarks), walking distance to Park Street and shops, and handed me a brochure about the hotel’s colorful history. Interesting reading.
In the early nineteenth century, it was the private residence of a Colonel Grand. After his death, it was purchased by a Mrs. Monk and converted into a boarding house, and later expanded to include more buildings on the block. A theatre, owned by a Mr. Stephen, was also on the same block. When the theatre burned in 1911, Mr Stephen bought out Mrs. Monk and redeveloped the entire block into the modern hotel with a pillar-less ballroom.
“Love the classic style,” I said, looking around.
“The exterior reminds me of ancient Greek and Roman buildings,” Charles said.
“Yes, Neoclassical,” the receptionist replied.
Proud to share what she knew, she went into even more detail. The hotel became a popular meeting place for foreigners and the country’s leading figures. It was known for its annual, and extravagant, New Year’s Eve party in the ballroom where twelve piglets were released each New Year’s Eve and anyone who caught a piglet, got to keep it.
I laughed, trying to imagine the bizarre scene. And why would anyone want a piglet?
Mr. Stephen, and several other hotel employees and guests, died in a typhoid epidemic in the 30s and the hotel was closed. Mr Oberoi, the present owner, purchased the property in 1943. During World War II some 4,000 Allied soldiers stayed in the hotel. Parties happened on a regular basis, including the U.S. Marines’ Annual Ball.
She pointed in the direction of a grand chandelier and an old wooden piano. “The piano is hand made and over 160 years old.”
“Wow,” I said, almost overwhelmed by the elegance of objects in the lobby.
We were shown to our room on the third floor, overlooking a lush garden. Charles enjoyed a smoke break on the balcony while I wrote notes in my journal, wanting to catch my first impressions while they were still fresh.
We walked around the area later in the afternoon, and saw more glaring contrasts; old dilapidated buildings and sleek modern ones. Old European, from the British Raj, imposed on a messy Asian cityscape. The streets were crowded with beggars, and my eyes watered from the polluted air. I felt as if I was choking on grit and grime. We decided to escape the confusion and disorderly masses, and head back to our hotel.
Dining in our elegant hotel restaurant that evening, I again felt blessed to be able to afford the luxuries of life and the smell of sandalwood incense.
“To the good life,” I clinked my wine glass with Charles’s.
He smiled.
The following morning, we telephoned the airline to see what flights were available; possibly one later in the evening with a connection on to Colombo. We were put on a wait list.

We decided to brave the hustle-bustle of Indian life once again and visit the Indian Museum; a short walking distance from our hotel. The hotel clerk gave us simple directions for getting there taking mainly side streets. She told us locals often call it ‘Jadughar’ as in house of magic. “You’ll see,” she said. “It’s fun.”
The main street was crowded with buses belching diesel fumes, and every type of transportation one could imagine. No one on roller-skates, but we did pass a sedan chair carried by four skinny men. The man seated in the chair was dressed in all white.
“Bet he’s a holy man,” I commented.
A few feet further on we saw another sedan chair carried by four more skinny men. The man seated was dressed in orange.
“Think he’s holy as well?” Charles asked.
“I do,” I replied.”Or rich.”
Entering the portals of the Indian Museum, we realized we needed several hours, maybe even a full day, to view all the hundreds of items on display in six different sections; Anthropology, Art, Archaeology, Geology, Zoology, and Economic Botany.
We hired a guide to show us the highlights. He told us the museum was founded in 1814 by the Asiatic Society of Bengal, and the curator was a Danish botanist. As the oldest and largest museum in India, it was established to collect, care for, and display natural and man-made objects. It housed rare collections of any and everything one can imagine; from antiques, armor, fossils, mummies, ornaments, skeletons, and Mughal paintings and sculptures.
“In this museum,” he said, “you can find the history of man’s evolution and know the history and culture of Indians from ancient to modern times; from the end of the medieval era to the beginning of modernity, showing the amazing socio-cultural and scientific achievements of India.”
“A bit like discovering a cache of hidden treasures,” I commented.
He showed us his favorite displays: a 4,000-year-old mummy, an urn said to contain the ashes of Buddha, some rare coins, fossils, and fascinating stone carvings called Gandhara art. He explained it was Buddhist art; a merger of Greek, Syrian, Persian, and Indian art. He said Gandhara was an ancient kingdom and an early name for Pakistan.
He motioned us to follow him to see the preserved animals. First he showed us hundreds of stuffed birds and smaller animals. Next he showed us a stuffed elephant, a stuffed hippo, a stuffed rhino, a gorilla, lion, and tiger too.
“Amazing,” was all I could say.

Leaving the museum, an hour later than planned, I told Charles “I can understand the pride the Agra hotel clerk felt about Calcutta. Such a rich and vibrant atmosphere. It’s the most impressive museum I have ever seen anywhere in the world.”
“It is. Shall we try the Calcutta street food he also recommended?” Charles asked, pointing to a street vendor selling kathi rolls.
We ordered one each of the chapatis filled with juicy mutton kebabs, fried egg, and tender chicken pieces. It was as delicious as the hotel clerk promised it would be.
“A perfect blend of sweet and spicy flavors,” I said, wiping juice from the corners of my mouth.
“And it’s fiery,” Charles said. “Like a Mexican taco.” They were so tasty, we ordered more, and made our way to a saner, quieter place. In our case it was a temporary fortress called the Oberei Grand Hotel.

Posted on

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.