Fifty Years without the Flames! A response to an article in The Daily Star, Oneonta, NY

March 24, 2024

Hi, Lauren Takores. I read with great interest your story on the 50th year anniversary of the train derailment in Emmons dated February 24. I was there and had put it out of my mind, but then it was suddenly very fresh in my memory. 

I was working at WDOS in Oneonta at the time with Ron Shapley, Mark Becker, Al Sayers, Gary Hughes, Brian Levis, and Captain Sleet, among others. I did the morning show and was at the station in the afternoon ready to head home when we received the call about the train wreck, and I drove out along Route 7 to investigate. I remember heading east of the city out toward what was once the Jamesway plaza.

Back then WDOS was a daytime station. In the winter the FCC ruled we went off the air at 4:30 in the afternoon! I got to the scene and many fire trucks and their crews were on hand. I parked my car up on Route 7 and walked toward the train wreck which was probably a quarter of a mile or more down in a small valley. Looking at a current map, I-88 runs through there now.

The tanker cars were piled up on each other and I remember seeing what I later learned was an emergency escape value sending out a long flame of fire. This was a design feature of the tanker cars that allowed the fuel to burn under control, as long as the tank itself was not punctured. Unfortunately, the long flame, under control, was at the bottom of the pile of cars and was heating up another tanker lying on top. A blowtorch on a propane tank – not a good mix!

I remember seeing Tom Braddock and Bruce Endries a couple of hundred yards off to my left. Unfortunately for them, they were on a hilly section that led down to the tracks and the wreckage. I was standing above them on the top of the hill, watching the dozens of firemen trying to get control of the blaze.

Then “Boom!”. The tanker that was being heated up by the escape valve exploded. The ball of flame and black smoke shot up and rolled outward. Like Tim, I had just turned on my recorder to do a ROSR (Radio On Scene Report) when the blast knocked me backward. Fortunately, I was on top and immediately started rolling down the back side of the hillside. Fortunately, again, we had just had a few inches of snow and the field was covered. That, coupled with my rolling…boy scout trained!...put the fire out on my back. I was wearing one of those plastic winter jackets and the back of it melted! I was lucky. I remember someone yelling at me I was on fire and to keep rolling. Tim and Bruce, on the other side of the hill, found themselves on the wrong side of the reflection as the fire rolled up, caught them, and then over the hill.

When I got up, the top of the flames was still rising in a fireball hundreds of feet high, there was a trail of my equipment down the hill where I had rolled. I worked my way back up the hill, picked up my gear, and watched. It was clear the explosion had injured many of the firemen because they were right on top of the fire. Men were everywhere, lying down from the blast or moving around to try to help the injured. Sirens soon could be heard as ambulances approached. A few minutes later, a second explosion occurred, and this one sent one of the tanker cars, or maybe half of it, across the Susquehanna where it landed in the trees on another hillside to the south. I vividly remember it flying with a flaming trail as if it was a rocket. I think there were three explosions in all, several minutes apart.

Back then, of course, no cell phones, so I made my way back to the house I had parked at up on Route 7 to make a call to the radio station and get a news report on the air before the 430 deadline. (Maybe it was a store. I haven’t been back there in decades, but I plan to visit it this spring to jog my memory again.)

I got the report in with minutes to spare, and then WDOS had to go off the air until the next morning! The next day the story was news for radio stations across the East Coast. I received a dozen calls in all from Albany, Syracuse, Binghamton, and New York City, plus others, all wanting information about what happened. Being a news guy, I recorded a : 45-second piece, and that was transmitted out whenever a news operation called. Ironically, growing up in New York City and having dreams of being on the radio in the big city, that event and my recording was the first time I “made the big time” as we used to say. The report was heard by several of my extended family members.

But I’m not the story. I was only there to report on it. I don’t know any of the injured first responders, but I remember the general feeling of concern for their well-being. I’m glad to hear that Roy Althiser was able to overcome his injury and help better the emergency services in the area in later years.

I left Oneonta in 1975 to chase a broadcasting dream, doing play-by-play for the Tampa Bay Rowdies in the North American Soccer League. Covering the championship play of Oneonta State and Hartwick prepped me for that job!  Since then, I’ve done the radio and television career as a broadcaster, cameraman, writer, director, and producer. I’m writing full time now in my retirement and my fifth novel is expected to be published this summer. I continue to dabble in voice-over and video production.

The explosive events of fifty years ago on a snow-covered hillside changed my life in many ways. Some good, some bad, but I go forward each day with my eyes open knowing the unexpected can happen at any time. 

I understood that Oneonta city historian Mark Simonson was going to do a detailed book of some sort on the event. Did that ever happen? I was in touch with Mark 20 years ago when his article on the 30thanniversary appeared in the paper.

Again, your article woke up some long-forgotten (surpressed?) memories. I’m glad to be alive and able to remember. I look forward to my next trip to Main Street. Although, there aren’t 56 bars there anymore like there were when I was a student! Probably a good thing!

Of course, there is still the Novelty!

Best wishes,

Greg

Greg Gilmartin

30 in 30 Book Tour

From Geneseo to Guilford, Mystic to Madison, Wakefield to West Warwick, and more than a few in between. From Thanksgiving to Christmas, this authopreneur became the intrepid explorer and went hunting for my books and my people, the brick and mortar booksellers. What I found was a diverse culture of bookophiles, united by their efforts to keep the doors of their independent bookstore open. While the end goal is the same, each presented a unique style in their effort to reach it.

That uniqueness is what made my trip so interesting. I was quick to understand I wasn’t looking for the best. I’ll leave that up to you. One reader’s shelf is another reader’s barn. The new and the old, the big and the small are side by side. They all sell the magic of reading to a curious world. They are all looking for that special story that brings customers to the racks. And then to the cash register. Some you can find by computer, others by smell and feel. They are all selling books and every author appreciates their effort.

My 30 posts from the road are available on Facebook, Instagram, X, and LinkedIn. Look for #azrokxwrites or Greg Gilmartin. You may have to click around a moment, but you’ll find plenty of photos and my two cents on the brief visits to each store. I left my books where I could. I accepted the reluctance of those who didn’t particularly care for local authors. That was the contradiction evident. You gotta sell to be put on the shelves to be sold. Independent authors don’t have the exposure, yet, or the distribution network of the established book world. I only have control over the words I write, not who believes in me.

Yet, some do welcome the local author and give us our space. Regardless, if you are a reader, make a trip to the nearest book store and make the book buying experience a personal one. It’s more than clicking to buy. It’s basking in the spectacle of covers as far as the eye can see, stacks, racks and tables into the distance, and all the paraphanelia that comes with reading. You might find music at Howard’s, goats at Book Barn, cake at RJ Julia, even beer at special events at Rule 3. Across the region, it’s a festival of selling escape, knowledge, myths and truths. Get on the trail and find it for yourself.

On second thought, click “Shop” right here and I’ll send you one of my books. Or two!

30 in 30 - Visiting 30 bookstores in 30 days

Hitting the road with a box of books to celebrate the brick and mortar of bookstores across the wherever. Golden Owl on Golden Street in New London was first stop just before turkey day. Then on to upstate New York, a wonderful repast with my three sisters and families and an eclectic visit to Sun Dance Books in Geneseo on Main Street. Met Fred, the owner and he put us in the front window. Spy, Sail, Castle. Delightful chat and now back on the road. Heading to Mystic next. Watch for posts and pictures on Facebook, Instagram, Link’in and X.

#azrokxwrites https://www.facebook.com/azrokxwrites/

Novel Number Five in the works

Carlos Quintaro is back and he is bent on revenge! Luke Parmelian is running away and he is seeking redemption. The two have never met, until now! I’m happy to report I am lost in another world of storytelling in novel number five, tentatively called “Redemptive Revenge”. Two of my previous characters return with a crew of others, new and old, to create another adventure. There’s murder, treachery and buffoonery afoot here. Not to mention high tech sailboat racing, or is it foiling? Yea, there’s romance, too, and a touch of the unknown as our characters explore the moral choices they face when danger lurks, vengeance pervades and people are forced to decide between good and evil. Coming Spring of 2024!

Bookstores Beckon

Writers have a true connection with bookstores. Beyond the obvious..hey, that’s where I sell my books! The aisles are filled with ideas, stories, something new to change your life, something old that already changed your life. Discoveries and memories. Everyday something new.

We are luck in this area to have a variety of bookstores, each unique, yet each the same, offering the knowledge or experience yet to be made a part of ourselves. Bank Square Books in downtown Mystic feeds the visitors, vacationers and passers by with a wide selection from far and wide. This author is delighted to be available on the shelves right in the heart of tourist town. We’ve done good over the years and am please to see my latest, “Castle Fires” is moving.

We are delighted to welcome The Golden Owl, the newest bookstore in New London on Golden Street. Not just books, but herbs, plants, knickknacks and other curiosities. This is a warm place to chat with friends, play a game of chess, browse the local authors on display and find a new aroma to share. You might even be allowed to play the piano. It’s fresh with big plans to raise the consciousness of city dwellers and visitors. Become an owler.

Back in Mystic, No Other Book Like It! has moved from Groton to the Stonington side at 3 Roosevelt Street, right across from the Packer Building and the train station. New and used books with a local authors’ section in the back. Check it out and say “Hi!” to Benny, the book dog. Or say “Hi!” to Coleen. She’ll say “Hi!” back. Then buy one of my books!

Finally, I am please to announce you can visit the Slater Museum gift store in Norwich and find local authors as well. Including yours truly. “Castle Fires”, “Can’t Sail In Jail!” and “SpyIsland” are sale. Plan a visit to the Slater Museum, get some culture and bring home some reading material. It will only add to your knowledge, your experience and your escape stories.

See you among the shelves.

4Novels 4Adventures – 4Movies? Or more!

 

For more than five decades Greg Gilmartin has been a creative force in a varied career as a broadcaster, marketer, videographer, director, writer, and producer. From car wash specialist to Russian linguist, award winning sports reporter to PA announcer for the Hartford Whalers, tourism TV producer to novelist. From Coney Island to Block Island, from Sedona to Mystic, on the ski slopes or the waterfront, he has always had an eye for fast cars, fast boats, high adventure, and creative story telling. He has just released his fourth novel, “Castle Fires” and has begun his 20th year as a US Sailing Race Official with the Mystic River Mudheads.

Crew is his first novel, sparked by his early sailboat racing experiences with the crew of Madcap. And then he got creative. The focus is on Mystic, CT, San Francisco, and the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta Mountains in Colombia.

For Peter James McDonough, life is simple.  He is wealthy, smart and a speed freak. He pushes the envelope but never loses control. Then one day, shots ring out, shattering the tense rhythm of a sailboat race on San Francisco Bay. PJ and his crew from Mystic suddenly find themselves targets in a game played by international drug smugglers and killers. Their lives will be changed forever - if they can survive. 

Using high tech boats, aircraft and weapons, the crew must confront a Colombian drug lord, the depths of contemporary criminal greed and cruelty, and the edges of friendship, teamwork, and courage. Along the way, PJ’s growing romance with the exotic Kathryn reveals mystical connections to ancient Indian beliefs that connect her past and his future. A roller coaster adventure, a love story and a high-tech speed read, Crew will capture your imagination and keep you up late turning pages. Who has your six in the heart of danger? Your crew, that’s who!

Novel number two is entitled Spy Island and focuses on Southeastern Connecticut and Block Island. Booze and bets. Broken hearts and stolen secrets. Old school spies. Government lies. Sailors at the Oar drinking mudslides. A murder. A manhunt. Submarine sabotage. The Feds. The Reds. Digital espionage. Petrika’s in the cellar, Luke’s on the lam. Even the Southeast Lighthouse is in on the scam. From Coney Island to Block Island, you can run, hide, spy. But make no mistake, they are coming for you, and someone has to die!

This fast-moving thriller follows Luke Parmelian, a computer geek who likes to play cards. He is set up by the Russians in a Coney Island gambling sting and forced to steal top secret files that will change submarine warfare across the globe. When he has second thoughts, he runs away to hide at his favorite sailing locale - Block Island. There he meets a young waitress and steals her heart. She’s looking for a summer adventure and Luke wants to make that happen. But the Russians are coming, and so are the Feds. And so are the rest of the world’s spies. Everyone wants his stolen secrets, but he only has eyes for her. Is he a traitor, a hero, a lover, or a fool? The riveting conclusion showcases the fun spots of the summer island, the historic Southeast Lighthouse and the extremes of new love and international intrigue.

 Greg’s third novel, Can’t Sail In Jail! released in 2021, is based on a true story with writer’s embellishments. The locations are in Connecticut and the sailboat racing scene. They say every legend begins with a little lie, but it needs some truth if it’s going to fly. In this story, the chase is on for the American Dream. Billy “Gunny” Gunning and his sailboat crew are racing for a good breeze and a boat load of silver. Their boat owner, Dr. Z, is paying for their ride by smuggling home the green grass of Jamaica. The 'gas and go' Albanians in Norwich are hoping to fill up on cash, and here comes the D.A., as always, chasing the chasers. It's a fun ride on wisps of wind and weed in a wacky world with no room for innocence and where wrong decisions can help you grow up. If you want to.

Greg Gilmartin has brought alive a cast of characters that will charm you, offend you, make you laugh and make you cry. If you are a sailboat racer, you might recognize some of them. You might even be one of them!  Each seeks the dream, taking different paths to avoid the inevitable nightmare. What could go wrong?

It's okay to fail, but you can’t sail in jail!

“Castle Fires” is Greg’s latest novel, released in April 2023 and while it shifts away from sailing and the islands, focuses on the world of a small town in northwest Connecticut with big dreams and bigger problems. Juliette Minotti learns of her father’s death, but she never knew him.

Now, her father is dead, murdered in bed, poisoned by one close at hand. Juliette arrives, the heiress that thrives, but knows not a thing of his brand. His castle is now hers, with a lawyer that purrs, and a crew of characters to love. But the earth isn’t stable, the rocks aren’t able, to hold back the waters from above. Now the castle’s in trouble, threatened by a bubble, of ego and a leader so rash. Is the mall to blame? The townsfolk, so vain, pushing hard for tourists and cash? Natural forces collide with the supernatural side, and Juliette is right in the middle. She must be strong, hear her father’s song, and learn to solve the riddle.

The castle is real, taken from my personal experience with the Chris Mark castle in Woodstock, CT, which would be the ideal location. I know Chris would love to do a film there! The other action includes Lime Rock Park and the town of Salisbury, the model for the story’s location. The story and characters deal with the supernatural thanks to Juliette’s father’s invention that allows her to hear from the beyond. Plus mystical apples and hi tech toys to help solve a very low tech, geological problem created by greed and hubris that threatens the castle. This is another character driven story that could lead to a series of sequels with the money, cast and problems that face all young red heads who are suddenly in charge of an enterprising empire!  Learn more at www.GregGilmartin.com.

 

Jumping Joe

Jumping Joe

By Greg Gilmartin

September 4, 2022

 

 

            I still remember one of the first sayings I learned when I tried out sailboat racing. “One hand for you, one hand for the boat!” Couple that with a funny line from a legendary comedy bit where the punch line was God asking Noah, “How long can you tread water?” These sayings are still with me and through nearly 50 years of setting sails, running races, and watching some of the very best sailors, I still believe that no one can walk on water.  Sailing god or not! So, imagine my surprise when I watched a skipper jump off his boat moments after a starting sequence.

            It was Labor Day weekend and the 66th Fishers Island Round Island Race. 68 boats were swarming around the starting line ready for a 15-mile circumnavigation on a beautifully sunny day. AS the Principal Race Officer I was on the signal boat coordinating the starting sequences with my crew of Elby, Hutch, and Hatsie. We were all focused on the rhythmic beeps of our automatic timer, the “Mikey Box”, counting down 11 classes in five-minute start sequences.

Class Three was off, and we were about to hoist “Prep” for Class Four when yelling from across the starting line grabbed my attention.  I saw a J-27 had taken the pin end on the reaching start and were 100 yards into their race when the helmsman began pointing and shouting at his crew.

“You have to do that! God damn it, pick that up! You have to do it! Now!” He was pointing and screaming toward the three others on board. Now, this was a non-spinnaker class, and they were fetching the first mark about a mile away. No complicated maneuvers that I could perceive were required. The main and jib were drawing in the 8-knot breeze and the current was with them in a flood. Eezee peezee!

Then, as I watched, the shouting ended with an exclamation and the helmsman jumped off the boat! He immediately confirmed the adage I mentioned earlier…no matter how good you think you are, you can’t walk on water. And he was in it, with a splash. He started swimming away while his boat sailed on, the crew not moving, likely as shocked as I was. I looked for some action on board. The usual you would expect when a sailor goes overboard. Someone points and shouts “Man Overboard!” Someone jumps to the unattended helm. Maybe someone goes to the radio and calls “Man Overboard” to alert the other boats around. Throw a life jacket toward the departed helmsman!

Nothing. I sit here wondering if maybe the crew was just happy to see him go!

Our focus on the RC turned to the man in the water, even as the “Mikey box” beeped its way through the Class Four countdown. He was about 100 yards away and swimming toward us right in front of the start line. We were anchored and the nearest salvation. My mind ran a dozen question including: Should we abandon the sequence? What is his intention? Why did he jump in the water? Is he coming after us because of some RC foulup?

Then it became apparent that the flooding current providing boats a boost toward the first mark was taking him away from us. He realized that as well, and seemingly doubled his efforts at swimming. Slowly, painfully, he made his way toward our boat. We later learned he was in the Navy and thought himself a strong swimmer.

“Are you alright?” I shouted, realizing how dumb that sounded. He clearly wasn’t. He left his boat intentionally!

“Yes!” he returned my shout, likely taking on a mouthful of water as his struggles continued. “I’m just pissed!”

Hutch grabbed a line and tossed it to our jumper, now swimmer, as he got closer. Elby showed up with a life ring on a long line and tossed that into the water as well.

I called on the radio to our Mark Boat hanging by the pin at the other end of the start line.

“Frank this is Signal, get here as quickly as you can!”, I announced on the fleet channel. The Mark Boat, with Frank and Mark on board, accelerated quickly to 20 knots and came flying over, closing the 150-yard distance in just seconds. Meanwhile, our jumper swimmer had grabbed the life ring and was dragged to the stern platform

Frank, a lifetime sailor who has also seen a lot, but never someone walking on water, expected to find one of us old guys on the signal boat having a heart attack. Instead, he arrives on the scene and sees the oldest guy on board, Elby, hauling in some millennial who had found his limit on how long he could tread water.

Exhausted, the young man was hauled onto the signal boat and deposited on a bench.  His yelling and shouting demeanor of just a few moments ago had turned into quiet repose as he sat totally spent from his swim and paddle performance.

“Hi, I’m Greg, what’s your name?” I asked as a way of welcoming him to our humble craft. I offered him my hand and he shook it.

“I’m Joe,” he said between gulps for air.

“Joe, what the hell was that all about!” I’m paraphrasing here and might have used stronger language in expressing anger that he almost disrupted our starting sequence, forced us to save his life, and also to feel relief that he was, in fact, alive and able to do the one hand for you, one hand for the boat thing. Relief always starts with fear of some sort, and who needs that, even as the feeling of relief is a relatively pleasant one, if not sought after. Especially during a sailboat race starting sequence!

“I can’t do everything myself! When they don’t know anything, you know? I have to do it all myself!” Joe was adamant, but he said it with an empty look in his eyes, as if he didn’t feel so strongly about the travails of a skipper right at that moment. Possibly, it was dawning on him how foolish, or should I say, stupid, his actions were?

“Sit right here for a moment. We are going to put you on that boat and take you to shore.” I pointed to Frank and Mark who had pulled alongside. Then I turned to Hatsie and Hutch as our “Mikey box” continued to beep the countdown for Class Four.

“30 seconds to Class Four Whiskey down and Class Five up!” I shouted without missing a beat.

The Watch Hill 15s started on time, neat and orderly. Quietly, with only water rushing under their hulls and wind swishing through the sails. No one left their boat. Class Five moved into the start area, a group of Nonsuchs maneuvering for position.

After a couple of minutes, Joe spoke up again. “I could just sit here with you guys, can’t I?” I shook my head and pointed again at the Mark Boat. We helped Joe onto the gunwale of the signal  boat and he prepared to step across to join Frank and Mark. But, not before Frank gave him one of his steely eyed looks across the narrow gap between boats and admonished him with the same question we all had.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Again, I’m paraphrasing.

“Get on here and you’re heading to land!” Frank continued. He gestured as if commanding a bad, wet puppy to get off the new couch.

Joe jumped onto the Mark boat, they rode off, and we could see Joe sitting peacefully in back, still exhausted. And still seething underneath apparently.

“Jumping off that boat was a bad idea!” Frank admonished him as they sped into the marina.

“I disagree,” Joe retorted.

Meanwhile, the remaining crew on the J-27 included the owner, plus a co-worker of our jumper Joe, a young woman friend of Joe’s, and Joe’s 50-pound Labrador. Yes, a dog. The three humans took control of the boat. The dog watched. The owner, new to sailboat racing, focused on getting the boat safely back to the Fishers Island Yacht Club docks, assuming Jumping Joe would be picked up by other boats in the start area. He promises to work on his man overboard recovery procedures.

The question remains, why did helmsman Joe become Jumper Joe? The owner of the J-27 suggested tempers flared just after the start and shortly after a near fouling situation with another boat in another class from the previous starting sequence. In that situation, no protest flag was flown but there was the usual attendant shouting. “You’re in the way!” or something similar.

It appears the testosterone may have lingered, and soon the two co-workers verbally went after each other on the J-27, the disagreement intensified, Joe jumped, and that ended that particular argument.

In the end, it was nothing more than a distraction that did not end up as a tragic headline. I learned a few things. First, nothing will surprise me anymore. I thought earlier in the season, when I watch two Nonsuchs battle each other, forcing each other OCS. and then colliding while trying to clear themselves, was the unique highlight of a long racing season. We’ve been hit numerous times on the committee boat by starting and finishing boats. We’re used to it by now! We’ve watched several competitors travel over the well know Horseshoe Reef in our region, four hitting it and three missing it. They all pale in the face of Jumping Joe.

Final thoughts. Practice your man overboard procedure at least once a year. Please advise the RC if you find yourself losing a sailor overboard, accidental, or intentional. Keep a life ring close to the RC starting crew. Take this sailboat racing stuff seriously , and believe this simple fact: No matter how good you think you are, or how well you can dial up an argument, you cannot walk on water! Especially wearing boat shoes!

 

-30-

           

 

Greg Gilmartin

azrokx@gmail.com

www.greggilmartin.com

 

A HOCKEY MEMORY NEVER GETS OLD

MORE OF THE SAME BUT JUST AS GOOD

By Greg Gilmartin  3/5/19

 

A road trip to unite old and new friends is always a good idea. Six of us planned a trip to Boston recently to catch an unusual NHL hockey game where the Carolina Hurricanes, formerly the Hartford Whalers, were scheduled to play the Boston Bruins at TD North Garden.  In a PR nod to the good old days, the Hurricanes became the Whaler’canes by donning the green and white uniforms of the Whalers, complete with the iconic “H in W” logo emblazoned across each player’s uniform.  Twenty-two years after the Whale left Hartford, the visual provided a brief glimpse into a shadow of passion for these old and new friends who are members of the Whaler’s Drinking Club.  

Bob M., the MeatCleaver, used to drive the Cadillac onto the ice during Hartford games carrying Miss Connecticut as part of between periods promotions.  Bobbie Oh was a long time Whaler fan who started his love of hockey rooting for the Bruins until the Whale brought the game closer to his Connecticut home.  He wore a Bruins hat to honor his first love.  His second love, wife Sarah, used to do advertising for the Bruins.  Hutch is thought to be a Boston Loyalist with a long family lineage in Beantown history.  He cut his teeth on the New Haven Nighthawks and often found the Hartford Civic Center the venue for a night of hockey fun.  He’s known Bob Oh and me through sailing for about 4 decades and is always ready for a road trip.

I was happy to be the lowest form of celebrity in the group as the Public Address Announcer for the Whale in another life.  From the time they joined the NHL in 1979 through the year they left in 1997, I had the mic in the building.  

Wooooonnne minute to play in Hartford!”

Then there was Vanellison, who met my voice as a child in her father’s arms at the early games.  She met me face to face 15 years ago and remembered.  Cat was the fireman who patrolled the bowels of the stadium preventing forest fires, as well as a hostess in the local pubs in her former life.  At the heart of this planned adventure is Brad, the press aide extraordinaire who dealt with the players, the stats and the media, juggling the world behind the game.

As much as we all loved hockey, we really loved the after game games that became a part of our routine during Hartford’s heyday in the 80’s and 90’s.

 Okay, those are the players and plans began to go bad shortly after the idea was floated in January to wear the green in Bruintown.  Cat, Vanellison, Sarah and Brad were out for different reasons.  But, MeatCleaver had already purchased six tickets a month in advance. 

The night of the game, it was clear we only needed four.   We meet at the Union Oyster House, one of the oldest pubs in America.  Bob Oh got there five minutes before Hutch and me then MeatCleaver appeared five minutes later.  Tall, man about town in Boston, corporate overcoat on, bag over his shoulder and a big smile on his face, he swept in and we shared a nice round of bon homme greetings.  I had not seen him since our last Whaler’s Drinking Club gathering two years prior and we instantly shifted back to the days when we prowled the Hartford taverns after games in the 80’s and 90’s.

His beer arrived on the counter and he says, “I’ve got the tickets!” and he reaches into his pocket to pull the precious ducats to distribute.  The three of us watched him and it looked like a comedic pantomime as he patted each of his pockets, into his coat, his shirt, turned and looked into his bag.  His big ass smile turned into a panicked face followed by abject embarrassment as it dawns on him the tickets were not on his person.

“I almost tripped outside coming in,” he gasped and without another word he was gone, in search of the illusive paper that was our entrance to history.

A few minutes pass.  I see his bag still on the floor and we decide to play a joke and hide it.  The joke falls flat because he doesn’t return.  Texts are fired off.  “Where are you?”  “You need a bloodhound?”  which spellchecks to “unwed hound dog?!”   WTF?

Then a lone “Hi”, to which I respond, “And are you?”.  More radio silence.

The three of us move upstairs to the dining room as game time approaches, and still no Cleaver.  Then suddenly he’s there!   “I’m running a marathon here!  I went back to the office and thought I had left them on my desk, but no.  So, I’ve got a picture of them on my phone, I’ll get to the box office and square this up.”  He’s gone amidst our protests to sit down and eat and we’ll worry about it later.  We are left with our wonderfully witchy waitress Richelle from Salem and bowls of clam chowda’.

Another 15 minutes and finally a call.  “All set, I’ve got them renewed at the box office.  Let me put my gear on and I’ll meet you there,” MeatCleaver explains breathlessly.   We are just settling up the bill and tell him to wait for us.  He insists on meeting us half way.  By the time we get on the street, here comes Bob M. in his full-on Whaler jersey, double zero on the back and the name “Tiger Burns”.  Did I mention Bob M. wrote a wonderfully quirky novel about the Whalers called Brass Bononza Plays Again!?   Finally, we are ready for history and walk toward the TD North Garden, 10 minutes up Canal Street.

Oh, wait, we have two extra tickets now with our cancelled guests, so let’s scalp them on the street.   A block from the arena, the scalpers are buying.  But, Bob and Bob are now a half a block ahead, Greg is panting hard and Hutch is hanging with him.  Bob, sell the tickets I tell him by phone.

Suddenly, here comes Bob with the tickets.  “I got a guy, but he’ll pay only 60 for the two!”   Immediately, another barker says he’s ready to buy.  We want 80.  Bob hands the tickets to Hutch, I move past toward the beckoning escalator into the arena thinking this is over, but here’s Hutch again a minute later.  “Did you sell them?” I ask.  “No!” he says.  “We need to grab ours.”  Four tickets are handed out, Bob takes the remaining two and hands them to me.  The barker is ready to buy, but he’s got another guy who will gives us the $80 we’re asking and we follow him for a block along Causeway Street and his guy offers $30.  No deal! We return to the original guy one block back, who is making a loud scene because he says he offered first and he’s wicked pissed.  

Two cops are directing traffic in their yellow slickers nearby but, they seem not to care about the negotiations.  Finally, we connect with the first guy, big and burly, loud and agitated.  MeatCleaver, at 6 foot 5 inches, does not suffer kindly to arrogance and pushes back verbally.  I, unaccustomed to bargaining, just want to get some money for the tickets.  I find myself apologizing to the guy as he peels off $60 total for a pair of $84 balcony seats!  Finally, the deal is done!  At least we have beer money for the game.  We head to the escalator and the anticipation returns.  We notice more Whaler gear on fans and head for the next part of our adventure.  I can almost hear Brass Bonanza playing!

But, not yet. At the top of the stairs, I reach for my ticket.  What followed was a repeat of the scene with Bob M. earlier in the Oyster House.  Coat pocket, pants pocket, back pocket, shirt pocket.   No ticket!  WTF?

My dear friends watch me go from concerned to panicked to embarrassed.  They offer suggestions like, “Did you look in your coat pocket?”  Well, yes, I only have 6 pockets and I’ve looking in every effing pocket and I can’t find my ticket!  I feel my phone, feel my pen, feel my wallet.  Nothing!

Cleaver hands me his ticket.  “I’ll go back down and buy one we just sold!”  What else to do?  He’s gone, down the stairs to the corner where our tickets are now in the hands of Mr. Loudmouth.  I’m embarrassed.  I check again.  And again.  I pull out my phone one more time and there fitting perfectly between the ridges of the case protecting the face of the iPhone is my effing ticket!   Oh, man!

Frantic calls to Bob M but, he’s lost in the crowd.  Phone call gets no answer, again, goes to message, again, finally, he answers.  “Stop, I found it!”  “You got it, okay, coming back!”

He’s back in line three minutes later, we each hold up our tickets, confirm and walk in.  Whew, there’s a hockey game here, isn’t there?  Finally.  And we are not alone.  Maybe a thousand of the 20,000 fans were wearing something Whaler.  Green, white, blue, hats, shirts, jackets, scarves.  The passion survives, maybe not burning bright, but the embers emit, the memories persist.

On the ice, the scene is weird.  Like a shadow of the girl you lost, in that nice dress she used to wear, but wait, you realize it’s not the same girl.  Just the dress is the same.  I thought they retired number 11!   Who do you want to win? Someone asked.  I don’t really care.  Just give me a spectacle.

The game delivered. Whaler’canes take an early 2-0 lead, Bruins equalize in the second period and then go ahead in the third. The garden is loud, but the green scores with 9 minutes to go and force overtime.  Alas, the Bruins have the final say with a goal a couple minutes in to the OT and the garden faithful are happy.

We stand alone in our balcony seats in our Whaler gear, near the rafters and somehow it feels familiar.  There weren’t any fights in the stands, so that’s new!  But….

We ended the night on the 32nd floor of Bob’s nearby apartment, overlooking the Lights on Causeway in a city where one of the six original NHL teams played.  The Whalers also started here in the WHA, a step child to the Bruins, before they expanded the game to Connecticut and created a generation of fans who still love the game and long for its return.  We talked into the night about the old names, the old games, the old girls.  

And the same old results.

 

-30-

 

 

            

Cranking up the PR machine!

Nice article in Windcheck about Can’t Sail In Jail!. Thank you, Chris. Here’s the link if you haven’t seen the online version. https://www.windcheckmagazine.com/article/cant-sail-in-jail/?mc_cid=d5cf72faf7&mc_eid=e509d21d06

Was on the road this week resupplying some area bookstores. Spy Island and Can’t Sail In Jail! restocked at Bank Square Books. They’ve been selling well there and it’s worth a trip to Mystic just for the sight seeing. By the way, my first novel Crew has two copies left. They’ve been sitting there for about a year. Go visit them, say high and if you’re nice (and looking for the first adventure) you’ll grab them before they are all gone.

Also stopped by to see Bob at Wakefield Bookstore in the shopping plaza on Old Tower Road in Wakefield, RI. An easy ride up Route 1A, this is what an independent bookstore is all about. Wakefield has been selling my books for a few years now and they have a nice selection, are friendly and ready to help. Meanwhile, at Wayland Square in Providence, Books on the Square is now carrying Spy Island and Can’t Sail In Jail! Stop in and say hi to Jennifer, or any of her staff. They are ready to help you browse their neat store and discover adventures between the pages.

Can't Sail In Jail! The process begins.

I am very excited about my new novel, “Can’t Sail In Jail!”. Copes are now available at Bank Square Books in downtown Mystic along with my two previous novels, “Spy Island” and “Crew”. I want to also report there is one copy of “Spy Island” left at Islandbound Books on Block Island plus “Can’t Sail In Jail!”. There will also be several book signings in the coming weeks. I am initially focusing on friends and family, which means the sailiboat racing community. Watch for details of upcoming signings at Ram island Yacht Club, Essex Corinthian Yacht Club and Pier 76 at the end of the dock at Champlin’s on Block Island. That one is scheduled for Friday evening of Off Soundings on September 17 at 730ish. The books will all be available online by next week and soon you can purchase direct from me, right here, on line at greggilmartin.com.

Remember, every legend starts with a bit of lie, but it needs some truth if it’s gonna’ fly!

Can't Sail In Jail! on the way

It seems like forever, but finally the proof copy of “Can’t Sail In Jail!” has arrived from Josephy Merritt Printers. Thank you to Priscilla Robinson for push it through the process. Writing is one thing, but printing and marketing take on a whole new ballgame. You would think I’ve figured it out by now, but noooo! This is my third novel and each time is and will be different. Fortunately, the journey is part of the excitement.

Happy to hold a book in my hand and looking forward to the release which will be in a couple of weeks. It will be available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, etc, etc., Kindle and Apple Books as well. I’m also planning an audio book for the fall.

Meanwhile, I’ve been invited to speak at the Fishers Island Library on Tuesday, August 3rd at 5:30. It’s free, of course, open to all. I’ll be talking about Spy Island, Crew and Can’t Sail In Jail! Special thanks to Sarah Porter who has been trying to get this talk together for a year. Something Covid got in the way, but we are ready to spread the word.

Stay tuned for a schedule of release parties. Wait a minute! No Seahorse?

Still a Parasite of the Rich and Famous

Once upon a time I wrote for Sailing Magazine and a recent trip down memory lane led to a simple discovery. Stuff never gets old, just people. Here’s a view from a sunny day on Block, a quarter of a century ago or so.

SAILING MAGAZINE, SEPTEMBER, 1994

LIFESTYLES OF THE PARASITES OF THE RICH AND FAMOUS by Greg Gilmartin

The fog had long since burned off Block Island when the music was turned up at the end of Champlin’s Marina. The shack called Trader Vic’s was swimming in rum, beer and bumper pool, and shaved ice overflowed containers of spiked tropical punch. Jimmy Bufffet’s vote barely cracked the near visible humidity and carbon fibers framed the view on the docks.

Sailors filled the few pieces of outdoor furniture and railings and sail bags served as overflow seating. Two races were under the belt and the salt-stained weariness that accompanies a day in the fickle winds and currents around this East Coast island landmark was palatable. Another Block Island Race Week was underway. Life was good.

“I wonder what the poor are doing,” said Tim, sipping from his green bottle. A racer for only three years, he was enjoying the aura surrounding his first major regatta.

A veteran of a dozen race weeks looked at his young friend and offered his own take on the economy. “Tim, we are the poor,” he said.

Big boat racing at regattas like the annual gathering at Block Island, a half day sail south of Newport, Rhode Island, always attracts lovers of sailing competition. In June of 1994, 20 IMS boats and 68 PHRF racers signed up for the five days dancing with Mother Nature. The fleet ranged from the latest to the late, everyone hoping to grab a moment of glory.

With the 88 owners came another 800 crew, give or take a few. For most of us, the economic observation of poverty was reality. Surrounded by several million dollars worth of high tech racers with names like Full Cry, Beau Geste, Pigs in Space and Ragged Edge, we knew we were not the rich and famous who could afford such toys. Instead, we were the “potraf”, otherwise known as the “parasites of the rich and famous.”

The annual pilgrimage to Block Island is a typical highlight in the potraf lifestyle. This harmonious way of life, without which racing as we know it could not exist, created a symbiotic relationship between boat owners and crew that allows the rich and famous, with their sailing toys, the joy of giving it a go on the water.

The name of the first potraf has been lost to history, but his or her existence became a fact of life when the first captain set forth to race and realized he might be slow to take without a hand or two to help him. Note: Potrafs do not do the BOC.

Over the years, the ability to play on the water without the headaches and bills of ownership has been elevated to an art form by many portals. Indeed, there are many stories in the potraf lifestyle file, all of them beginning with the primary directive: Get a ride.

One potraf wannabe from Port Jervis, New York, found a home on the rail among the 16 or so crew on Diane, the Nelson/Marek 50 owned by Bob Schwartz. Of course, before he could be assigned a position he was assigned a crew shirt and shorts. Potraf bonus points!

Diane sailed as the scratch PHRF boat with a 000 rating and easily took home the week’s honors with five bullets, taking the gun in all seven races. She covered her time against, among others, Bob and Rod Johnstone and a flock of J/120s and J/130s. The walk-on potraf from Port Jervis had a great seat in the front row plus a new set of clothes. Double potraf bonus points!

Of course, experienced portals are looking for a position more appetizing than rail meat and plan a regular ride will in advance of regattas. But everyone has to take that first ride. Our research has shown that first time portals are usually a friend of a friend of a friend of a sailor. Sometimes that is the only credential necessary.

Interestingly, many rookie portals aren’t aware of the lifestyle they have embarked upon until the first sandwiches are passed around with a beverage or two. This is usually immediately followed by the first major test - a downwind jibe during lunch. Ducking under the boom with a mouthful of bologna and cheese, a can of diet soda in one hand and an earful of strange language emanating from the back of the boat, the neophyte potraf must quickly bring to the for all his athletic talents.

“Pull the guy! Trim the guy!” comes the shout from the rich and famous guy behind the wheel.

“What guy?” the potraf answers, looking at four sets of color laced lines at his feet.

“The #*%!! guy!” comes the clarification.

Sticking the sandwich into his mouth, the potraf grabs a line and pulls hard, wraps it around a winch, just like he saw earlier, and suddenly feels the strain as the chute fills and the boat accelerates. A more experienced hand comes over to relieve him before he can do anything else.

“Oh, that guy,” the potraff mutters while settling on the rail. Looking back in the cockpit, he realizes he grabbed the right line. Points!

Later at the post race party, a stronger beverage in hand, the no-longer-a-neophyte potraf can legitimately discuss his or her role in a stellar sixth place finish. The final step occurs when the rich and famous owner comes over and invites him aboard next weekend. Yes! The lifestyle has begun

Some observers of the lifestyles of the parasites of the rich and famous believe the there are two different worlds on the racing circuit. One is for the glory boys, the rock stars on the IMS crafts that push the envelope of the rules and sailing budgets. The other is for those doing the parasitic thing with the nostalgic racers back in the PHRF fleet.

Admittedly, some portals believe there is a sense of glamour associated with starting in the early classes on the latest Mumm 36, Farr 50 or ILC40. Sure, the IMS boys have cooler jackets and matching shorts. An awful lot of them speak with a down under accent or have the title sailmaker printed on their business cards. Maybe they do get to travel more, stay in fancier digs at regatta sites, and they might even get two or three crew shirts.

However, as attractive as that life sounds, we suspect portals don’t get to speak much on this glory rockets. Thisis a good time to remind everyone that the “p” in potraf does not stand for professional. Besides, sixth place is still sixth place!

Potrafs also have local knowledge. For example, we crossed tacks with some of the IMS class in the Around the Island Race at midweek, showing the way through shallow water to avoid the foul currents near the Block Island North Reef. They didn’t follow and we had a grandstand seat when the Nelson/Marek 43 IMS racer Wired hit bottom briefly in a tight cluster of high tech. Like a grenade dropped in the middle of a dog pack, you never saw half a dozen boats scatter so quickly to avoid the same fate.

The Farr 50, Full Cry, with her compliment of PACT 95 ex-potrafs, edged Falcon, a Tripp 50, four races to three. The total differential on corrected time was about 65 seconds over the course of the wee. That’s about twice as close as the race committee’s decision! But, typically portals always complain about the race committee.

However, they never complain about the food, unless there isn’t any, which can become a sensitive issue. Beverages are another concern that can blow up in the face of a rich and famous sailor who doesn’t understand his or her place. Finish first or 15th, the rich and famous who don’t bring the beer and eats are going to be faced with a potraf mutiny.

In fact, one fellow potraf named Smitty hit the nail on the head during a heated confrontation between a rich and famous owner and his crew. Smitty was an impartial observer and a true potraf. He let the owner have it with both barrels.

“Willy, you could keep a crew if you bought them some beer and didn’t charge them to sleep on your damn boat!”

We know one owner at race week who had a hotel room for himself and left the boat for his crew, free of charge. Hey, some potrafs enjoy that kind of thing, though we believe age has something to do with it. Veteran potrafs are prone to enjoy a real bed if the racing lasts more than two days. Most even are willing to pay for it, but won’t complain if it’s just a part of the boat bills. In fact, that only makes them work harder to make the boat go faster and maintain harmony.

Potrafs do not look gift horses in the mouth, but that isn’t to say Theydon’t talk about owners behind their backs. that’s just one of the privileges of being rich and famous. Taking that one step further, the ultimate potraf is one who tells the owner what to do. That is not a bad reflection of the owner, because as most of us have come to learn, the ability to race a sailboat does not necessarily correlate to the amount of money or fame one has attained. That’s why the potrafs are on board in the first place.

A potraf who can get away with telling the owner to pay attention or win tactical argents with BS and even take the wheel from the owner’s hand to prevent a poorly conceived starting line maneuver has raised the lifestyle to an art form.

In the end, the underlying truth about the potraf lifestyle is the overwhelming desire to be a part of a race well sailed and a party well enjoyed - with no expenses incurred. However, the fact about many potrafs is that they would give up the lifestyle in a heartbeat to become one of the rich and famous.

THE POTRAF CREEDO

  1. Get a Ride.

  2. Get a Meal.

  3. Get some Swag.

  4. Get asked Back.

An Excerpt from a Future Work - Can't Sail In Jail!

Sunday midday

 

I’ve stopped apologizing for sleeping on the porch of the Sea Horse, the longtime home away from home of the Mudheads. Yes, it’s a bar on a rock on the edge of the Thames River that feeds into New London harbor from Fishers Island Sound. Something special happens when the fog hangs low on a spring morning and a splash of red and white light tickles my closed eyelids. The multiple lights flash for three seconds duration and alternate color every six seconds from the beacon 90 feet atop the New London Harbor Light. It was built in 1801 on the other side of the river, long before the Sea Horse appeared. However, it is a relative late bloomer compared to the lobsters that live just below the porch.

The porch was built a few years after they plopped the wooden structure down on the rock formation called Hobs Island that also goes by the name of Latham’s Chair. Nothing better than a cozy shelter surrounded by water, reachable by a long wooden walkway and open for business with six kinds of beer on tap and a fully stocked liquor cabinet. And a porch a couple of feet above the river. My porch.

I’ve been around long enough and have slept there enough times to call it my porch without any hesitation. Friends who know about my particular habit, even strangers who first learn about it, don’t seem to care much about it anymore, so, until someone says move on, I’ll stay and keep on. Not bothering a soul, am I. Picked out a corner spot a few years back and have been there ever since. When I’m not doing other stuff, of course.

Understand, it’s not because I don’t have a place to stay. My 28-foot fishing boat over at Spicers is a perfectly good place to crash or even entertain. However, sitting on my boat has never been the same, primarily because my mind doesn’t quite reach the special level of understanding it reaches when I’m along the river by the bar listening to the lobsters from my wooden Adirondack chair. And while it might seem misnamed, the chair, sitting on a wooden porch over the gentle flowing waters of a coastal river in Connecticut, it is right. The broad slope of its shoulders, the deep seat for your butt cheeks and the solid under-the-knee support, coupled with wide arm rests, make it the ideal human holder when getting off your feet is a priority.

Of course, it has taken years of experimenting to come to this realization. There is a specific mix of alcohol, THC and hours awake that is required to reach that moment of deep consciousness where natural things seem to take on their own rhythm. Some might call it semi consciousness, but certainly not unconsciousness. It’s a world in between, where the present goes quiet, the past comes into perspective and the future appears as if it were the past. What’s clear is the clarity I experience when I awake. An understanding fills me and I can go forth into my day with the kind of confidence that fearlessly embraces all that happens.

That is why this particular Sunday morning I awoke to find a man standing along the railing not far from where I was resting and a hiccup disrupted the smooth karma of the day. He glanced at me, nodded a friendly acknowledgement then returned to his gaze upon the river. The 11:00 AM ferry to Long Island was just passing by, pushing a wall of white water in front of it at ten knots, the rear deck showing several cars and trucks, indicating another full load destined for Greenport, New York.

“Gonna’ be a great day!” I heard him say. He smiled and turned back inside through the door slider that led to the bar. I stood up easily and walked over to the opening, sticking my head just far enough inside the room to adjust my vision in the darkness and, of all things, I see him taking a seat at the bar. Another hiccup corroding my day! He had slipped onto the barstool positioned in the southeast corner of the bar.  My barstool!

Rage Road Rules

Sometimes it’s better to just write about it! Come take a ride with me from the safety of your computer. Greg

 

            The margin of error was way too small and totally unacceptable for strangers in 2000 pound metal chariots traveling at highway speeds. He was driving a light pickup and came steaming up from behind my compact SUV with no intent to ease in line behind as I focused on passing the tractor trailer to my right who was traveling about 70 miles an hour. I was doing 73. The guy in the pickup was probably pushing 80. I can imagine he made a split-second decision that there was enough room to make it around me, if he swerved into the right-hand land and went for the closing gap between me and the truck. That’s exactly what he did and, he made it, narrowly missing both my front right bumper and the rear left of the truck’s trailer.

            There are crazies on the road whose intent is to drive in their own world regardless of who else is on the same path. I don’t have a problem with speeding, but I do have a problem with completely acting like you are the only one out here. Get over yourself! Go find that desolate stretch, like I-10 heading to California from Arizona. Plenty of room, no cars, go fast, drive straight, challenge yourself. Put yourself, alone, at risk.

            However, when you put me at risk, without asking me to participate in the challenge, that is unacceptable. It might be called reckless. For the reckless driver who targets someone trying to get down the highway who happens to have a short fuse, it might be called life threatening. And I don’t mean just the possible outcome of a high-speed collision. I am talking about finding your life threatened and, possibly taken, by someone, like me, who does not tolerate stupid, selfish asshole drivers. If you take your safety seriously, and that of your fellow travelers, then perpetrators of dangerous driving might take a lesson from the end result of my experience.

I chased the guy who cut me off and murdered him. Yea, I snapped.

I’ve been run down, raged on, beeped and flashed, fingered and followed by the best of the worst. They are dangerous drivers, stupid, inconsiderate and arrogant to a mortal fault. I’m sure we’ve all had our share of crazy encounters. Just minding your own business, keeping up with the flow and here comes “Mr. I’m in a hurry fuck you”, carving his path in whatever lane keeps him moving forward.

I had enough of it.

So, I honked at the pickup, flashed my lights and flung a middle finger through his rear window as he squeezed his way in front of me. I made a mental note of the company name splashed across his tailgate. “Shandling Siding Installation”. Then I triggered my Cronus .68 caliber paintball marker gun mounted behind the front grill of my car, connected with an electronic trigger mechanism that allowed me to fire off single round shots of paintballs at nearly 200 miles per hour. I hit the trigger three times and connected with the first two shots. Splat! Splat! Stained on the tailgate in yellow and red! The third shot, a blue ball, missed, as the pickup, fighting for control after the surprisingly successful move to cut me off, swerved to the left. The shot bounced along the right side of the vehicle, falling in a harmless splatter on the roadway.

The pickup’s swerve elicited a big blast of the horn from the trucker who was not happy with the close quarters, vehicle to vehicle skirmish that was breaking out right next to him. The guy driving the pickup was able to get control of his path even as he flashed a finger back at me. I gave him another beep and that pissed him off enough to have him slam on his brakes for a split second, forcing me to jam up the binders to avoid smashing into his paint stained rear.

He then sped up and cut in front of the truck in the right lane and accelerated for a second or two. I was back on the cruise control and we traded more finger salutes as I continued on, passing him in the left lane and extended away from the asshole. I was pretty hot, but settled into a soothing mood, smiling as I anticipated what his reaction might be when he discovered the paint stains on the back of his truck. Marked for madness!

Then his grill filled my rearview mirror. He was not done.

He pulled close, not touching because we were still rolling along at 75 miles per hour but, any action by either of us, slower for me, faster for him, would have likely been catastrophic. I clicked the cruise control twice to increase speed and reached for my other surprise next to the trigger for the paintball gun. A simple switch turned on a 16,000 lumens modified strobe light in a PVC housing attached to the roof of my SUV just forward and above the back hatch. The light flashed 60 times per minute, or once every second. The first blast caught my deadly driving dope by surprise and blinded him. The second, third and fourth disoriented him.

I followed the strobes in the next seconds with one shot from a paintball marker pistol mounted on its side under the hatchback’s spoiler, sitting level with the windshield of a light pickup should it be following about six inches behind. The air compressed pistol shot a red paint ball over the hood of the pickup and splashed the windshield dead center. The deadly driving dope, momentarily blinded by the strobe, was now blinded by the paint covering most of his vision. He made a fatal, yet inevitable, mistake by letting up on the gas.

The tractor trailer, the original obstacle our pickup buddy attempted to squeeze past, now became a skidding, sliding wiggle wagon that drove up from behind on the suddenly slowing pickup. The locked brakes and the swerve by the truck driver caused the trailer to fishtail in the righthand lane while the truck cab moved into the passing lane. The forward momentum of the trailer quickly caught up to the blinded pickup and slid over the rear bed. However, the pickup cab was too high and as the trailer continuing on its inexorable path, it ripped the passenger compartment open from behind with a sickening crunch.

It is not clear if the pickup driver had a moment for a final thought. He certainly could not see the tractor trailer catching him from behind, although when he hit the brakes upon the paint ball splat, he might have remembered that the speeding truck was behind him. I am inclined to think he was thinking forward, intent on harassing me in my SUV with intense tail gating. There probably wasn’t time to think much between the initial blinding strobe light and the splush of paint obscuring his vision. Maybe he heard the crunch of the trailer as it ripped into the rear of the pickup cab, but even that sound would not have been completely understood before the lights went out and our deadly dumb driver was turned to a bloody mess in two pieces.

I kept on going, catching a glimpse in my side view mirror of metal fragments, road dust and other debris flying into the air at the scene of the impact. I wasn’t going back.

 

 

 

            

            

Panhandling

My good friend Bill called it perfectly! “Panhandling”. On a recent visit with him in Portsmouth, NH I hit a couple bookstores with a box of books in my trunk and by the time I got home 24 hours later “Spy Island” was on the shelves in a handful of them. Portsmouth, Barrington, Wakefield, Newport, Pawtucket, Westerly and Mystic. The new buzz word is “authorpreneur”. Writing the book may be the easy part! You gotta sell it, of course, and there is no magic bullet. My publisher has made the book available to the 36,000 booksellers across America, but there are no guarantees anyone will actually stock it. Greg who? So, old school says I meet them one by one. Connecticut’s double dozen or so are next. Meanwhile, if you’re traveling, stop in River Run Bookstore or Book and Bar in Portsmouth. Wakefield Books, Barrington Books, Island Books in Middletown and Stillwater Books in Pawcatuck. And don’t forget our friends at Bank Square, Mystic and Savoy Books & Cafe, Westerly. Can anyone say “Road Trip!”?

Log Lines

Over 100,000 words in a novel, but the marketing gurus suggest cutting down the log lines to less than 100! So, the game is imagery in short bursts. Why should I buy this book? What’s it all about? How about a poem?

Spy Island - It’s a Hell of a Tale to Sell!

Booze and Bets. Broken Hearts. Stolen Secrets

Old School Spies. Government Lies.

Sailors in the Oar Drinking Mudslides.

A Murder. A Manhunt. Submarine Sabotage.

The Feds. The Reds. Digital Espionage.

Petrika’s in the Cellar, Luke’s on the Lam!

The Southeast Lighthouse is Part of the Scam!

From Coney Island to Block Island, You can Run. Hide. Spy

But Make No Mistake, They are Coming for You,

And Someone has to Die!

—-SpyhakrF 102519

Books in the garage

It’s been ten years since my last novel “Crew” was released. Something about working at a real job that got in the way! But, novel #2, “Spy Island”, is out and with me like a kid on Christmas Day, the books arrived by UPS on Friday evening. I’ve produced videos for years and since the internet, it’s a click and a swipe and your art is up for the world. As an author, unless my audience comes to my house, the books sit in boxes, shiny and colorful, filled with characters and images drawn with words just waiting to take you away. But, first I’ve got to get them out of the garage! A whole other problem. And a new path to embark on. We’ve got a handful downtown Mystic and Westerly at Bank Square and Savoy. And soon the books will drift to other brick and mortar locations, to sit on shelves awaiting new homes for the holidays. Can’t wait! Oh, you mean that’s my job now?

Fortunately, just a click and a swipe also works with greggilmartin.com and the other online retailers! This time you can get it anywhere. And in my garage!

Hey, look, Mom! I just did a blog! G