How to use this Page

by Matt Phelan Candlewick  2011 Three remarkable journeys made by a trio of intrepid adventurers – Thomas Stevens, Nellie Bly, and Joshua Slocum – on the eve of the 20th century, rendered in graphic novel format.   As a prologue, we begin with the wager that sets up Jules Verne's Around the World in 80 Days. It seems an impossible (and almost arbitrary) goal to set, but fantastical enough

by Craig Moodie, author of Into the Trap

Writing Into the Trap allowed me to transform many of the coasts and islands and bodies of water I’ve known into the fictional setting of Fog Island.

Since I was a kid, islands in particular have captivated me. All of the islands I’ve set foot on or seen from the deck of a boat have kept me under their spell. I wish I could tell you about all of them, from Vieques to Cuttyhunk, Bermuda to Barra.

But one that I thought about a lot when I was writing the book was called Dobbins Island. My family was lucky enough to own a 35-foot yawl that we sailed out of Annapolis, Maryland. Sometimes when we cruised we would head into the Magothy River and anchor near Dobbins Island.

It was an uninhabited islet covered with woods and thickets atop steep clay bluffs. Its spindly tangled trees looked like the masts of pirate ships. One time when we rowed ashore for a quick walk along the beach, one of my sisters said it looked like a good stand-in for the setting of Lord of the Flies. It was eerie, quiet and watchful and secretive, and that made me want to explore it all the more. But we had to head back to the boat.

I got another chance one muggy evening when we’d anchored off the island again. After dinner I climbed into the dinghy to head to the island alone. Crossing the smooth water, I spooked myself when I looked over the side to see the dark forms of seaweed just below the surface. I crunched ashore on the orange-ish sand and walked past a steep clay bank pocked with the burrows of swallows. The birds swooped and veered past me. I followed the beach and found a path leading up the bluff into the woods.

The woods was dim and shadowy and hissed with the sound of crickets. The leaves laced together overhead to blot out the light. I hadn’t expected to find such a well-worn path, and I followed it at a trot to reach the far headland. At the edge I pushed through the undergrowth to look out through the foliage over the anchorage, where our boat lay among a few other boats on the serene water. Behind me a blue jay called.

Why I had a feeling I was being watched, I wasn’t sure.

I spun around.

Only the woods lay before me. A blue jay called again. The light was thinning.

I went back down the path to see what was on the other side of the island. The path began to climb toward the other end, tree branches forming a leafy tunnel overhead.

Then I heard a thumping ahead of me.

I stopped to listen, my breathing heaving in my ears.

How close had that sound been?

I moved ahead, slower now.

The sound came again—a thumping of hooves.

I heard rustling in the underbrush.

The path took a sharp turn as it climbed. I came around a bend.

I stopped, my heart jolting, before a pair of large eyes staring at me from the middle of the path. They were the wide-spaced eyes of a goat—a wild goat. The forms of two other goats were behind it. They, too, stared at me.

What was I doing on their island? they seemed to be saying.

I should have known, I realized. Why else would a desert island have such a well-worn network of paths?

The dusk settled deeper as the goats melted into the thicket and vanished into the shadows. How the goats had gotten there I wasn’t sure. Maybe they swam here from the mainland. Maybe their ancestors had survived a shipwr

By Anatoly Liberman The history of boat is no less obscure than the history of ship. Britain was colonized by Germanic-speakers in the fifth century CE from northern Germany and Denmark. It is hard to imagine that the invaders, who became known to history as the Angles, Saxons, and Jutes and who must have known a good deal about navigation, stopped using boats after they crossed the Channel. But a cognate of boat has not turned up in any modern dialect spoken on the southern coast of the North Sea.

My contribution to this week’s Illustration Friday. Check out all the other mighty-fine submissions for this week’s topic!

Went sailing today. Not really. Had to use my imagination for a short while. What I like to think of as spiritual energy took over and I truly was sailing. The sky was forever blue, the sails worked the wind and the wind worked the sails, and the boat lapped waves like a thirsty hound after the hunt. It was grand. I remember that day. I recall a face. I miss the person. Our feelings always follow a thought, and this was one of those memories brought about by something I saw today. Our life is made full by the stuff triggered by a thought. Hopefully we are filling up the "full" part with things that will bring us a smile, warm our heart, soothe our mind. It's up to us. Someone once told me "You will become what you think." So true. When I've thought too much about sad stuff, I've been sad. When I've thought too much about cheerful stuff, I've been happy. Seems to me we have a mixture of life events we must endure. Good or bad. Happy or sad. We have to do these things. I am one of those people who will always believe the suffering is necessary. How would I know how wonderful it was not to suffer if I'd never felt pain? Life is truly a mixture. I work at the balance everyday. A dash of this, a spoonful of that, and a good heaping helping of gratitude. Today is a recipe. What I throw in the bowl becomes my memories tomorrow. Hope I'm doing a good job. Hope I can just keep on sailing.

Our boat was never one to just be plopped into the water and ready to sail. Paul’s been working on wiring, electronics, the engine, etc., for weeks to get the boat prepared to be sailed comfortably. Only tonight did he get the last of the lights working, which we tested out with a quicky evening [...]

Dave Gelly, author of Being Prez: The Life and Music of Lester Young is the weekly jazz critic for The Observer and contributes to many other British periodicals. He was invested with the MBE by HM The Queen in 2005 and is also a professional saxophonist. In his book Gelly follows Lester Young through his life in a rapidly changing world, showing how the music of this exceptionally sensitive man was shaped by his experiences. Watch the clip below and then read Gelly’s explanation of why he picked it as emblematic of Young.

(more…)

Share This