Books by Eric Douglas

Thriller fiction and Non-fiction

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Get outside and get living

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I wrote this last week, before the awful events on Monday. I think it is doubly important to get outside, breathe some fresh air and enjoy life. You never know when it will be cut short. Tomorrow is not guaranteed.  

 

Doing some yard work last weekend I realized I’m not 20 anymore. As a writer, my job is mostly sedentary and I told my wife I’ve come to realize I’m not even in particularly good shape for a 45-year-old. Of course, I can always make excuses that this past winter was nasty enough that I couldn’t get outside and do much. That would just be an excuse, though.

I recently read a review of a local restaurant from someone who was just passing through town on their way south. The writer made the point that he didn’t understand why West Virginia has the reputation for being overweight. He said there are Stairmasters everywhere you look. You just have to go outside and climb up a hill.

A good friend and a veteran of two tours as part of Operation Iraqi Freedom, David Dean, told me recently when I interviewed him for the upcoming Voices of War documentary about West Virginia war veterans “What really saved me from that first tour was working on the river as a river guide. It was just peaceful. It let me get out of the war mode and back into a living mode.” 

A week or so ago, a report came out that identified Charleston as the Most Unhappy place in the country to live. “The Gallup-Healthways Well-being Index score is an average of six sub-indexes, which individually examine life evaluation, emotional health, work environment, physical health, healthy behaviors, and access to basic necessities.” The Huntington-Ashland area held this position for the last two years and has moved into the second-most unhappy place. When I commented on this on my blog, Brad Deel replied:

“There are several things Charleston could do to encourage healthier behaviors. There is no reason a person shouldn’t be able to get on a hiking/running/biking path in Charleston and travel up the Elk to Coonskin. Several consultants have suggested changing from 4 lanes to 2 travel lanes with a center turn lane combined with an expanded riverside walkway. Connecting trails with clear marking is another way to make it easier. It’s not just a quality of life issue. Businesses look for things like this when they think of relocating. Creating a vibrant trail system would require creative thinking, a master plan, and solid public/private partnerships but Charleston may be the only capital city in the country without interconnected trails.”

A couple days ago a friend told me he was going fishing this past weekend in Pocahontas County. He said I should come along. At first I demurred with all the standard excuses; too much to do, busy, can’t get away. And then it hit me that I needed to get back to living mode myself. I haven’t done anything as stressful as going to war. Instead, I’ve gotten out of the habit of being outside and being active. I called him back and told him I was coming. It was great to get outside in some fresh air to experience the quiet, see running water and just breathe. If you want to see more photos from the trip, check out the Mountain Time blogfrom earlier this week.

It is time to get on a “West Virginia Stairmaster.” Ready to join me?.

Shooting for the stars

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My older brother and I agree that we had a good childhood in Cross Lanes. By today’s standards we were deprived, of course. We only had three or four channels on our television and didn’t have central air conditioning until we were 11 and 13.

What we did have was access to a lot of creativity and science. I remember erector sets, chemistry sets, microscopes, telescopes and just about every other “set” that let us challenge ourselves and our imagination. One of the more exciting summertime things we did was launch model rockets in the backyard.

We would build rockets and set them up on a stand. We would light a fuse by hand and run back a ways in time to watch the launch like a big bottle rocket. The thrill of the launch was only multiplied by the chase of the rocket’s return. We held our breath while we looked for the parachute to pop out and bring the rocket slowly back to earth. Or, as happened occasionally, watching it corkscrew back down, burying itself in the clay.

For the last several months, my oldest daughter Ashlin has been building rockets through the Starbase Academy Program at John Adams Middle School. The program is funded by the Department of Defense and offered through the school system. My younger daughter, Jamison, still in elementary school, has been able to be the “mascot” for the group and help out as well. They built smaller individual rockets and launched them. Then they worked together to build a larger rocket as a team. They recently completed a successful launch of the team rocket. The result of that launch, including altitude and other telemetry information, was sent off the national Starbase program. The great news is their rocket has been accepted into the national competition. They will be headed off to DC next month for more adventure.

When I was growing up, the space program was on everyone’s mind. The Apollo Missions were ending, but we had Skylab and the Mir Space Station along with the coming of the space shuttle to fire imaginations. Everyone wanted to be an astronaut and the possibility of space exploration got everyone excited about technology and the future. Back then, it seemed like technology fields were heavily dominated by men. As the father of two young girls, I’m excited to see that changing.

Ultimately, I don’t care if either girl ends up being an engineer or a scientist when they grow up. (I didn’t, but I’m still a space-junkie.) If they choose to, that’d be great and I’ll support that however I can. What I hope they both get from this is a sense of wonder and excitement for exploration. 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to go buy a rocket….

Fiction meets reality in Wreck of the Huron

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I recently got a very interesting email from a reader — Steve Lovell of Bristol, England. He was reading my fourth novel Wreck of the Huronand wanted to tell me about a true story related to the wreck. You can learnmore about the Huron here.

Most of what I learned about the wreck came of the reading PROCEEDINGS OF COURT OF INQUIRY ON THE LOSS OF THE HURON from Wednesday, December 5, 1877. The wreck happened in the early morning hours on November 24, 1877. The inquiry was held less than two weeks after the actual wreck.
In one scene, I followed William P. Conway, the watch commander on the USS Huron, as he swam ashore and then helped rescue some of the other men who survived the wreck. What I didn’t know about was the actions of Antonio Williams. He was also on the ship and was side-by-side with Conway coming ashore. Williams wasn’t mentioned specifically in the inquest and he wasn’t interviewed because he was still in the hospital recovering from his injuries.

Antonio Williams received the Congressional Medal of Honor for his actions that day making him the oldest recipient of the award. (Until just before World War II, servicemen could receive the award in peacetime. Now it is only given for actions during war.)

Williams was born in Malta in 1830 and came to the United States in 1867, after being shanghaied and serving aboard a whaler in his youth. He became a naturalized citizen of the United States in 1890—the same year he retired from the Navy. He later moved to England, his wife’s home.

The Secretary of the Navy, in sending the medal to Antonio Williams, wrote “It is shown in evidence that upon that occasion, the wrecking of the U. S. N. steamer Huron, you gave up whatever chance of life a foothold upon the wrecked vessel offered by taking to the sea, with Ensign Young, on a small balsa in the attempt to carry a line to the shore for the relief of your ship-mates. The effort failed by the shortness of the line. Four times capsized on the balsa, and nearly drowned, you reached the shore, where, before you were clear of the undertow, and notwithstanding your bruises and worn condition, joining hands with your companion, you helped with him to haul two men out of the water, and afterward, joining hands with him again, and running back into the surf, hauled out two more. It is also shown that you rendered material assistance to the weak and exhausted men whom you had saved.”

In an interview with Harpers Weekly he was asked “Did you think you would reach the shore?”

“Yes, I did; and every time the sea knocked me off the balsa I set my teeth the harder together, and made up my mind to do my best. The sea off that coast of North Carolina would take me and throw me clear off of the balsa and then I would have to get back again. I was very much battered and bruised, as was Mr. Young, but he was as brave as you ever find them. If we had only known that we were 300 yards from the shore we might have done better, but we could not see. It was pitch dark. I said to myself the wind and the sea must fetch us up somewhere near the shore, and we worked about three miles of a course on that balsa before we struck the beach, and we struck it hard, I tell you. Of course I must have been used up, but I didn’t know it then… I saw more work to do, and I forgot the pains in my back, where the seas, or a spar, or something struck me. I was three months in hospital before I got all over it. I never was a strong man after it; though my nerves were just as good as ever…”

Later in his career, Williams was at sea on the Corvette Yantic and faced another severe storm. Harpers Weekly wrote: when it was thought that the Yantic would founder, (Williams ) strapped on his medals, and declared that if he went down he would still carry his decorations for manly and honorable conduct about him. “That’s the belt I put them in, and I wear it for three days-until the medals hurt my back. The sea make the bronze medal a little green, but the gold one is just as bright as when my adopted country give it me.”

Williams was buried at Greenbank Cemetery in Bristol with honors. The minister who officiated said he was struck by Williams’ idea of Christianity and his preparations for the afterlife. Being a man who obeyed orders all of his life, Williams said “when the order came from his Captain to go aloft, he would be ready to obey.”

Reader Steve Lovell noted that he visited Williams’ cemetery plot and it was run down and very plain. He cleaned it up and placed a cross of remembrance on it. He is currently waiting for a reply from the US Consulate and the Veterans Administration to see about getting the grave restored. Lovell has no connection to Williams; he just wants to see the proper respect and honor paid to a hero.

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Begin with a spark

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When I write fiction, I begin with a spark of an idea and then the rest of the story grows around that. Cayman Cowboys was my first novel and really my first attempt at writing fiction. I was visiting Grand Cayman, conducting some training for local dive instructors, when a friend took me out to do a little sightseeing. After making a dive on the East End of the island, we stopped to look at the blow holes. Over the years, waves have eroded the iron shore—exposed and jagged limestone coral that now stands above the ocean surface—and when waves crash into the shore, water shoots straight into the air.

I remember walking across the iron shore thinking that if I fell, I was going to bleed. Heavily. And then I started thinking/imagining how scared someone would have to be to run across the iron shore and what it would do to them. That became the first scene I wrote for Cayman Cowboys. Afterward, I had to go back and get the story to the point that a girl would be so scared she would run across the iron shore and then had to create the story that came afterward.

Every one of my novels has that same sort of spark; a scene that literally popped into my head that caused me to start writing.

The following is an excerpt from my first novel Cayman Cowboys. It became the seed for the entire novel. It isn’t the key to the story (we don’t need a spoiler alert here), just where it started.

 

Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from an abandoned house directly behind where the men were meeting. They heard the sound of a young woman yelp in pain.

“Check it out and find out who’s in there,” Walker ordered. The Lincoln’s driver and both men from the third car rushed toward the house. Samson started to go as well, assuming this was one of the duties his boss was paying him for, but Walker reached out his hand and held him back.
Seeing the men come rushing out of the darkness, the girl, who was just sleeping in the house, ran out the side door to get away.
All three men shouted after her and one fired a gun into the air, hoping it would make her stop. It didn’t. Scared beyond all comprehension, the girl ran faster. She was a runaway, hiding out from her family and the law. Waking up from a sound sleep, she thought it was the police coming to take her back to her abusive father in the U.S. She had tried to run away before. When she was caught and taken home, the beatings were worse than before.
Quite possibly the last thought the girl had was that these men would never take her back to her family, no matter what happened. She ran from the sandy soil covering much of the island directly onto what the locals call iron shore, limestone rock left over from millions of years of coral buildup that has been eroded over the years by the rain to form jagged edges and crevices. Even in solid shoes, iron shore is treacherous. At night, with nothing more than sandals on her feet, no light and fleeing in a panic, the girl didn’t stand a chance.
Not being from the island, she had only set foot there just a few days before. Using money she had stolen from a small liquor store near her home to buy the ticket and a friend’s passport to gain entrance to the island, she had fled during the night. She had read stories in magazines about the island and thought it sounded like a wonderful place to escape. She hadn’t had a chance to learn the land yet. She didn’t realize just how treacherous running across the iron shore could be, especially down by the shore where the wave action had made things even more hazardous.
She fell. Hearing the men’s voices, she stood up bleeding from her shoulder and tripped again just a few yards away. This time she tore a jagged hole in her leg. In agony, she struggled to her feet and tried to run again. Turning to look, she saw the lights the men carried swinging back and forth. Knowing she had to get away, she struggled to her feet one more time, pain searing through her body, already dying from the increasing blood loss from a torn artery in her thigh, she fell for the last time in a crevice between the rocks at the water’s edge.
She could hear the gentle sounds of the small Caribbean waves lapping against the rocks and the iron shore coast. When the waves hit the shore just right, the water would work its way through the rocks and blast straight up into the air, like a blowhole from a whale.
“Do you see the girl?”
Nah, I don’t see anything. I’m not even sure there was a girl.”
“Someone was out here, but I can’t find her,” the men argued at the edge of the iron shore field.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m not climbing across this stuff at night.”
“You’re right; she couldn’t have gone this way. Let’s check the other side of the road.” 

 

The thing is, there’s a spark in everything. Every project, every idea, everything you think about doing begins with a spark. The key to moving forward with anything is finding that spark, that idea that moves you and then building on it. Sometimes it will move forward in fits and starts and other times you will feel like you are going backward.

The most important thing is to keep fanning the spark. The rest will come.

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Find what moves you

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A few years ago, I got into a debate with a friend about exactly what “success” meant. I’m ashamed to admit that I was on the more traditional side of that argument—money made, books sold, best seller lists, recognition and so on. I maintained that I was nowhere near successful.

Over the last couple years, I’ve taken a hard look at how I want to spend my days and what’s important to me. My definition of success has shifted significantly.

I don’t normally watch “inspirational” videos, but a friend I admire, Tom Hindman, posted one this morning. I clicked on it and it moved me.(Unfortunately, the YouTube version isn’t complete so this link is on Facebook.) Take three minutes and watch it. Think about what it says and ask yourself if you’re doing what moves you.

I get frustrated when I see people complaining about their lives and what they’re doing. I want to shout, “If you don’t like your situation, change it!” On the whole it’s probably easier to complain than it is to take a risk and find something new; something that moves us. But think of all the time and energy that’s wasted.

Not everyone is creative, not everyone can write, or paint or whatever. I get that. But you can still do whatever it is that moves you. The video asks the question: “What would you do if money was no object?” That’s what you should be pursuing. No one said you have to quit your job, sell your stuff and move to Tibet. Do something on the side, take a class; volunteer or start a side business. Slowly (but inexorably) you will move in the direction you want to go.

 A friend I worked with years ago in California, Chris Rausch, is still the Materials Director for PADI. On the side, he runs his own business Master Motivators. He speaks all over helping people to find their passion. I’m sure he hopes to make it a full-time gig at some point. For now, though, he is working both jobs and everything he talks about it super upbeat and excited. Another friend of mine from college, Kelly Hines Keller, is a self-employed graphic designer, but she is also interested in film. For the third (or fourth) year in a row, she has volunteered at the Sundance Film Festival, wears herself out and has a blast every time she does it. I love that they are both finding their passions and enjoying lives. I never hear or see either of them post anything that is remotely negative. The thing is, everyone can find that sort of passion if they try.

I just saw a note that a high school classmate, Teresa (Iwrote about her earlier this year) is still struggling with cancer. She continues to fight for her life and only wants to support her family. If you’re dealing with that sort of adversity, then you get a pass—although something tells me that in Teresa’s mind she is working every day toward her real passion—health and family.   

I’m still not a “success” in terms of books sold or any of those other measurements. But I am telling stories. I am excited about every day. That’s what moves me.

How about you? What moves you? When you answer that question, your definition of success will probably shift, too. 

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