"The Gold Watch" by Alistair MacLean (from "The Lonely Sea")

Long one of my favorite authors, Mr. Alistair MacLean outdoes even himself here. It would be impossible for anyone but Mr. MacLean to have written this story.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I always have.

"The Gold Watch" by Alistair MacLean

His watch was the pride of our captain’s life. It was of massive construction, being no less than 3 inches in diameter; it was made of solid gold; it was beautifully engraved with cabalistic designs of extraordinary intricacy; and finally, it was attached to a chain, whose dimensions, with regard to both length and circumference, had to be seen to be believed. The chain also, needless to say, was made of gold. Anyone who had the temerity to doubt this last fact, was handed the chain and coldly asked to observe for himself that it was stamped on every link.

In addition to the aforementioned merits, the watch, our captain claimed, was completely moisture proof. We had, on several occasions, urged him to prove his words by submerging the subject of discussion in a basin of water, but on each occasion, the captain’s reply, uttered in a very injured tone, was to the same effect, namely, that if we did not believe his statement, he was not going to stoop to demonstrate its truth to us. From this, we could only conclude that the captain, like ourselves, had his doubts as to his watch’s ability to defy the ravages of water. It was indeed, we knew, a very, very sore point with our captain, one which he longed, with all his heart and soul, to prove, but lacked the courage to put it to the final test.

Usually, this watch was hidden from the plebian gaze- and fingers- in a locked case, which in its turn, lay in a locked drawer in the captain’s cabin. But today, it reposed in the captain’s waistcoat pocket, while the chain, such was its length, seemed almost to girdle the area of the captain’s maximum circumference. Waistcoats are very uncommon with “whites”, and it was maliciously rumored that the captain had had his specially made for the purpose of accommodating and displaying the watch and its accessories. Be that as it may, here was our captain, this blistering June afternoon, going ashore for his last interview with his Basrah agents, wearing a genial smile on his face, and, about two feet further south, his beloved time keeper.

When he came back a bare two hours later, his launch nosing its way through the date laden lighters surrounding our vessel which was anchored in mid-river, his genial expression was no longer there. Neither was his watch, and our deduction, that the latter accounted for the former, proved to be correct. Having solicitously helped the red faced, perspiring captain on board, we waited patiently.

He was, at first, incoherent with rage, with his clearly visible, ever mounting blood pressure, we feared an apoplectic stroke. Fortunately for him, he at last recovered the power of speech, and this undoubtedly relieved, to a great extent, his almost over powering feelings. He was very bitter. His language, in addition, was shocking, but we had to admit that he had full justification for it.

He had, apparently, been walking peacefully back to the ship from his agents, with malice in his heart towards none, but nevertheless, taking due and proper precautions for the safe guarding of wallet and watch, when among the riff raff of the street bazaars. Once clear of them, he had dropped these precautions, deeming them needless, and, at the entrance to the docks, he had had to push his way through a group of Arab sailors, whom he, in his great and regrettable ignorance, had thought to be as honest as himself. (His bitterness, at this juncture, was truly remarkable) Suddenly, he had been jostled in the rear with great violence, and on turning to remonstrate with the discourteous one, had not felt his watch and chain being slipped from their moorings, with that dexterity and efficiency which bespoke of long and arduous practice, so that, when about to resume his journey, he found his watch no longer there.

At this point he again lost the power of speech, and to our fearful and dreading eyes, his entire disintegration appeared not only probable, but imminent. Recovering himself with a masterly effort, however, he resumed his narrative. Although unable to espy the actual perpetrator of the theft, who had, with commendable discretion and alacrity, completely vanished, he had realized that the jostler must have been his confederate, and had pursued the said confederate for over half a mile, before being eluded by the Arab in a crowded thoroughfare. This, we realized, accounted for our captain’s complexion and superabundance of perspiration.

Here again, having once more relapsed into incoherency, he was left to his vengeful meditations, alternately muttering “My watch” and “the villain”, the former with a touching pathos, and the latter, preceded by some highly descriptive adjectives, with an extraordinary depth of feeling.

Thirty hours later found no appreciable dimunition in our captain’s just and righteous anger, although he could now speak like a rational being, albeit forcefully, concerning his grievous misfortunes of the previous afternoon. We had loaded our last case of dates just on sunset, and, early that morning, even as the first faint streak of grey in the eastern sky heralded the burning day, had gratefully cleared the malodorous port of Basrah. We were, by this time, fairly into the Gulf and proceeding serenely on our way, South by East, through the stifling tropical night, the darkness of which was but infinitesimally relived by the cold, unthinkably distant pinpoints of stars in the moonless night sky.

Our captain, whose outraged feelings evidently refused him the blessed solace of slumber, had recently come up to the bridge, which he was now ceaselessly pacing, very much after the manner of a caged leopard, all the time informing us as to the dire retribution which he intended meting out to the present illegal possessor of his watch, should he ever be fortunate enough to lay hands on him. The lascar Quartermaster, very zealous in our captain’s presence, was poring over the compass box, while in the bows, the lookout man was either thinking of his native village in far off Bombay, or had found sleep vastly easier to come by than our captain.

This last, was of course, pure conjecture, but it must have approximated very closely to the truth, for the first the lookout knew of the dhow lying dead in our path, was when a loud splintering crash, accompanied by even louder frenzied yells, informed him that our steel bows had smashed the unfortunate dhow to matchwood.

“Don’t say we’ve run down another of these bloody dhows,” groaned our captain wearily (it is a surprisingly common occurrence), ringing the engines down to Stop, and bellowing for a boat to be lowered with the utmost expedition. This was done, and then minutes later the lifeboat returned with the shivering, brine soaked crew of the erstwhile dhow; the captain, duty bound, went down on deck to inspect them, as they came on board.

The rope ladder twitched, and as the first luckless victim- how luckless, he did not then completely realize- appeared over the side, the captain’s jaw dropped fully two inches, and he stood as if transfixed.

“That’s the gentleman I chased yesterday,” he ejaculated joyfully (“gentleman”, as will be readily understood, is employed euphemistically) then stopped, staring, with rapidly glazing eyes, at the second apparition, who had just then topped the railing. Dependent from this, the second, “gentleman’s” undeniably filthy neck, and reaching to his waist, was a most unusual ornament for an impoverished Arab- no less an object than our captain’s purloined watch and chain, thus miraculously restored to him, by the joyful caprices of Fortune.

With drawn breath, and with sincere pity in our hearts, we waited for the heavens to fall, for the captain to execute the oft repeated, blood thirsty promises, for, in short, the instant and complete annihilation of the Arabs (four in all) who were regarding the captain with the utmost trepidation, which they were at no pains to conceal.

To our small astonishment- and it may be added, relief- the expected Arab massacre failed to materialize. Instead, stepping quietly forward and lovingly removing his watch and chain from the neck of the cringing, violently shivering Arab, the captain, in a strangely gentle tone, in which there seemed, to us, to be a barely repressed inflection of triumph, merely said, “Take these men below and give them something warm to eat; we’ll hand them over to the Bahrain police, in the morning.”

We were astounded. We were amazed. We were utterly and completely dumbfounded.

Our modest comprehension could not grasp it. What, we asked ourselves, wonderingly, was the reason for this incredible change of front? We were not left long in ignorance.

Swinging round on us, and brandishing his watch on high, the captain shouted: “See!- er, I mean, hear!” We heard. The clamorous tick tock, tick tock of his watch would have put any self respecting alarm clock to shame.

“Waterproof!” he cried exultingly. “Waterproof, you blasted unbelievers! Waterproof!”

It was, I believe, the supreme moment of our captain’s life.

"70 Most Unforgettable Characters" - Reader's Digest (1967)

The binder of this volume of short narratives was the only portion of the cover with any writing on it, hence the unusual, at least for me, display of the book cover above. This is a perfect book for vacations, or sitting around the airport waiting for a plane. Filled with 70 of the most wonderful, and unforgettable characters, just as it says on the cover, this book will inspire you as well as make you laugh out loud.

When I was a young boy I used to eagerly read the “My Most Unforgettable Person” story in every Reader’s Digest I came across. And, in those days, they were everywhere. I even remember reading them at my Grandmother Nana’s house. Barbershops, shoeshine parlors; you name the place and there was a Reader’s Digest in there somewhere. It might be an older issue- but they still had my favorite feature in them.

This book is the same as those old issues were. There is something; or should I say someone; in here for everybody. There are accounts of the obscure, such as elevator operators; and also the recollections of newspapermen, doctors, writers, and so much more between these plain looking covers.

Without going into detail about all of the 70 people represented here, I will give you a glimpse of my favorites. There is the account by Jackie Robinson and his admiration for Branch Rickey when he integrated major league baseball in the era of Jim Crow.

There is also the story of a delicatessen owner who becomes friends with a Supreme Court Justice, to the betterment of both men. Journalist H.L. Mencken is remembered by author H. Allen Smith; Cole Porter is fondly recalled by a friend who tells of the debilitating pain which the composer suffered for 35 years; all the while with a smile on his face and a song in his heart. On the way to the hospital after the initial accident which caused his lifelong pain, he finished the lyrics to “You’ll Never Know.”

Not only the famous are represented here; there are stories of Preachers, Nuns, and even working men and women who have made a difference in the lives of others. For instance, there is the story of Oddie Cox, an educator of the so-called “Negro Schools” in North Carolina during the days of Jim Crow. He had been the Principal of the Institution he ran, but only gets his teaching certificate 20 years after first enrolling; not because he didn’t attend; but because he took only courses which would benefit his students when he passed that knowledge onto them. The College Board awarded him a degree based on his accumulated knowledge, and the way in which he used that to better the lives of others.

The stories of a woman Chimney Sweep; helicopter pioneer Igor Sikorsky; and Pearl S. Buck’s account of an old Chinese Empress, all make this a wonderfully fulfilling read. There is literally something in here to satisfy anyone who might pick it up. Ma Pullen, of Pullen House fame in Alaska, is a great example.

And, as always with this type of book, you can pick it up and open to any chapter to begin, making it a perfect book for the beach, as well as the aforementioned airports. If the book is not available at your local library, then you can pick this one up on line for less than $5 bucks. Sue picked this one up in a basket full of books she bought last weekend at an auction. She bought the basket, but I’m reading the books.

"The Hoax" with Richard Gere (2006)

This is a great movie about Clifford Irving’s alleged attempt to forge an autobiography of Howard Hughes. I say alleged because I have never been convinced that Mr. Irving wasn't the foil of larger forces. Think about it; a mediocre author, rejected by his publisher; suddenly comes up with the idea, and opportunity, to do an autobiography of the world’s richest and most reclusive man, and manages to secure a whopping $100,000 advance from the publisher. Now he has to produce the book.

In his mind he is in actual contact with the legendary millionaire via handwritten letters detailing his life’s story. But is he? The handwriting experts all say the letters are genuine, but are they? In this cinematic version, based on actual documents and interviews, the author has hatched this plan with a friend, who doubts that the scheme will work. Banking on the greed of the publisher to land the most coveted book of the last 50 years, they study Hughes’ handwriting, honing their skills to perfection, and then creating the letters.

When he is accused of forging the letters, he manages to raise the advance to $1 million dollars, which only serves to ratchet up the pressure to produce the book. 

The money is exchanged based on the publisher’s eagerness to get the book out, only to be outwitted by either the author, or the forces he claims are arrayed against him. The goal, of course, was to add fuel to the fire when the real powers that be decided to bring Nixon down via Watergate. What better ammunition to have than a documented payment from Hughes via a disgraced publisher to a suspect author? If this seems confusing you really need to brush up on the connections between the Bay of Pigs, Dealey Plaza, and finally the Watergate affair, which was concocted to bring down the President by exposing his links to some of the most atrocious events of the 1960’s.

Excellent acting by Richard Gere; along with a tightly woven account of the events; are the things which drive this film, making it well worth watching.

"Redemption" by Howard Fast

Howard Fast was one of America's most prolific authors. And the range of his work is truly phenomenal, encompassing Fiction, History and Religion. From the first time I read "April Morning", in 5th grade, the story of a young boy on the morning that the American Revolution began at Lexington and Concord, I was a fan. And over the years, although I have drifted almost entirely into non-fiction, his books have continued to draw me back as he explores new topics and interests. Hey, this is the guy who wrote "Spartacus."

This book, "Redemption", was written in 1999, just a few years before his death in March of 2003, at age 89. It is remarkably candid in it's exploration of the accidental relationship of Ike Goldman, a professor emeritus at Columbia University, and Elizabeth Hopper, a woman whom he meets while driving across the George Washington Bridge at about 3 AM. She is standing at the rail on the walkway, ready to jump. He, a widower of several years, is returning from a gathering of old cronies, talking law, politics, and smoking cigars. She is the battered and abused wife of a Wall Street tycoon, who will be found murdered very shortly after they meet. And the murder is committed with Ike's long forgotten pistol, which he hasn't seen in years.

This leaves two obvious suspects, both with ample motive, opportunity and time to commit the murder of the late Mr. Hopper. But is circumstancial evidence ever enough to be sure? Especially when it is a capital crime? As a professor of contract law, Ike must learn, with the aid of a former student turned defense counsel, to navigate the pathways of the justice system rather than the board room.

Mr. Fast did not just write simple novels. They can be taken at "face" value and make great reading. But the secret to his long and varied suceess as a writer has always been his ability to educate the reader along the way. The story is just a vehicle. The plot here encompasses Womens Right's, Faith, and the possibilities of fate accidently taking hold in one's life.

With a wedding between 79 year old Ike, and 47 year old Liz in the balance, the story takes on a whole new dimension, as Ike struggles with the seeming absurdity of love with a younger woman. Will his judgement, and integrity, be tempered by his emotions? Or will the simple logic of truth, which he has always taught, hold sway?

With supreme character development, as expected of Mr. Fast, the book takes on an urgency that will keep you turning pages. The court trial and jury summations are spot on to real life, leaving the reader just as unsure as in an actual courtroom, when the jury is really out.

Mr. Fast passed away in 2003, at age 89. He wrote until the end. I wish I had had the opportunity to thank him for the treasure of literature he has left behind.