Captain Obvious Quotes

In Emma's defense, Cameron's annoying, but he's hot." Julian gave her a look. "I mean, if you like guys who look like a redheaded Captain America, which I... don't? "Captain America is definitely the most handsome Avenger," said Cristina. "But I like the Hulk. I would like to heal his broken heart." "We're Nephilim," said Julian. "We're not even supposed to know about the Avengers. Besides," he added, "Iron Man is obviously the best-looking.

Thank you, Captain Obvious." "I'm on the Senate," he reminded me. "It's Lord Obvious.

Aiden… I can’t see anything.” “That’s the point.” “Well, thanks, Captain Obvious.” I reached out blindly, but only felt air. “What do you expect me to do in here?” As soon as the question left my mouth, I was assaulted with totally inappropriate images of all the things we could do in here. “We fight.” Well that blew.

the problem at this point is that there is a problem.

Don’t make me junk punch you Captain Obvious.

It was obvious that the matter had to be settled, and evasions were distasteful to me.

You’re a pure, holy angel of goodness, and I’m Satan’s evil whore of a daughter. So yeah, we can’t work. Thanks for pointing that out, Captain Obvious. But we can fuck.

It's a timeline!' Elysia exclaimed. 'Thanks, Captain Obvious,' said Ferbus. Elysia glared at him. 'Thank you, Captain Overused Expression.' 'No, thank you, Captain Shut Your Facehole.

I don’t think it computes as a hug when one of the parties remains like a wooden stick, Captain Not So Obvious.

Yes, because it’s obviously better if you beat each other to death with rocks instead of stabbing each other like civilized human beings,” Sal muttered, looking away.

Hello, Captain Obvious. You two have been swiping at each other for so long, I figured it was only a matter of time before you realized that you’re just two sides of the same coin.

if you like guys who look like a redheaded Captain America, which I . . . don’t?” “Captain America is definitely the most handsome Avenger,” said Cristina. “But I like the Hulk. I would like to heal his broken heart.” “We’re Nephilim,” said Julian. “We’re not even supposed to know about the Avengers. Besides,” he added, “Iron Man is obviously the best-looking.

THANK ALL THE SPARKLES FOR THAT! Now you just need to tell her you’re helplessly in love with her so she can be like”—Ro shifted her voice up an octave and clasped her hands against her heart—“ ‘Oh, Hunkyhair, I never realized you felt that way, even though it was ridiculously obvious to everyone else. And I’ve been in love with you forever—I just didn’t know it because I’m super oblivious. I’m sorry I wasted so much time crushing on Captain Perfect—come here, let’s do all the smooching ever!

So the boy’s life is still in jeopardy,” Ghastek said. Thank you, Captain Obvious. “It’s being handled,” Curran said. “I would like to be involved in that handling.” “I’m sure you would,” Curran said. “It’s hard to believe, but I go whole days without worrying about your likes and dislikes.

Mel opened her jaw wide to stretch it out before she spoke again so that her words were very clear. “I am going to kill you. I’m going to drag your sorry carcass out into the desert, pour honey all over you, and let the fire ants eat you.” “You’re angry,” he said. “Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Mel snapped.

THEY SAY: ‘CAN’T YOU JUST HAVE ONE?’ Oh, man, I never thought of that! You’re a genius! Just one, you say? Rather than five or six? Thanks, Captain Obvious.

Well," Mr. Cheeseman interjected. "Perhaps there's an easy solution to this. Maybe Captain Fabulous has an alter ego." "What's an alter ego?" asked Gerard. "It's a superhero's true but secret identity," said Chip. "You know, the way that Superman is really Clark Kent." "Superman is really Clark Kent?" "It's pretty obvious," said Penny. "To everyone but you and Lois Lane." "Okay," Gerard conceded. "Captain Fabulous's alter ego will be...Teddy Roosevelt.

As I learned the ropes I learned that for many good and sound reasons the bosses and the captains sent a guy to whack you who was your friend. The obvious factor was that the shooter could get close to you in a lonely spot.

You went with Cameron?" Julian said. Livvy held up a hand. "In Emma's defense, Cameron's annoying, but he's hot." Julian gave her a look. "I mean, if you like guys who look like a redheaded Captain America, which I... don't?" "Captain America is definitely the most handsome Avenger," said Cristina. "But I like the Hulk. I would like to heal his broken heart." "We're Nephilim, said Julian. "We're not even supposed to know about the Avengers. Besides," he added, "Iron Man is obviously the best-looking." -- "I have no idea who the Avengers are," observed Mark, who had finished his strawberries and was eating sugar out of a packet. Ty looked gratified - he had no time for superheroes.

Dat means you like me.   A lot.” “Yeah, it does.”   Captain obvious. “So dat means I’m Mr. Bryn.” “Whatever you say.” “Oh.   Whatever I say?   You want me to be da boss?   Because dat’s not a problem at all.   I like to be da boss of you.” “No,” I said, putting on and zipping up my shorts, “you are not the boss of me.   I’m the boss of me and you.” He frowned.   “Dat’s not fair.   I want to be da boss of something.” “You can be the boss of Buster.” “No, not da dog.   Dat’s not da boss of anything, really.” “Fine.   You can be the boss of … I don’t know.   Kissing.” Bodo stopped putting on his shirt, his eyes taking on a special gleam, making me almost regret I had said it.

doesn’t matter because his whole demeanor spells p-r-i-c-k. When Cookie opened the cognac to sweeten his coffee, the major had sniffled to himself and said something to the captain sitting next to him. The captain was from the 101st and more or less ignored whatever the major seemed to have on his mind. The captain was looking forward to the same pleasures that we were, and obviously had no interest in engaging in some chickenshit games. Obviously the major’s pique is heightened

Captain America is definitely the most handsome Avenger,' said Cristina. 'But I like the Hulk. I would like to heal his broken heart.' 'We're Nephilim,' said Julian. 'We're not even supposed to know about the Avengers. Besides,' he added, 'Iron Man is obviously the best-looking.

Well, you can imagine how happy the Marketers were to see me and Cameron—” “You went with Cameron?” Julian said. Livvy held up a hand. “In Emma’s defense, Cameron’s annoying, but he’s hot.” Julian gave her a look. “I mean, if you like guys who look like a redheaded Captain America, which I… don’t?” “Captain America is definitely the most handsome Avenger,” said Cristina. “But I like the Hulk. I would like to fix his broken heart.” "We’re Nephilim,” said Julian. “We’re not even supposed to know about the Avengers. Besides,” he added, “Iron Man is obviously the best-looking.

As the Protestants celebrate a goal, they're egged on by the team captain, a long-haired Italian called Lorenzo Amoruso, who has the look of a 1980s male model. Flailing his arms, he urges them to sing their anti-Catholic songs louder. The irony is obvious: Amoruso is a Catholic. For that matter, so are most of the Rangers players. Since the late nineties, Rangers routinely field nearly as many Catholics as Celtic. Their players come from Georgia, Argentina, Germany, Sweden, Portugal and Holland, because money can buy no better ones. Championships mean more than religious purity.

Let me assure you, the struggle is real. I clicked my tongue, ready to fire back a snarky comment about Captain Obvious, but the titanic clash of emotions in those emerald eyes rendered me speechless. Guarded yet exposed. Challenging yet submissive. Unwilling to bend yet impossibly vulnerable. “You’re allowed to stare,” his jaw twitched, “so long as you promise to break the golden rule.” “What golden rule?” “Look but don’t touch.

I can’t understand why there are so many creeps hacking the internet, but they are there for obvious reasons. With our Country so vulnerable to hacking there is no telling what may happen next and we should all prepare this.

THANK ALL THE SPARKLES FOR THAT! Now you just need to tell her you’re helplessly in love with her so she can be like”—Ro shifted her voice up an octave and clasped her hands against her heart—“ ‘Oh, Hunkyhair, I never realized you felt that way, even though it was ridiculously obvious to everyone else. And I’ve been in love with you forever—I just didn’t know it because I’m super oblivious. I’m sorry I wasted so much time crushing on Captain Perfect—come here, let’s do all the smooching ever!’ 

Captain America is definitely the most handsome Avenger," said Cristina. "But I like the Hulk. I would like to heal his broken heart." "We're Nephilim," said Julian. "We're not even supposed to know about the Avengers. Besides," he added, "Iron Man is obviously the best-looking.

Captain America is definitely the most handsome Avenger,” said Cristina. “But I like the Hulk. I would like to heal his broken heart.” “We’re Nephilim,” said Julian. “We’re not even supposed to know about the Avengers. Besides,” he added, “Iron Man is obviously the best-looking.” “Can

Centuries later, it is often presumed that such a pious tone and environment would create boredom, cynicism, and even open rebellion among any militia. But in an era when faith was a fact of life, prayer was ubiquitous, ritual respected, and the presence of clergymen taken seriously, the result was a fresh discipline and respect - even a chivalric courtliness - among many of the troops. Joan herself was so obviously and sincerely devout that the major captains of her met-at-arms and crossbowmen were more than impressed: they followed her example as best they could.

Clearly, Ayn Rand cared only about the captains of industry and hated the common man. Sorry to put that point sarcastically, but that seems to be the only way to express how much Atlas Shrugged has been distorted and caricatured by those who find that it challenges their preconceptions—and who cannot rise to the challenge. If you cannot question the idea of an antagonism between the great industrialist and the common man, and you find that Ayn Rand obviously admires the industrialist, you will assume that she despises the common man, no matter how much evidence there is to the contrary.

If my father is involved in anything, he’ll be the leader,” said William flatly. “If you don’t know that, you don’t know the de Wordes. We don’t join any team if we can’t be captain.” “But it’d be a bit silly, wouldn’t it, to let them use your own house—” “No, just very, very arrogant,” said William. “We’ve always been privileged, you see. Privilege just means ‘private law.’ That’s exactly what it means. He just doesn’t believe the ordinary laws apply to him. He really believes they can’t touch him, and that if they do he can just shout until they go away. That’s the de Worde tradition, and we’re good at it. Shout at people, get your own way, ignore the rules. It’s the de Worde way. Up until me, obviously.

When they reached their destination, old Mr. Tisdale was introduced to Uncle Ned. So great was the captain's ability for making friends that within a short time the two men were chatting as if they had known each other for years. Captain Dana won Mr. Tisdale's heart at once by sympathizing with him in his illnesses and by inviting him to describe his various ailments. He then volunteered an account of an operation he had once undergone. Mr. Tisdale, highly delighted, came back with the story of his operation. Uncle Ned then of- fered an account of a siege of rheumatism, and Mr. Tisdale traded an attack of asthma for it, both at considerable length. Within ten minutes it was obvious that Mr. Tisdale regarded the sea captain as the most interesting and sympathetic man he had ever met.

Ro shifted her voice up an octave and clasped her hands against her heart—“ ‘Oh, Hunkyhair, I never realized you felt that way, even though it was ridiculously obvious to everyone else. And I’ve been in love with you forever—I just didn’t know it because I’m super oblivious. I’m sorry I wasted so much time crushing on Captain Perfect—come here, let’s do all the smooching ever!’ ” She followed that with kissing sounds, and Keefe opened his mouth to tell Ro exactly where she could go.

Then a small vessel in the lower left-hand corner caught his eye, something in the nature of a pink; she was beating up for the harbour, but it was obvious from the direction of the lady’s clothes that the pink would be taken aback the moment she rounded the headland. ‘As soon as she catches the land-breeze she will be in trouble,’ he said. ‘She will never stay, not with those unhandy lateens, and there is no room to wear; so there she is on a lee-shore. Poor fellows. I am afraid there is no hope for them.’ ‘That

reluctantly nodded. “THANK ALL THE SPARKLES FOR THAT! Now you just need to tell her you’re helplessly in love with her so she can be like”—Ro shifted her voice up an octave and clasped her hands against her heart—“ ‘Oh, Hunkyhair, I never realized you felt that way, even though it was ridiculously obvious to everyone else. And I’ve been in love with you forever—I just didn’t know it because I’m super oblivious. I’m sorry I wasted so much time crushing on Captain Perfect—come here, let’s do all the smooching ever!’ ” She followed that with kissing sounds,

Wisdom: Mate, we're up to our necks in Skrulls! But we remembered the treaty: mutual protection. Here we are! Now, I've lost a couple of people I care about in quick succession, and I am taking no more bollocks from you. I've got this voice in my head, it's half Gandalf and half Mr. Kipling. Who is that?! Oberon: A VOICE?! YOU MUST NOT FOLLOW IT! IT'S THE MAD ONE, THE DEMON WHO KILLED HIS OWN CHILD AND LED EVERYONE TO DESTRUCTION! THE HIGHER EVOLUTIONARIES OF ALL THE WORLDS HAVE ONLY JUST SUCCEEDED IN CONFINING HIM TO THE DARK REALMS! Wisdom: Oh. Right. Him. Well, I'm gonna stop following that voice then. Obviously.

If you need to study and your buddy says, “we’re going to a strip club!” your brain will be like, well I definitely can’t study at a strip club, so no. But what if that friend says, “we’re going to a coffee shop, come get a latte”? A cup of coffee is a less obvious violation of studying than a lap dance. Your brain doesn’t outright reject the idea of a coffee shop immediately. Maybe you go to the coffee shop, get into a 45-​minute discussion about Captain America, wind up doing the same amount of productive studying as if you’d gone to a club, and flunk the test. The lesser temptation ironically proved even more tempting—and even more disastrous.

Holy hell. All Michaels saw was a tall, walking Adonis. Decked out in leather except for the tight, black shirt hugging his thick chest. As he got closer his eyes appeared dark and mysterious, he seemed to keep his eyes on target but take in everything around him too. People watched him, but didn’t engage him. It was obvious he wasn’t a criminal because of the gold badge hanging around his neck, but damn he looked like he was on his way to kick someone’s ass. Moving through the precinct like he was the Captain. Confident and sure. He wasn’t frowning but he damn sure wasn’t smiling or giving off an approachable vibe. Michaels stood and swallowed hard. Jesus. The man had to be six-foot-three, maybe -four. Taller than his own six one. It was all the hair. Oh, my damn. That beard, that looked course but possibly soft to touch. Damn, he hoped so. Trimmed neatly with a smattering of grays, at least five to six inches of hair beneath his chin. Enough to pull. Shit. “We all thought you loved yourself, Michaels,” Day said, out of nowhere, watching along with everyone else as the bounty hunter approached. Michaels frowned at his Lieutenant. It really was not the fuckin’ time.  Day’s eyes bugged and Michaels turned back just in time to see what everyone else did as Judge reached for the door. Day leaned toward God and hissed, “Why the fuck is he bringing a horse into our office?

had never really run a team of any sort before,” Musk said. “I’d never been a sports captain or a captain of anything or managed a single person. I had to think, Okay, what are the things that affect how a team functions. The first obvious assumption would be that other people will behave like you. But that’s not true. Even if they would like to behave like you, they don’t necessarily have all the assumptions or information that you have in your mind. So, if I know a certain set of things, and I talk to a replica of myself but only communicate half the information, you can’t expect that the replica would come to the same conclusion. You have to put yourself in a position where you say, ‘Well, how would this sound to them, knowing what they know?

I had never really run a team of any sort before,” Musk said. “I’d never been a sports captain or a captain of anything or managed a single person. I had to think, Okay, what are the things that affect how a team functions. The first obvious assumption would be that other people will behave like you. But that’s not true. Even if they would like to behave like you, they don’t necessarily have all the assumptions or information that you have in your mind. So, if I know a certain set of things, and I talk to a replica of myself but only communicate half the information, you can’t expect that the replica would come to the same conclusion. You have to put yourself in a position where you say, ‘Well, how would this sound to them, knowing what they know?

We're in her bedroom,and she's helping me write an essay about my guniea pig for French class. She's wearing soccer shorts with a cashmere sweater, and even though it's silly-looking, it's endearingly Meredith-appropriate. She's also doing crunches. For fun. "Good,but that's present tense," she says. "You aren't feeding Captain Jack carrot sticks right now." "Oh. Right." I jot something down, but I'm not thinking about verbs. I'm trying to figure out how to casually bring up Etienne. "Read it to me again. Ooo,and do your funny voice! That faux-French one your ordered cafe creme in the other day, at that new place with St. Clair." My bad French accent wasn't on purpose, but I jump on the opening. "You know, there's something,um,I've been wondering." I'm conscious of the illuminated sign above my head, flashing the obvious-I! LOVE! ETIENNE!-but push ahead anyway. "Why are he and Ellie still together? I mean they hardly see each other anymore. Right?" Mer pauses, mid-crunch,and...I'm caught. She knows I'm in love with him, too. But then I see her struggling to reply, and I realize she's as trapped in the drama as I am. She didn't even notice my odd tone of voice. "Yeah." She lowers herself slwoly back to the floor. "But it's not that simple. They've been together forever. They're practically an old married couple. And besides,they're both really...cautious." "Cautious?" "Yeah.You know.St. Clair doesn't rock the boat. And Ellie's the same way. It took her ages to choose a university, and then she still picked one that's only a few neighborhoods away. I mean, Parsons is a prestigious school and everything,but she chose it because it was familiar.And now with St. Clair's mom,I think he's afraid to lose anyone else.Meanwhile,she's not gonna break up with him,not while his mom has cancer. Even if it isn't a healthy relationship anymore." I click the clicky-button on top of my pen. Clickclickclickclick. "So you think they're unhappy?" She sighs. "Not unhappy,but...not happy either. Happy enough,I guess. Does that make sense?" And it does.Which I hate. Clickclickclickclick. It means I can't say anything to him, because I'd be risking our friendship. I have to keep acting like nothing has changed,that I don't feel anything ore for him than I feel for Josh.

Are all the section doors leading to the Undergarden disabled and propped open like this?” “It’s as I said, Fleet Captain, this area was sealed off, but people kept breaking in. They’d just be sealing it off over and over to no purpose.” “Yes,” I acknowledged, gesturing the obviousness of her words. “So why not just fix the doors so they work properly?” She blinked, clearly not quite understanding my question. “No one’s supposed to be in this area, sir.” She seemed completely serious—the train of reasoning made perfect sense to her. The ancillary behind her stared blankly ahead, apparently without any opinion on the matter. Which I knew was almost certainly not the case. I didn’t answer, just turned to climb over the broken table and into the Undergarden.

By October of 1958, most roads leading to the Oriente Province had become impassable. Bridges were cut and dropped by the rebels, making travel to the eastern part of Cuba extremely difficult. The elections in November were seen as an obvious sham and everyone knew that the only way to survive was to keep quiet and wait for changes to take place. Most of Batista’s supporters were still in denial and carried out their atrocities with abandon. Tension among the people in Havana had grown and as Christmas approached, it became obvious that this year things would be different. People that had been harassed, or worse, were in no mood to celebrate the holidays. With the country engaged in a civil war that affected everyone, Christmas was not celebrated in the usual manner during the winter of 1958.

Years later, after he had time to reflect on the Zip2 situation, Musk realized that he could have handled some of the situations with employees better. “I had never really run a team of any sort before,” Musk said. “I’d never been a sports captain or a captain of anything or managed a single person. I had to think, Okay, what are the things that affect how a team functions. The first obvious assumption would be that other people will behave like you. But that’s not true. Even if they would like to behave like you, they don’t necessarily have all the assumptions or information that you have in your mind. So, if I know a certain set of things, and I talk to a replica of myself but only communicate half the information, you can’t expect that the replica would come to the same conclusion. You have to put yourself in a position where you say, ‘Well, how would this sound to them, knowing what they know?

Seems to know you,” the Captain observed. “He thought I was dead.” Jalena rejoined his party. He gabbled and pointed. Pale-faced men looked our way. They argued briefly, then the whole lot fled the garden. Raven did not explain. Instead, he said, “Shall we get to business?” “Care to illuminate what just happened?” The Captain’s voice had a dangerous softness. “No.” “Better reconsider. Your presence could endanger the whole Company.” “It won’t. It’s a personal matter. I won’t bring it with me.” The Captain thought about it. He is not one to intrude on a man’s past. Not without cause. He decided he had cause. “How can you avoid bringing it? Obviously, you mean something to Lord Jalena.” “Not to Jalena. To friends of his. It’s old history. I’ll settle it before I join you. Five people have to die to close the book.” This sounded interesting. Ah, the smell of mystery and dark doings, of skulduggery and revenge. The meat of a good tale.

This would prove the most consequential of all Cook’s acts of possession, effectively laying the foundation for white settlement in the Pacific. But it was also the most confusing of Cook’s many land claims. He obviously hadn’t acquired the consent of the natives, as he’d been instructed to do; the few Aborigines whom Cook encountered on this northernmost bit of land, which he named Possession Island, appeared intent on opposing the English before suddenly retreating. Cook’s claim was also oddly imprecise: “a vague assertion of authority over a quite vague area,” Beaglehole writes. How far inland, for instance, did his claim to the coast extend? Cook didn’t help matters by naming this nebulous possession New South Wales. No one knows why. The east coast of Australia doesn’t bear any discernible resemblance to the Welsh shore. And why South Wales? Also, Cook’s cumbersome name already existed on the world’s map, attached to a bit of land in northern Ontario.

Successful cooperation does not equate to successful understanding. There was no question that Zhang Beihai was the most capable political commissar on the ship, and he was forthright in his work, exploring every last issue with complete precision. But his internal world was a bottomless gray to Wu Yue, who always felt like Zhang Beihai was saying: Just do it this way. This way’s best, or most correct. But it’s not what I really want. It began as an indistinct feeling that grew increasingly obvious. Of course, whatever Zhang Beihai did was always the best or most correct, but Wu Yue had no idea what he actually wanted. Wu Yue adhered to one article of faith: Command of a warship was a dangerous position, so the two commanders must understand each other’s minds. This presented Wu Yue with a knotty problem. At first, he thought that Zhang Beihai was somehow on guard, which offended Wu. In the tough post of captain of a destroyer, was anyone more forthright and guileless than he was? What do I have worth guarding against?

Hitler was invading every European country surrounding Germany, and it was obvious that eventually we would also be at war. At the time, some Americans joined the German American Bund that backed what Hitler was doing. Others advocated that we stay out of the war.... Charles Lindbergh was of that persuasion and supported the isolationist “America First Movement,” advocating that the United States remain neutral. You could not blame people for their hostile feelings towards the German-Americans, when Nazi Bund meetings were being held at many locations around New York City, as well as in the neighboring Schuetzenpark, the German word for the riflemen’s or shooters’ park, in North Bergen. In April of 1941, after President Roosevelt accused Lindbergh of being a fascist sympathizer, Lindbergh resigned his commission as a colonel in the United States Army Air Forces. Later in the war, Lindbergh flew 50 combat missions in the Pacific Theater as a civilian consultant, but Roosevelt refused to reinstate his commission. The majority of Americans just wanted to stay out of what they considered a European matter.

It does something to you when you are running close to what you perceive as our limit (back then, I still topped at 40 percent) and there is someone else out there who makes the difficult look effortless. It was obvious that his preparedness was several levels above our own. Captain Connolly did not show up to simply get through the program and graduate so he could collect some wings for his uniform and belong to the unspoken fraternity of supposed badasses at Fort Campbell. He came to explore what he was made of and grow. That required a willingness to set a new standard wherever possible and make a statement, not necessarily to our dumb asses, but to himself. He was respectful to all the instructors and the school, but he was not there to be led... Most people love standards. It gives the brain something to focus on, which helps us reach a place of achievement. Organizational structure and atta' boys from our instructors or bosses keep us motivated to perform and to move up on that bell curve. Captain Connolly did not require external motivation. He trained to his own standard and used the existing structure for his own purposes. Air Assault School became his own personal octagon, where he could test himself on a level even the instructors hadn't imagined. For the next nine days, he put his head down and quietly went about the business of smashing every single standard at Air Assault School. He saw the bar that the instructors pointed to and the rest of us were trying to tap as a hurdle to leap over, and he did it time and again. He understood that his rank only meant something if he sought out a different certification: an invisible badge that says, "I am the example. Follow me, motherfuckers, and I will show you that there is more to this life than so-called authority and stripes or candy on a uniform. I'll show you what true ambition looks like beyond all the external structure in a place of limitless mental growth." He didn't say any of that. He didn't run his mouth at all. I can't recall him uttering word one in ten fucking days, but through his performance and extreme dedication, he dropped breadcrumbs for anybody who was awake and aware enough to follow him. He flashed his tool kit. He showed us what potent, silent, exemplary leadership looked like. He checked into every Gold Group run, which was led by the fastest instructor in that school, and volunteered to be the first to carry the flag. p237

There is no psychology in a fairy tale. The characters have little interior life; their motives are clear and obvious. If people are good, they are good, and if bad, they’re bad. Even when the princess in ‘The Three Snake Leaves’…inexplicably and ungratefully turns against her husband, we know about it from the moment it happens. Nothing of that sort is concealed. The tremors and mysteries of human awareness, the whispers of memory, the promptings of half-understood regret or doubt or desire that are so much part of the subject matter of the modern novel are absently entirely. One might almost say that the characters in a fairy tale are not actually conscious. They seldom have names of their own. More often than not they’re known by their occupation or their social position, or by a quirk of their dress: the miller, the princess, the captain, the Bearskin, Little Red Riding Hood. When they do have a name it’s usually Hans, just as Jack is the hero of every British fairy tale. The most fitting pictorial representation of fairy-tale characters seems to me to be found not in any of the beautifully illustrated editions of Grimm that have been published over the years, but in the little cardboard cut-out figures that come with the toy theatre.

Within the huge trade unions, a similar managerial officialdom, the “labor bureaucracy” consolidates its position as an elite. This elite is sharply distinguished in training, income, habits and outlook from the ordinary union member. The trend extends to the military world, the academic world, the non-profit foundations and even auxilliary organizations of the U.N. Armies are no longer run by “fighting captains” but by a Pentagon-style managerial bureaucracy. Within the universities, proliferating administrators have risen above students, teaching faculty, alumni and parents, their power position expressed in the symbols of higher salaries and special privileges. The great “non-profit foundations” have been transformed from expressions of individual benevolence into strategic bases of managerial-administrative power. The United Nations has an international echelon of manager entrenched in the Secretariat. There are fairly obvious parallels in the managerial structures of the diverse institutional fields. For example, managers in business are stockholders as labor managers are to union members; as government managers are to voters; as public school administrators are to tax-payers; as university and private school administrators are to tuition payers and fund contributors.

Really, was everyone aboard this ship slightly mad? Much of Arsenic's initial conversation with the decklings was beginning to make sense. All the crew seemed, in a word, eccentric. Mr. Tarabotti smiled. "Too late, little cousin. I stay here. You done almost? You maybe do not wish late, no? Your father, he will throw a fop." Miss Tunstell said, "Throw a fit, I think you mean, Rodrigo." "Si?" "Yes. He is a fop, but he throws a fit." The captain interrupted, "Yes yes. Soon. But this is more important." "Si?" Mr Tarabotti shrugged and left. He said something in Italian to someone waiting in the hallway as he closed the door. Arsenic turned to look curiously at the cheerful captain. "He tried to kill you?" "Obviously he wasn't successful." Arsenic nodded. Obviously. "My mother would say that shows a lack of follow-through." The captain grinned. "Your mother sounds logical." Miss Tunstell added, although not critically, "And a little bloodthirsty." It was a fair assessment. "You've no idea," replied Arsenic, because it seemed they really didn't. The captain wrinkled her nose. "Old cousin Roddy there is not so bad. He's been reformed through excessive reading. Percy was in charge of extensive literary recuperation efforts." Arsenic smiled at Professor Tunstell, not quite sure what to make of this explanation, but knowing that books could be good medicine. The man dipped his head and blushed. The two ladies looked at him as if he'd done the most unusual thing ever.

Why on earth didn’t you say in the papers what had happened to my brother? Obviously my husband and Mr. Delham knew it. And you must have known you could provide the captain and crew to prove it.” Reluctantly, the assistant tore his gaze from the bench and said softly, “It was your husband’s idea to wait until the trial was under way before springing his defense on them.” “But why?” “Because our illustrious prosecutor and his staff showed no sign of dropping the case no matter what we claimed. They believed their evidence was enough for a conviction, and if we’d told them about the Arianna, they’d have kept stalling for him to look for more evidence to disprove Captain Granthome’s potential testimony. Moreover, the Arianna and her crew were on a voyage, and we weren’t completely certain we could locate them and get them back here in time to testify. Now our frustrated Lord Prosecutor has nothing readily at hand to use as rebuttal, because he didn’t anticipate this. And if your brother is never seen again, there’s still no point in his digging about for more circumstantial, incriminating evidence, because even if he found it-which he won’t-your husband cannot be tried twice for the same crime.” Now Elizabeth understood why Ian had looked bored and disinterested, even though she still couldn’t comprehend why he’d never softened when she’d explained it was Robert she was with, not a lover, and offered the proof of Mrs. Hogan’s letter and even the promise of her testimony. “Your husband orchestrated the entire maneuver,” the assistant said, looking admiringly at Ian, who was being addressed by the Lord Chancellor. “Planned his own defense. Brilliant man, your husband. Oh, and by the by, Mr. Delham said to tell you that you were splendid up there.

One of Castro’s first acts as Cuba’s Prime Minister was to go on a diplomatic tour that started on April 15, 1959. His first stop was the United States, where he met with Vice President Nixon, after having been snubbed by President Eisenhower, who thought it more important to go golfing than to encourage friendly relations with a neighboring country. It seemed that the U.S. Administration did not take the new Cuban Prime Minister seriously after he showed up dressed in revolutionary garb. Delegating his Vice President to meet the new Cuban leader was an obvious rebuff. However, what was worse was that an instant dislike developed between the two men, when Fidel Castro met Vice President Richard Milhous Nixon. This dislike was amplified when Nixon openly badgered Castro with anti-communistic rhetoric. Once again, Castro explained that he was not a Communist and that he was with the West in the Cold War. However, during this period following the McCarthy era, Nixon was not listening. During Castro’s tour to the United States, Canada and Latin America, everyone in Cuba listened intently to what he had to say. Fidel’s speeches, that were shown on Cuban television, were troubling to Raúl and he feared that his brother was deviating from Cuba’s path towards communism. Becoming concerned by Fidel’s candid remarks, Raúl conferred with his close friend “Che” Guevara, and finally called Fidel about how he was being perceived in Cuba. Following this conversation, Raúl flew to Texas where he met with his brother Fidel in Houston. Raúl informed him that the Cuban press saw his diplomacy as a concession to the United States. The two brothers argued openly at the airport and again later at the posh Houston Shamrock Hotel, where they stayed. With the pressure on Fidel to embrace Communism he reluctantly agreed…. In time he whole heartily accepted Communism as the philosophy for the Cuban Government.

Are you sure you’re all right?” Oscar asked. “I’m sure.” The sound of their voices disturbed the night, and her dishonesty disturbed her. How could she be all right? She’d been abducted at knifepoint. She’d heard the chanting again and seen the eerie black skeletal face on the bathwater’s surface. What were those things, if not part of the Umandu curse? “Are you sure he didn’t touch you?” Oscar asked, the softness of his question poles apart from the anger and irritation he’d shown all day. It was obvious he didn’t want to go chasing after Umandu, but she couldn’t imagine the prospect of bringing her father back to life would make him so sour. Camille sat up, holding the thin blanket around her neck. An odd thought struck her: They were on land, alone in a room, and they hadn’t yet struggled with an awkward stretch of silence. Camille liked the change and hoped it stuck. Oscar lay on the floor, beneath the double windows. He had one arm over his chest, the other behind his head. He saw her and pushed himself up, his own covers loose around his waist. He still wore his clothes, and she grinned, knowing it was for her benefit only. He’d be sweating rivers tonight in the heavy heat. Oscar wrapped his arm around one knee. “You have no idea what went through my mind tonight when I found that bathtub empty,” he whispered. “I can’t let anything happen to you, Camille.” She sat up a little straighter, hoping he wouldn’t pledge his protection just to honor his dead captain. “I didn’t mean to make you worry, Oscar. But my safety isn’t your burden.” Though she couldn’t see him clearly in the shadowed room, Camille felt his eyes on her. “You’re not a burden, Camille. Not to me.” She searched his dark outline. A patch of moonlight fell on a swath of bare skin on the curve of his neck. It glistened with sweat, and she felt her own skin fire with the charged silence growing between them. She didn’t know how to respond; he wouldn’t look away. “He didn’t touch me,” she whispered instead, answering his original question. She lay back and turned onto her side, disappointed she hadn’t found something more to say. Something to make the moment last a hair longer. Oscar’s covers rustled as he settled back as well. “That was smart of him,” he replied, and said no more.

A fierce battle was taking place at Tobruk, and nothing thrilled him more than spirited warfare and the prospect of military glory. He stayed up until three-thirty, in high spirits, “laughing, chaffing and alternating business with conversation,” wrote Colville. One by one his official guests, including Anthony Eden, gave up and went to bed. Churchill, however, continued to hold forth, his audience reduced to only Colville and Mary’s potential suitor, Eric Duncannon. Mary by this point had retired to the Prison Room, aware that the next day held the potential to change her life forever. — IN BERLIN, MEANWHILE, HITLER and Propaganda Minister Joseph Goebbels joked about a newly published English biography of Churchill that revealed many of his idiosyncrasies, including his penchant for wearing pink silk underwear, working in the bathtub, and drinking throughout the day. “He dictates messages in the bath or in his underpants; a startling image which the Führer finds hugely amusing,” Goebbels wrote in his diary on Saturday. “He sees the English Empire as slowly disintegrating. Not much will be salvageable.” — ON SUNDAY MORNING, a low-grade anxiety colored the Cromwellian reaches of Chequers. Today, it seemed, would be the day Eric Duncannon proposed to Mary, and no one other than Mary was happy about it. Even she, however, was not wholly at ease with the idea. She was eighteen years old and had never had a romantic relationship, let alone been seriously courted. The prospect of betrothal left her feeling emotionally roiled, though it did add a certain piquancy to the day. New guests arrived: Sarah Churchill, the Prof, and Churchill’s twenty-year-old niece, Clarissa Spencer-Churchill—“looking quite beautiful,” Colville noted. She was accompanied by Captain Alan Hillgarth, a raffishly handsome novelist and self-styled adventurer now serving as naval attaché in Madrid, where he ran intelligence operations; some of these were engineered with the help of a lieutenant on his staff, Ian Fleming, who later credited Captain Hillgarth as being one of the inspirations for James Bond. “It was obvious,” Colville wrote, “that Eric was expected to make advances to Mary and that the prospect was viewed with nervous pleasure by Mary, with approbation by Moyra, with dislike by Mrs. C. and with amusement by Clarissa.” Churchill expressed little interest. After lunch, Mary and the others walked into the rose garden, while Colville showed Churchill telegrams about the situation in Iraq. The day was sunny and warm, a nice change from the recent stretch of cold. Soon, to Colville’s mystification, Eric and Clarissa set off on a long walk over the grounds by themselves, leaving Mary behind. “His motives,” Colville wrote, “were either Clarissa’s attraction, which she did not attempt to keep in the background, or else the belief that it was good policy to arouse Mary’s jealousy.” After the walk, and after Clarissa and Captain Hillgarth had left, Eric took a nap, with the apparent intention (as Colville

ever. Amen. Thank God for self-help books. No wonder the business is booming. It reminds me of junior high school, where everybody was afraid of the really cool kids because they knew the latest, most potent putdowns, and were not afraid to use them. Dah! But there must be another reason that one of the best-selling books in the history of the world is Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus by John Gray. Could it be that our culture is oh so eager for a quick fix? What a relief it must be for some people to think “Oh, that’s why we fight like cats and dogs, it is because he’s from Mars and I am from Venus. I thought it was just because we’re messed up in the head.” Can you imagine Calvin Consumer’s excitement and relief to get the video on “The Secret to her Sexual Satisfaction” with Dr. GraySpot, a picture chart, a big pointer, and an X marking the spot. Could that “G” be for “giggle” rather than Dr. “Graffenberg?” Perhaps we are always looking for the secret, the gold mine, the G-spot because we are afraid of the real G-word: Growth—and the energy it requires of us. I am worried that just becoming more educated or well-read is chopping at the leaves of ignorance but is not cutting at the roots. Take my own example: I used to be a lowly busboy at 12 East Restaurant in Florida. One Christmas Eve the manager fired me for eating on the job. As I slunk away I muttered under my breath, “Scrooge!” Years later, after obtaining a Masters Degree in Psychology and getting a California license to practice psychotherapy, I was fired by the clinical director of a psychiatric institute for being unorthodox. This time I knew just what to say. This time I was much more assertive and articulate. As I left I told the director “You obviously have a narcissistic pseudo-neurotic paranoia of anything that does not fit your myopic Procrustean paradigm.” Thank God for higher education. No wonder colleges are packed. What if there was a language designed not to put down or control each other, but nurture and release each other to grow? What if you could develop a consciousness of expressing your feelings and needs fully and completely without having any intention of blaming, attacking, intimidating, begging, punishing, coercing or disrespecting the other person? What if there was a language that kept us focused in the present, and prevented us from speaking like moralistic mini-gods? There is: The name of one such language is Nonviolent Communication. Marshall Rosenberg’s Nonviolent Communication provides a wealth of simple principles and effective techniques to maintain a laser focus on the human heart and innocent child within the other person, even when they have lost contact with that part of themselves. You know how it is when you are hurt or scared: suddenly you become cold and critical, or aloof and analytical. Would it not be wonderful if someone could see through the mask, and warmly meet your need for understanding or reassurance? What I am presenting are some tools for staying locked onto the other person’s humanness, even when they have become an alien monster. Remember that episode of Star Trek where Captain Kirk was turned into a Klingon, and Bones was freaking out? (I felt sorry for Bones because I’ve had friends turn into Cling-ons too.) But then Spock, in his cool, Vulcan way, performed a mind meld to determine that James T. Kirk was trapped inside the alien form. And finally Scotty was able to put some dilithium crystals into his phaser and destroy the alien cloaking device, freeing the captain from his Klingon form. Oh, how I wish that, in my youth or childhood,

INTRUDERS! WE HAVE INTRUDERS! SOUND THE ALARM! SOUND THE—” Bang! Iris, Phoebe, and the others remained silent as the Shaolin monk kitsune went down, steam rising from his head. They stared for several seconds, and then looked at Kevin, or, more specifically, the gun in his hand, which was pointed at the now unconscious fox-man. “What?” Kevin asked. “You just shot him,” Iris pointed out. “Thank you, Captain Obvious.” Kevin’s voice was so rank with sarcasm that the word sarcasm didn’t really do it justice. “Please, feel free to point out something else. Maybe something that I don’t already know.” Iris frowned at him. “Okay, then, how about this? You just shot your gun, and it was really loud. I’m pretty sure everyone in the entire palace heard it.” As if her words held prophetic powers, the sound of rushing feet echoed down the hall. The sound of running was followed by shouting. “I think I heard something this way!” “Do you think it’s intruders?!” “Could be!” “Let’s check it out!” “Oh, hell.” Kevin felt like facepalming.

Wait, Arya said Suddenly. I have something else. She had stuffed it down inside her smallclothes to keep is safe, so she had to dig deep to find it, while the oarsmen laughed and the captain lingered with obvious impatience. One more sliver will make no difference, child, he finally said It's not sliver. Her fingers closed on it. It's iron. Here. She pressed it into his hand, the small black iron coin that Jaqen H'gar had given her, so worn the man whose head it bore had no features. It's probably worthless, but... The captain turned it over and blinked at it, then looked at her again. This... how...? Jaqen said to say the words too. Arya crossed her arms against her chest. Valar morgulis, she said, as loud as if she'd known what it meant. Valar dohaeris, he replied, touching his brow with two fingers. Of course you shall have a cabin.

Wait," Arya said Suddenly. "I have something else." She had stuffed it down inside her smallclothes to keep is safe, so she had to dig deep to find it, while the oarsmen laughed and the captain lingered with obvious impatience. "One more sliver will make no difference, child," he finally said "It's not sliver." Her fingers closed on it. "It's iron. Here." She pressed it into his hand, the small black iron coin that Jaqen H'gar had given her, so worn the man whose head it bore had no features. It's probably worthless, but... The captain turned it over and blinked at it, then looked at her again. "This... how...?" Jaqen said to say the words too. Arya crossed her arms against her chest. "Valar morgulis," she said, as loud as if she'd known what it meant. "Valar dohaeris", he replied, touching his brow with two fingers. "Of course you shall have a cabin.

One day our General Counsel went to Leslie and said: “You didn’t sign this huge contract with Disney! Why is Camille’s name on it?” Leslie responded: The person who is living and breathing the contract needs to be the person who owns and signs the contract, not a head of a function or a VP. That takes responsibility of the project away from the person who should be responsible. Obviously, I look at those contracts too. But Camille is proud of what she accomplished. This is her thing, not mine. She is psychologically invested, and I want to keep her that way. I’m not going to take ownership away from her by putting my name on the deal. Leslie was right, and we follow her example across Netflix today. At Netflix you don’t need management to sign off for anything. If you’re the informed captain, take ownership—sign the document yourself.

Makris obviously had a detailed checklist of Things to Do to Piss Off Survey Ship Captains, and she was determined not to leave any of them undone.

It does something to you when you are running close to what you perceive as our limit (back then, I still topped at 40 percent) and there is someone else out there who makes the difficult look effortless. It was obvious that his preparedness was several levels above our own. Captain Connolly did not show up to simply get through the program and graduate so he could collect some wings for his uniform and belong to the unspoken fraternity of supposed badasses at Fort Campbell. He came to explore what he was made of and grow. That required a willingness to set a new standard wherever possible and make a statement, not necessarily to our dumb asses, but to himself. He was respectful to all the instructors and the school, but he was not there to be led... Most people love standards. It gives the brain something to focus on, which helps us reach a place of achievement. Organizational structure and atta' boys from our instructors or bosses keep us motivated to perform and to move up on that bell curve. Captain Connolly did not require external motivation. He trained to his own standard and used the existing structure for his own purposes. Air Assault School became his own personal octagon, where he could test himself on a level even the instructors hadn't imagined. For the next nine days, he put his head down and quietly went about the business of smashing every single standard at Air Assault School. He saw the bar that the instructors pointed to and the rest of us were trying to tap as a hurdle to leap over, and he did it time and again. He understood that his rank only meant something if he sought out a different certification: an invisible badge that says, "I am the example. Follow me, motherfuckers, and I will show you that there is more to this life than so-called authority and stripes or candy on a uniform. I'll show you what true ambition looks like beyond all the external structure in a place of limitless mental growth." He didn't say any of that. He didn't run his mouth at all. I can't recall him uttering word one in ten fucking days, but through his performance and extreme dedication, he dropped breadcrumbs for anybody who was awake and aware enough to follow him. He flashed his tool kit. He showed us what potent, silent, exemplary leadership looked like. He checked into every Gold Group run, which was led by the fastest instructor in that school, and volunteered to be the first to carry the flag... His conditioning was clearly off the charts, and I'm not talking about the physical aspect alone. Being a physical specimen is one thing, but it takes so much more energy to stay mentally prepared enough to arrive every day at a place like Air Assault School on a mission to dominate. The fact that he was able to do that told me it couldn't possibly have been a one-time thing. It had to be the result of countless lonely hours in the gym, on the trails, and in the books. Most of his work was hidden, but it is within that unseen work that self-leaders are made. I suspect the reason he was capable of exceeding any and all standards consistently was because he was dedicated at a level most people cannot fathom in order to stay ready for any and all opportunities. p237

He held his head in the manner of one who takes his beauty for granted, but knows that others do not. He was Peter Keating, star student of Stanton, president of the student body, captain of the track team, member of the most important fraternity, voted the most popular man on the campus. The crowd was there, thought Peter Keating, to see him graduate, and he tried to estimate the capacity of the hall. They knew of his scholastic record and no one would beat his record today. Oh, well, there was Shlinker. Shlinker had given him stiff competition, but he had beaten Shlinker this last year. He had worked like a dog, because he had wanted to beat Shlinker. He had no rivals today.... Then he felt suddenly as if something had fallen down, inside his throat, to his stomach, something cold and empty, a blank hole rolling down and leaving that feeling on its way: not a thought, just the hint of a question asking him whether he was really as great as this day would proclaim him to be. He looked for Shlinker in the crowd; he saw his yellow face and gold-rimmed glasses. He stared at Shlinker warmly, in relief, in reassurance, in gratitude. It was obvious that Shlinker could never hope to equal his own appearance or ability; he had nothing to doubt; he would always beat Shlinker and all the Shlinkers of the world; he would let no one achieve what he could not achieve. Let them all watch him. He would give them good reason to stare. He felt the hot breaths about him and the expectation, like a tonic. It was wonderful, thought Peter Keating, to be alive.

So, check this out… that janitor told me and Hannah about the dude who CREATED Shipwrecked – he was a pirate-obsessed guy named Captain Randall Maedee. Obviously, he wasn’t like a YO-HO-HO, BUCCANEER kind of pirate because those don’t exist anymore, but he still called himself CAPTAIN Randall Maedee. And yes, I get it. Randall Maedee. R. Maedee. Like, ARRRRR, MATEY! Yep, he had his last name legally changed to “Maedee” for that joke. If that isn’t hardcore, then nothing is. Anyways, Maedee was a young businessman who was tired of his normal life, working his normal job, and doing the normal things that everybody else was doing… so he quit ALL that 30 years ago and decided to follow his dream… Of becoming a pirate. But, like I said a couple seconds ago, the kind of pirate Maedee wanted to be didn’t really exist, so what did he do? He built SHIPWRECKED, the PIRATE-themed waterpark, so he COULD be the pirate he WANTED to be, like, DAAAAANG! That’s a total BOSS move, right there!

Bradley l'avait rencontrée et épousée en l'espace de quelques heures. A présent, elle dormait, dans sa maison. Tout cela n'était-il pas bizarre ?

I said don’t look down,” Ascanio said helpfully. “Also, be careful, the ice is slippery.” “Thank you, Captain Obvious.

Captain Robert Wilmott locked his cabin as soon as his visitor left. His worst fears had been confirmed by the Port of Havana chief of police, Captain Oscar Hernandez: Wilmott’s life and ship were threatened. Hernandez had warned the captain to be on the watch for a Communist agent. Evidently he had just received urgent information that the Cuban Communist Party wanted to sabotage the ship because she was aiding the lawful government, and had probably placed an agent on board. In Captain Wilmott he found a ready listener. When the master of the Morro Castle then recounted the details of the mysterious fire, poisoning attempt, and the strike threat, Oscar Hernandez pronounced them all “classic symptoms of the presence of Reds.” The captain accepted the police officer’s diagnosis as an obvious explanation of the inexplicable.

In the engine-room log he noted the closing down of number three boiler. Eban Abbott took the elevator back to his cabin, washed, and dressed. Only after completing his toilet did he set out to discover why Captain Wilmott had not replied. It was exactly 7:45 P.M. when he stepped out of his cabin. Moments later First Officer William Warms stood in the captain’s night cabin, shocked and horrified. Slumped over the side of the bath, half dressed, lay the body of Robert Wilmott, his eyes open, but obviously dead.

I’ve met men who should be feared, but, Captain, you are quite obviously one to be loved.

But what we need—what Captain Coltrane was great at—is someone who is more than a badass. We need someone who can keep a cool head under pressure. Someone who can think outside the box and point out the obvious when we get bogged down in the details.

Who are you? Go back with the others until you are judged.” He met Hest’s stare eye to eye. Hest responded with wide-eyed shock. “But… but I’m Hest Finbok! I’ve come all this way to find my wife, Alise! I hired passage on the newest and swiftest ships I could find to come in search of her. When treachery by the captain let it fall to Chalcedean pirates, I thought all was lost. But here I am! Sweet Sa, your miracles never cease! I am here, and alive, and so is my darling wife! Alise, don’t you know me? Has your mind been turned by this harsh place? I am here now, and you need no other protector than your loving husband.” His words, she thought, danced all through the truth, never touching it. Reyn, startled, stayed as he was as Hest stepped around him. “No.” It was the only word she could manage. Her throat was dry, her heart pounding. She could not find breath to say more than that, but she clung to Leftrin’s arm as if it were her only lifeline in a wild sea storm. And he did not let go of her. He stood firm at her side. Leftrin spoke in a low growl. “The lady says no.” “Take your hands off my wife!” Hest ignored Reyn’s challenge of him as he stepped around the Elderling to glare menacingly at Leftrin. “She is obviously not right in her mind! Look how she stares! She does not recognize me, poor thing! And you, you scoundrel, have taken advantage of her! Oh, my Alise, my darling, what has he done to you? How can you not recognize your own loving husband?” She felt a low rumbling from Leftrin as if he snarled like a beast. His arm in her clutch had become hard as iron. He would protect her, he would save her. All she had to do was let him. “No,” she said again, this time to Leftrin. She squeezed his arm reassuringly and then stepped out of his shelter. She stood free of him, and the wind off the river blew past her. Her unbound hair lifted in wild red snakes, and she knew a moment of dismay as she wondered how ridiculous she looked, her skin weathered, her woman’s body garbed in the bright colors of an Elderling as if she did not know her age or place in the world. Her place in the world. She squared her shoulders. As she walked forward, Reyn stepped toward her as if to offer his arm and support. She waved him off without meeting his eyes. She advanced on Hest, hoping to see some flicker of doubt in his eyes. Instead his smile only widened as if he were truly welcoming her. He actually believed that she would resume that role, would pretend to be his loving, dutiful wife. That thought touched fire in her soul. She halted before him and looked up at him. “Oh, my dear! How harshly the world has treated you!” he exclaimed. He tried to put his arms around her. She set both hands to his chest and pushed him firmly away. As he staggered backward, it pleased her that he had not expected her to be so strong. “You are not my husband,” she said in a low voice. He teetered a moment, then caught his balance. He tried to recover his aplomb. But she had seen the sparks of anger flare in his dark eyes. He tipped his head, solicitous, his voice striken. “My dear, you are so confused!” he began. She lifted her voice, pitched it for all to hear. “I am NOT confused. You are NOT my husband. You broke the terms of our marriage contract, rendering it void. From the earliest days of our marriage, you were unfaithful to me. You entered into the contract with no intent of keeping yourself to me. You have deceived me and made me an object of mockery. You are not my husband, and by the terms of our marriage contract, all that is mine comes back to me. You are not my husband, and I am not your wife. You are nothing to me.

You’re not my type.” Alex’s eyes narrowed. “No? Then who, pray tell, is your type?” “Ian Somerhalder.” “Better than the sparkly vampire. Newsflash, Sunshine, you and Ian aren’t happening.” “Thanks, Captain Obvious.

Quiet,” Ravyn cautioned. He cast his eyes up the table to the King. Then, as if I’d pulled the words out of him, he lowered his voice. “I never lied. You merely assumed the King knew I had a Nightmare Card.” The Nightmare tapped his claws, laughter rolling off his back like snakeskin. How wonderful, he said. Absolutely marvelous. Shut up and let me think. Isn’t it obvious? The Captain of the Destriers is a sneaking, contemptible traitor. I had to sit on my hands to keep them from shaking. Just answer the riddle, he called. What has two eyes for seeing, two ears for hearing, and one tongue for lying? When I didn’t reply, he tittered. A highwayman, darling girl. But Ravyn hasn’t acted alone, I countered, my eyes shooting across the table to Elm. Even more curious, the Nightmare purred. Does the young Prince know his cousin is hiding such a valuable Providence Card from the King? Or is he a part of the scheme?

vessels in the fleet endured after leaving the company of the Sea Venture. The first thing that happened—and this was reported by every witness—was that the ships scattered. Contact was soon lost and it was every vessel for herself. In reality, even if the ships’ captains had wanted to stay in contact, it would have been impossible. The only way for ships to communicate was by flag or other visual signals, by lights at night, or by horns or cannon. At the height of a storm, such communication was obviously out of the question. As the wind increased and waves grew, every ship’s master would have had his hands full saving his own ship and passengers and crew.

Tug or tow boats are vessels that push or pull other vessels such as barges, oil platforms, or disabled ships. They are also used to help maneuver larger ships that do not have the capability to do so for themselves, in tight quarters, rivers or in coming alongside piers. Obviously tugboats have powerful engines for their size and are sturdy enough to withstand high stress on their construction. The earlier tugboats had steam engines, however now they mostly have diesel engines. In addition many harbor tugs are been fitted with firefighting equipment allowing them to assist in firefighting. Harbor tugs that are highly maneuverable and used to assist ships in their docking procedure. Pusher tugs or notch tugs nest into the stern of specially designed barges. When locked together they are frequently considered ships and are required to show the navigational lights of a towing vessel pushing ahead or compliant with those required of ships. There are seagoing tugs that tow oil rigs, oceangoing barges etc. The US Navy frequently uses the larger seagoing tugs they identify as fleet tugs. River tugs are also referred to as towboats or push boats, depending on what they are called on to do, however they have a severely limited freeboard and are dangerous on open waters. The tasks tugboats undertake are varied and the list is endless. Tugboats help fight fires and in cold climates are sometimes used as icebreakers. A relatively new innovation for marine propulsion is the “Voith Schneider Propeller System” which is highly maneuverable, allowing the boat to change its direction instantly. This system is now widely used on harbor tugs.

It was obvious that Frank Sinatra enjoyed friendly relations with Mafia notables such as Carlo Gambino, “Joe Fish” Fischetti and Sam Giancana. The Federal Bureau of Investigation kept their eye on Sinatra for almost 50 years. Meyer Lansky was said to have been a friend of Sinatra’s parents in Hoboken. During this time Sinatra spoke in awe about Bugsy Siegel and was in an AP syndicated photograph, seen in many newspapers, with Tommy 'Fatso' Marson, Don Carlo Gambino 'The Godfather', and Jimmy 'The Weasel, Fratianno. A memo in FBI files revealed that Sinatra felt that he could be of use to them. However, it is difficult to believe that Sinatra would have become an FBI informer, better known as a “rat.” Sinatra was being treated at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles, where physicians were attempting to stabilize his medical downhill spiral, when he told his wife Barbara, “I’m losing.” Frank Sinatra died on May 14, 1998, at 82 years of age. It is alleged that he was buried with the wedding ring from his ex-wife, Mia Farrow, which she slid unnoticed into his suit pocket during his “viewing.” Aside from his perceived personal and public image, Frank Sinatra’s music will shape his enduring legacy for decades to come. His 100th birthday was celebrated at the Hollywood Bowl on Wednesday, July 22, 2015, and elsewhere for the remainder of the year.

For the moment, Baltsaros’s last suggestion was ricocheting through his mind. As if reading his thoughts, the captain released Jon and went to Tom. “Up,” he said, and Tom lurched to his feet. Baltsaros’s hands stroked down the sculpted muscles of Tom’s chest, lingering at the small silver ring in his nipple. The captain’s brows went up as he tugged at it lightly, obviously pleased with the addition. Sliding his fingers over Tom’s taut stomach, he eased his fingers under the waistband of the first mate’s green pants and tugged forward. Baltsaros kissed Tom roughly as he undid the front of his pants and pushed them down when they were loose enough. Jon watched as Baltsaros grabbed Tom hard by the throat and pushed his gracefully curved lips against the big man’s jaw, just beside his ear. “On your stomach on the bed,” hissed Baltsaros loud enough that Jon could hear. Tom’s cock bobbed in response to the words; its thick length was already a hard curve pointing up toward his stomach. Jon watched in fascination as the muscular young man obediently lay down on his chest on the bed and closed his eyes. Baltsaros knelt beside him and slid two pillows under Tom’s hips and then spat into his hand. Roughly pushing Tom’s legs apart, he smeared the saliva over his puckered opening; Jon watched in a hot daze as Baltsaros slid two fingers inside Tom, readying him, and he realized he was breathing hard from the sight.

Maynard, what have you been doing with yourself?" Odegar Taumber asked as the slow moving librarian shuffled from the stairwell to the main floor. Casselle caught sight of Temos and Raabel and motioned for Jaksen to deposit the books on a nearby and conveniently clean table. He did so and the squadmates reunited, just out of earshot of the Captain. "I see you two found him," Raabel said. "We've been back for some time. I guess he's as slow as he looks?" "Casselle found him," Jaksen replied. "And he's both slow and rude. I'm sure he's important enough, but seems like he was in no real danger to begin with." "I took a look out of the windows while we were searching for him," Temos said. "It doesn't look like it's calmed down much out there. I'd hate to think of trying to move him through an angry crowd. He doesn't look nimble enough to sneak by, either." "If we weren't in this damned armor, I'd just carry him," Raabel said. Coming from someone else, it might have been considered a boast, but Raabel usually didn't say things he wasn't sure he was capable of doing. Casselle pictured the old man wailing in protest, thrown over Raabel's shoulder and being forced to bounce along like a sack of potatoes. Raabel was right about the armor, though: it was clumsy and ill-fitting. It was obvious that it had not been altered for them, and none more obvious than on Casselle. Her broad shoulders were a boon, but even bound, her breasts had proved problematic to find a properly sized chestplate from a stockpile that had been made exclusively for men. They had settled on a piece that was just slightly too large, having previously been worn by a heavyset Templar from a time before. In thinking of it, she pondered Maynard's earlier words. "He called me a boy," she said. "A fat young boy." Her squadmates took a step back, shocked. "And you did not correct him?" Raabel asked. "Or worse?" Jaksen asked. "To be fair," Temos said after a moment, "he is very old. It is entirely possible he has lost his will to live.

That goat has been nothing but trouble. And the dratted creature isn’t even picturesque. Goats resemble nothing so much as badly dressed sheep.” “That’s quite unfair,” Beatrix said. “Goats have far more character and intelligence than sheep, who are nothing but followers. I’ve met far too many in London.” “Sheep?” Christopher asked blankly. “My sister is speaking figuratively, Captain Phelan,” Amelia said. “Well, I have met some actual sheep in London,” Beatrix said. “But yes, I was mainly referring to people. They all tell you the same gossip, which is tedious. They adhere to the current fashions and the popular opinions, no matter how silly. And one never improves in their company. One starts falling in line and baaing.” A quiet laugh came from the doorway as Cam Rohan entered the room. “Obviously Hathaways are not sheep. Because I’ve tried to herd the lot of you for years, without any success.” From what Christopher remembered of Rohan, he had worked at a London gaming club for a time, and then had made a fortune in manufacturing investments. Although his devotion to his wife and family was well-known in Stony Cross, Rohan was hardly the image of a staid and respectable patriarch. With his longish dark hair, exotic amber eyes, and the diamond stud flashing in his ear, his Romany heritage was obvious. Approaching Christopher, Rohan exchanged a bow and surveyed him with a friendly gaze. “Captain Phelan. It is good to see you. We were hoping for your safe return.” “Thank you. I hope my presence is not an imposition.” “Not in the least. With Lord Ramsay and his wife still in London, and my brother Merripen and his wife visiting Ireland, it’s been far too peaceful here of late.” Rohan paused, a glitter of amusement entering his eyes. “Fugitive goats notwithstanding.

Amelia went to the parlor windows and watched the two distant figures proceed through the orchard toward the forest. The apple trees, frosted with light green buds and white blossoms, soon conspired to hide the pair from view. She puzzled over the way Beatrix had behaved with the stern-faced soldier, pecking and chirping at him, almost as if she were trying to remind him of something he’d forgotten. Cam joined her at the window, standing behind her. She leaned back against him, taking comfort in her husband’s steady, strong presence. One of his hands glided along her front. She shivered in pleasure at the casual sensuality of his touch. “Poor man,” Amelia murmured, thinking of Phelan’s haunting eyes. “I didn’t recognize him at first. I wonder if he knows how much he has changed?” Cam’s lips played lightly at her temple as he replied. “I suspect he is realizing it now that he’s home.” “He was very charming before. Now he seems so austere. And the way he stares sometimes, as if he’s looking right through one…” “He’s spent two years burying his friends,” Cam replied quietly. “And he’s taken part in the kind of close combat that makes a man as hard as nails.” He paused reflectively. “Some of it you can’t leave behind. The faces of the men you kill stay with you forever.” Knowing that he was remembering a particular episode of his own past, Amelia turned and hugged herself close to him. “The Rom don’t believe in war,” Cam said against her hair. “Conflict, arguing, fighting, yes. But not in taking the life of a man with whom one has no personal grievance. Which is one of many reasons why I would not make a good soldier.” “But for those same reasons, you make a very good husband.” Cam’s arms tightened around her, and he whispered something in Romany. Although she didn’t understand the words, the rough-soft sound of them caused her nerves to tingle. Amelia nestled closer. With her cheek against his chest, she reflected aloud, “It’s obvious that Beatrix is fascinated by Captain Phelan.” “She’s always been drawn to wounded creatures.” “The wounded ones are often the most dangerous.” His hand moved in a soothing stroke along her spine. “We’ll keep a close watch on her, monisha.

You’re going to wear a groove in the boards and make Calum throw you overboard if you don’t stop your pacing, Jon,” said Baltsaros, looking down at Jon. Jon laughed, but he felt completely frantic with worry. Tom had said that he would come give them their answer early this morning, but it was now noon, and there was no sign of him. “It’s not like we have to leave immediately, Jon,” said the captain. “If Tom’s not ready today, maybe he’ll be ready tomorrow. He can be extremely proud, like his mother. I did him wrong, Jon… And an afternoon spent playing on bedsheets won’t make it all better. We can afford to wait a day or two.” Jon nodded. He hoped it was the case. He’d already made two trips back to the mainland to see if he could find Tom on his own, with no avail. They could also put off the trip for this season if Tom was unwilling to join them. Jon was sure he could convince— “Bloody fuckin’ hells, Da! What in gods have ye done to my fuckin’ boat?” Jon started and looked over his shoulder. The ocean-eyed, burly youth swung himself up over the edge of the raised gunwale like nothing was amiss and landed on silent feet on the deck next to Jon. After dropping his bag with a thump and ruffling Jon’s hair affectionately as he passed by him, Tom swaggered to the stairs of the quarterdeck and looked up, feet splayed and hands on his hips. The captain, his relief and amusement obvious for a mere second, brought his stark brows down in a fierce scowl. “Your boat?” the captain repeated loudly. “She’ll be yours over my dead body.” Baltsaros allowed himself a small smile, and Tom grinned wide. “Whip these boys into shape, if you remember how,” said Baltsaros as he lifted his head to look over the gathering crowd. “First mate on deck!” shouted the captain.

He lifted his eyes to the captain’s. “This,” he said in a low voice, gesturing to the temple behind them, “it means something to you, doesn’t it?” Baltsaros frowned and tilted his head. For a moment Jon thought the captain was going to evade the question or lie. “Yes… and no,” replied Baltsaros slowly. “I know nothing of their gods.” “What of your gods?” asked Jon. “Do they demand blood as well?” The captain laughed. “I have no gods, Jon. God is a word men use to hide the truth of their desires,” the older man said, turning to watch Tom climb out of the river. “I have no such need. What is a god to you? A rule maker? A judge? A parent? Behind every god there is the very mortal hand of man, trust me.” “Then why, Baltsaros? Why do I feel like what just happened resonates very deeply with you?” whispered Jon. “It does, lad,” said Tom, his eyes locked on Baltsaros. “And yer goin’ to tell him every last bit, Da, so help me. But this ain’t the place for it, aye? Let’s get gone. We need a place to eat and bed down so we can get lookin’ again tomorrow mornin’.” Tom’s irritation and disappointment were obvious; Jon saw the first mate’s jaw muscles twitch under his dark-blond stubble as he stared hard at the captain. Baltsaros nodded and squeezed the water from the braid hanging over his shoulder as Jon stepped back into his boots, retying Tom’s belt around his hips. Though the hot sun was quickly drying their clothes, Jon was cold; the thought of a warm meal hurried his strides. It also took his mind off the taste of blood in his mouth.

Jon sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his face. “I honestly don’t know how much I want to hear,” he said quietly. He looked up at the captain standing in the centre of the room, his arms crossed. “Nothing I hear from you today will endear you to me, will it?” Baltsaros shook his head slowly but then lifted a shoulder in a slow shrug. “It’s the last of it, Jon. The very last of it, I promise,” said the older man. “No more secrets between us.” Jon laughed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you even hear yourself? How many times have you said what you were telling me was the last secret?” he asked. “Does it occur to you that maybe you’ve burned me out? That I no longer care whether what you spout is truth or lie?” Baltsaros’s lips pressed together. “If that were true, you wouldn’t have begged off the end of your meal and forced us to take to our room early, Jon.” After taking a deep breath, Jon wiped his palms on the knees of his pants and sat up. “I’m sorry. You just confessed to trying to kill me. How else was I supposed to react?” he asked, annoyed. Baltsaros stared hard at him, and Jon’s eyes widened as the silence dragged on. Though the captain’s face was set in stony lines, it was glaringly obvious to Jon that Baltsaros was conflicted about what he wanted to tell him. That alone made his heart beat a little faster.

Your mother gave it to me to give to you. She apologizes for not being able to see us off today but offered no excuse.” Brow creased, Tom turned the package over and pulled apart the twine holding it together. Inside was a piece of folded paper, and his mother’s perfume drifted off of it, giving Tom an unexpected pang. It was made worse when, on unfolding the paper, something dropped in his lap. Astounded, Tom picked it up and looked at it. Though carefully mended in a few places and obviously washed and ironed, it was the royal-blue silk handkerchief that he had stolen from his mother as a child. For a moment, he couldn’t swallow for the thick lump in his throat. “What is that?” asked Baltsaros, curious. Tom crushed the handkerchief in his palm and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Nothin’ important,” he lied. That Abetha had kept and clearly cherished the little square of silk… He blinked a few times and was glad when the captain went back to filling the chest. He flattened the note against his knee and read it.

Baltsaros let out a sudden sharp breath and his brow furrowed, eyes locked on Jon’s. Tom had obviously found the nerve to do as he was asked and let out a soft grunt as he thrust his hips forward slowly against the captain. A sound caught in Jon’s throat, and he nodded quickly. “That’s it,” he whispered. “Fuck him deep, Tom.” Jon couldn’t explain to himself why he needed to make them do this, only that it ate up some of the anger and shame that he was carrying around like lead in his belly. It was as if he needed to restore some of the power and control that had been ripped from him. He lifted himself up on one elbow to watch Tom and Baltsaros; the first mate’s side glistened with sweat as he fucked the captain slowly with brows pinched together and eyes closed with his efforts. Jon reached out and placed a hand on Tom’s ass, coaxing him to move faster. “This is for you, not for him,” he said, and found that though he was sated, the sight of Tom ploughing into Baltsaros had his cock again at half-mast. “Gods, that’s gorgeous. Don’t hold back… Do you like fucking him? Do you like having your cock in his ass?” Tom let out a small moan and fucked the captain harder, curling his arm around Baltsaros’s chest possessively; though he didn’t reply, he sighed a word. “Da.” Jon touched himself, teasing the head of his cock as Tom worked himself closer using Baltsaros’s body. He lay back down and saw that Baltsaros had closed his eyes.

During the “Bay of Pigs Invasion” One Douglas “B-26” airplane with counterfeit Cuban markings was fired on and crashed into the sea about 30 miles north of the island. Another of these aircraft, which was also damaged but still air worthy, continued north and landed at Boca Chica Key Naval Air Station near Key West, Florida. The following day the crew was quickly flown to exile in Nicaragua. The United States government announced that the downed aircraft belonged to the Cuban air force and was manned by Cuban dissidents. In reply to this, Castro appeared on Cuban State television and denounced these claims. He put his military on high alert and directed defensive operations from the Cuban Military Headquarters, which had just been bombed by two of the masquerading airplanes. Fidel issued orders to detain anyone who was suspected of conspiracy or treason. Lists of these people had previously been prepared and were used to round up suspected dissenters. Within days, his overzealous police force and army incarcerated about 20,000 Cuban citizens, using whatever means were available, including a sports stadium. In a speech to the people, Fidel finally admitted to the public that his Movement was Socialistic. The Cuban Foreign Minister Raúl Roa García, successfully presented evidence at the United Nations, proving that the attacks were foreign in origin. Adlai Stevenson, the U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations, replied that the United States had not participated in any action against Cuba. Ambassador Stevenson, knowing better, insisted that the aircraft that had landed in Miami had Cuban markings and therefore must have been of Cuban origin. Stevenson’s comments sounded contrived since the aircraft had Plexiglas noses, normally used as the bombardier’s station, whereas the actual Cuban B-26’s had solid noses with armament. It was obvious to the General Assembly that the United States Ambassador had been perpetrating an outright lie or, in diplomatic double talk, an untruth! It was an embarrassing moment that left the United States’ veracity open to ridicule

During the first century ravens or crows were often taken on board “Viking Knarr’s,” to be released thinking that they would fly in the direction of land. The lookout would observe the direction the birds flew in, so that the navigator could follow their course. Since the crow's nest is high from the vessel’s center of gravity it is subject to violent motion in relatively calm or moderate seas. Any amount of movement of the ship is amplified, causing even seasoned sailors to become sea-sick. Therefore, being sent to the crow's nest was certainly not for everyone. More recently but still prior to the advent of radar, when the visibility from the bridge of the ship was inhibited by fog, heavy seas or limited night vision lookouts were posted on the bow or high on a mast, above the low lying sea fog. By tradition the protected structure fitted to the foremast high above the deck was named the crow’s nest in deference to the earlier Viking traditions. During the 19th century this vantage point was simply made out of a barrel lashed to the highest mast that allowed the lookout to look ahead for land, other ships, flotsam or other obstructions. In later years the crow’s nest was sometimes enclosed and even electrically heated. As a young midshipman I was assigned to the bow as lookout. Peering into the dark of night I suddenly saw a bright light on the horizon. Sighting this light was a thrill and an experience that validated my usefulness! Excited with my find and without a moment’s hesitation I hurried back to where I was within shouting distance from the ships bridge and loudly announced the light as being 2 points on the starboard bow. Proud of my announced discovery, I returned to my station at the bow only to discover that what I had reported was now obviously the tip of a Sickle Moon rising in the east. At the time everyone had a good laugh but I was told that I did the right thing. It took a while but eventually I lived it down and now it makes for a good “Sea Story!”!

Joe!” he groaned, attempting to speak clearly. “Joe! Good ol’ Joe!” “Captain, you’re drunk!” Lofflin said, stating the obvious while trying to keep his voice level. Blaine grinned at him lopsidedly and giggled, almost choking. He slapped the table, knocking his empty glass over. “Ye-ss, I am! Don’t ssup-pose you – think I co-uld ssit here an’ calmly wait t’die – dýou? Weee-ll, not ssob-er anyway. Ha ha ha.” Disgust and hopelessness were swelling inside him. He felt like punching that drunken face till it was either sober or unconscious. “Damn it, Captain! We need you – the crew needs you! You’re turning your back on them – in our most desperate time!

Captain, Hey, hi, umm, so maybe I should have thought this through a bit more or something since I’m obviously unsure of what the heck to write. Crap. Well here goes I guess. I was asked to write a letter, get a few friends to write some letters, yadda yadda. Honestly, it feels like a blind date. You know the kind, you don’t really want to go on it but for some stupid reason you do, and before you know it your trapped in some weird thing when really you just want a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and to binge on Netflix? Wow, that sounds so selfish and bad. I wish I could say I don’t mean that but I’d be lying and I SUCK at lying. My dad asked me to do this, and then I thought hey! I could make it a class assignment (I’m a teacher) but third graders are weird creatures and barely connect with each other. How am I going to get them interested in talking to someone they don’t even know? Yanno? Unlikely. Anyways, I apologize for every word written above. I’m socially awkward and why I thought this was a good idea I’ll never know, but I’ve started so why not finish? If you don’t write back, I don’t blame you (I mean that) if you choose to, I look forward to it and I’ll try to be less weird, but I make no promises. Stay safe. J

Among other jobs that we did, my brother Bill and I were shoe shine boys in Jersey City and Hoboken during the World War II years. We went from tavern to tavern shining shoes for ten cents and hopefully a generous tip. The Hoboken waterfront bristled with starkly looming, grey hulled Liberty ships. Secured to the piers facing River Street, they brandished their ominous cannons towards what I thought was City Hall. An unappreciated highlight was when I shined Frank Sinatra’s shoes at a restaurant on Washington Street, just west from the Clam Broth House. There was no doubt but that Hoboken was an exciting place during those years. Years later I met Frank at Jilly's saloon, a lounge on West 52d Street in Manhattan, for a few drinks and a little fun around town. Even though I was an adult by then, he still called me “kid!” It was obvious that Frank Sinatra enjoyed friendly relations with Mafia notables such as Carlo Gambino, “Joe Fish” Fischetti and Sam Giancana. Meyer Lansky was said to have been a friend of Sinatra’s parents in Hoboken. During this time Sinatra spoke in awe about Bugsy Siegel and was in an AP syndicated photograph, seen in many newspapers, with Tommy “Fatso” Marson, Don Carlo Gambino 'The Godfather', and Jimmy 'The Weasel, Fratianno. Little wonder that the Federal Bureau of Investigation kept their eye on Sinatra for almost 50 years. A memo in FBI files revealed that Sinatra felt that he could be of use to them. However, it is difficult to believe that Sinatra would have become an FBI informer, better known as a “rat.” It was in May of 1998 when Sinatra, being treated at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles told his wife Barbara, “I’m losing.” Frank Sinatra died on May 14th at 82 years of age. It is alleged that he was buried with the wedding ring from his ex-wife, Mia Farrow, which she slid unnoticed into his suit pocket during his “viewing.” Aside from his perceived personal and public image, Frank Sinatra’s music will shape his enduring legacy for decades to come. His 100th birthday was celebrated at the Hollywood Bowl on Wednesday, July 22, 2015. Somehow Frank will never age and his music will never fade….

What are you saying, Captain O’ Devir?” “Stay here with me. Sail the seas, be free of balls and teas and social visits and expectations and the course yer brother will set for ye. Choose yer own path in life.” “Stay here with you?” “Why not?” “Stop saying that?” “Saying what?” “Saying, ‘Why not!’” He shrugged. “Well, it was just an idea.” Her palms suddenly felt cold, even as her heart began to race with the thrill of possibility. “I can’t stay here with you and you know it.” “Don’t see—” he grinned—“why not.” “Ohhhh!” “Think about it. We get on well. I want ye in my bed. If ye’re honest with yerself, ye want me in yours. Makin’ love to me wouldn’t be the trial it might be with someone who was suitable but repellent. Ye’d have no obligation to produce an heir. No obligations to an ancient family or a society that ye obviously ache to escape. Ye’d be loved and treasured and cared about, never set aside once yer purpose—whatever the divil that is—is fulfilled.” “What are you saying, Captain O’ Devir?” “That I’d marry ye, if I could. Give ye that freedom ye crave.

Catawamteak,” meaning “the great landing,” is what the Abenaki Indians called the early settlement that became Rockland, Maine. Thomaston and Rockland can be bypassed by Route 90, an eight-mile shortcut which I frequently used as a midshipman, but our bus stayed on the main road and stopped to let passengers on and off in both places. At one time Rockland was part of Thomaston, called East Thomaston, but the two towns have long since separated, having very little in common. In the beginning, Rockland developed quickly because of shipbuilding and limestone production. It was, and still is, an important fishing port. Lobsters are the main export and the five-day Maine Lobster Festival is celebrated here annually. The red, three-story brick buildings lining the main street of Rockland, give it the image of an old working town. I have always been impressed by the appearance of these small towns, because to me this is what I had expected Maine to look like. When I first went through the center of Rockland on the bus, I was impressed by the obvious ties the community had with the sea. The fishing and lobster industry was evident by the number of commercial fishing and lobster boats. Rockland was, and still is, the commercial hub of the mid-coastal region of the state. The local radio station WRKD was an important source of local news and weather reports. This was also the radio station that opened each day’s broadcasting with Hal Lone Pine’s song, recorded on Toronto's Arc Records label: “There’s a winding lane on the Coast of Maine that is wound around my heart....” The United States Coast Guard still maintains a base in Rockland, which is reassuring to the families of those who go fishing out on the open waters of Penobscot Bay and the Gulf of Maine. Rockland remains the home of the Farnsworth Art Museum, which has an art gallery displaying paintings by Andrew Wyeth, as well as other New England artists. The Bay Point Hotel that was founded in 1889 had a compelling view of the breakwater and Penobscot Bay. The Victorian style hotel, later known as the Samoset Hotel, had seen better days by 1952 and was closed in 1969. On October 13, 1972, the four-story hotel caught fire in the dining area due to an undetermined cause. Fanned by 20-mile-an-hour north winds, the structure burned to the ground within an hour. However, five years later a new Samoset Resort was founded.

From the beginning, the SS Deutschland was beset by problems, She was known as the “Cocktail Shaker” when she was first launched in 1923. On her trials, it was noticed that the ship had a serious vibration problem due to an imbalance in her twin shafts or perhaps her massive bronze propellers. Because of a lack of funding, this vibration was accepted and remained so for the first six years of her existence. It was an embarrassment to have a ship represent the German Merchant Marine, Handelsmarine, that was handicapped from the start. However, she was still considered the pride of the Hamburg-Amerika Line, a company with rich traditions that was founded in 1847. So, when the Deutschland left Hamburg for the first time on March 27, 1924, she moved slowly down the Elbe River past Blohm und Voss, the massive dockyard where she had been built. At the time of her maiden voyage, the entire city celebrated when the Deutschland headed down the Elbe River towards the North Sea. Other ships in the harbor fittingly saluted her by blowing their deep throaty whistles, as small craft such as tugboats and fireboats pumped frothy white streams of the brackish river water high into the air. By the time I boarded her for my voyage to the United States in November, 1934, the SS Deutschland was over 11 years old and, although she was still Hamburg-Amerika Line’s flagship, she was beginning to show her age. Germans, who prided themselves in their knowledge of science and engineering, were falling behind other European countries. Paying retribution to the victors of World War I had drained the German treasury and as a nation, they resented it. Hostility had increased and the pressure it put on the people was obvious. Many looked to Hitler to make “Germany great again.

Many notorious military blunders have been set up by poor personal relationships (if not wilful taciturnity) between key participants, the need for whose informal collaboration seems, in retrospect, to have been blindingly obvious. “It is instructive to mark how the squabbles of historic admirals with their Admiralties and with their captains have played into the hands of the enemy.

People still said that “The Sun Never Sets on the British Empire,” even though the Commonwealth was starting to come apart. In spite of the obvious, it was unthinkable that the United States had a colony in Africa; well they had one, and that was where I was headed! World War II had been over for ten years and in Europe they were getting on with things and for now all was well in Africa, and with the World! Unless especially fitted out, aircraft didn’t have the range to cross the Atlantic in one jump, so after leaving Idlewild Airport in New York City, we flew halfway across the Atlantic Ocean to the Portuguese island of Santa Maria in the Azores. After refueling and stretching our legs we continued on to Lisbon. Our layovers were only for as long as it took to take care of business. There were no days built in, for me to have a leisurely, gentlemanly, civilized journey to my destination. Instead my seat was beginning to feel as hard as a rock pile. The engines continued to drone on as the Atlantic Ocean eventually gave way to the Iberian Peninsula. My view of Portugal was only what I could see from the air and what was at the airport. Again we landed for fuel in Lisbon, and then without skipping a beat, headed south across the Mediterranean to the North African desert. The beaches under us, in Morocco and the Spanish Sahara, were endless and the sand went from the barren coastal surf inland, to as far as the eye could see. With very few exceptions there was no evidence of civilization.

The original name of Bucksport’s first library was the “Buckstown Social Library,” however it since been changed to “Buck Memorial Library.” Naming the town and the library in the honor of Colonel Buck speaks volumes. The people of Bucksport, Maine must have revered him throughout the years and apparently the locals still view Colonel Buck with due respect and admiration. It is obvious that they do what they can to preserve his memory. While visiting the town library in September of 2015, Geraldine Spooner, known to the locals affectionately as “Gerry,” printed out some research material for me. As she did, she reminded me that the story of Colonel Buck was really only a legend. As she turned, she lost her balance and fell to the floor. Hoping to catch her to prevent a more serious fall, I jumped to her rescue, only to scrape my own arm. We both became “Wounded Literary Warriors,” as she sat relatively unharmed on the floor of the library. Bleeding profusely from my minor scratch, I tried to help her up. When she finally managed to get back on her feet, she applied a bandage to my arm and remarked that, “The legend of Bucksport continues….” All’s well that ends well, as apparently neither of us was seriously hurt, but now we both have a story to tell.

All merchant ships have load lines painted on both the port and starboard sides amidships. In most cases these markings are welded or etched into the steel plates of the hull to ensure that they not be altered. The allowable freeboard of vessels is measured between the lowest point of the uppermost continuous deck and the waterline. The purpose of the various load lines is to show the amount of freeboard the ship must have under various conditions. These load lines make it obvious for anyone to see if a ship has been overloaded. The waterline or load line is calculated and verified by a regulating classification society, recognized by the authorities at the vessels homeport, shown on the stern and accepted by the ships appropriate country of origin. This marking system was invented in 1876 by Samuel Plimsoll. A politician and social reformer, Plimsoll directed his efforts against what were known as "coffin ships." Unseaworthy and overloaded vessels were frequently heavily insured by unscrupulous owners, who risked the lives of the crew.

He’d spent five years in jail for robbery in his youth, which made him an obvious suspect.  I’d also heard that his penis curved pretty impressively to the right.