Marlow was the man
. . . His shipmates knew him from days in the Fleet, deploying in harm's way to defend his nation's interests and kick the ass of anyone who happened to try to interfere with the lawful exercise of power. Sometimes that involved hunting sleek black ballistic missile-toting submarines in the norther operating and eastern Pacific patrol areas. Those were games involving action above, below and atop the waves fed by information on orbit. Exciting times in Makalapa Crater on Oahu, riding in the hunt for Soviet Victor III-class attack subs off Bremerton-but that is only part of Marlow's magic! Ashore, he had a liking for the eclectic and a liking for strong travel. Particularly the eclectic kind. His two accounts of motorcycle epic rides across-and around-the continental United States on the back of a vibrating two-wheeled freedom machine brought us together as writers at Socotra House.
His stream of observations of Gulf Life in the formidable freedom of Key West were legendary until medical needs took him to the place he knew as the Coastal Empire of Savannah, Georgia. He contributed merry and mordant tomes from the low country on how this life is lived amid what was and is now upon us. A fun man who lived the tumult of his times like the beasts he clenched while on his wheels or riding the crest of a fine break on the shore. Take a little ride with Marlow. It is guaranteed to ruffle your curls.