Books and Writings

A Little Background on my writing...

I have been writing short stories and books since high school. I am currently working on two novellas/novels. As always, we will be sure to keep you up to date on the release. The other project I am still writing. Below is a sample chapter from the new project.
I have also been reviewing some of my earlier work. When those novellas, short story collections, and illustrated books are reviewed and edited, they too will be available for purchase. They reflect an earlier time in my life, and are fun to read and enjoy.

A Bright Shining Light

A Bright Shining Light - ORDER TODAY



Surfer Girl

Novel – Love Story set during the 1960’s and 1990’s at the Jersey Shore.
UPDATE - Currently being Edited for Publication.



Fish Stories

A Collection of Short Stories
UPDATE - Currently being Edited for Publication - Will also include two
Previously unpublished short stories - The Road to Hell is Paved in Gold and Babylon Revisited; Again.



The Little Red Volkswagen

An illustrated story for fans of the most popular car of all time, the VW Beetle!



Please check out the first chapter of my current project. Thanks as always for checking out our website! Please send any feedback to grohmandive@hotmail.com.

CURRENT PROJECT - "Untitled"

Chapter One

Tap, tap, tap.

He turned his head in the cumbersome copper helmet and listened again. He turned off his acetylene torch. He knew he had heard something. All he could hear now was his breathing and the steady stream of bubbles exiting from the top of the helmet. He pressed his lips against the front of the helmet and took in a mouthful of salty water. He swished it around in his mouth and then spit it on the faceplate. The water slowly cleared off the fog that had formed on the glass window.

Tap, tap, tap.

It was soft, muffled, and barely discernable, but he had heard the sound again.

He breathed softly, the bubbles slowly escaping from his helmet’s exhaust.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Topside, this is blue diver,” he paused, “I hear tapping down here. It sounds like it is close to my position. I think it is forward of where I’m hanging this patch, over.”

A voice crackled into his helmet receiver, “roger that blue diver, investigate.”

He looked at the steel patch on the hull that he had been working on. It would hold till he returned. He put down his acetylene torch and turned towards the bow of the ship. His feet trudged through the soft mud, his twenty pound lead boots, stirring the silt as he moved forward.

“Topside, roger your last transmission, I’m moving forward at this time, over.”

After a few steps, he stopped and slowed down his breathing again.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Topside, I hear it again,” he moved a few more steps forward. A few seconds went by in silence.

Tap, tap, tap.

The sound of the tapping was becoming clearer and more distinct. He was close to where the sounds were coming from. Beads of sweat poured down his brow and stung his eyes. The sweat was overwhelming. He reached down to his air intake valve to give himself some additional air from above. The cool air rushed into the helmet, the beads of sweat slowly drying.

Tap, tap, tap.

The sound was close to where he was. He moved closer. The taps were closer, but growing fainter each time.

He stopped and stepped closer to the hull. He put his hands on the cool steel and pressed his faceplate against the skin of the ship. He breathed in softly.

Tap, tap, tap.

He had found where the tapping was coming from. He reached up to his chest and unscrewed his knife from its scabbard. His mind raced. There were so many unaccounted sailors since the attack. There must be survivors on the other side of the hull.

“Topside, this is blue diver. I have found the source of the tapping. I think there must be some guys down here, over.”

He tapped three times with the handle of his knife against the hull.

Tap, tap, tap, came the response.

“Roger blue diver, mark your position over.”

“Roger Topside,” he responded. He placed his knife back in the scabbard and grabbed a piece of chalk from his tool bag.

“Topside, be advised, I have placed a large X on the position, over.”

“Roger blue diver, return to hanging your patch, over.”

“Roger that Topside.”

He placed the chalk stick back into his tool bag and again reached for his knife. He took it out and with the handle tapped “ok” in Morse code against the hull. He waited for a response.

Tap, tap, tap.

He put away his knife and then returned his hand to the cool steel skin of the ship. Mere inches separated them. He couldn’t stand it. It was torturing him.

“Blue diver, have you begun to hang that patch again, over?”

“Topside, roger,” he paused, “I’m moving into position now, over.”

He slowly began trudging back to his original work site. After a few moments, he was back to hanging the patch. Every few minutes, he heard the tapping again, softer and softer each time.

Tap, tap, tap.

After fifteen or so minutes, he had put the finishing touches on the patch.

“Topside, this is blue diver; I’m ascending the ladder now, over.”

“Roger that blue diver.”

He pulled on his life line to indicate to his tenders above to take in his slack. Almost as soon as he had tugged on his life line, he could feel the tenders taking in the slack of his hoses. He made his way up the ladder slowly, one step at a time. After a few minutes, he began to reach the clearer water. The sun’s beams crept into the darkness of the water lighting the steps of the ladder above him. He stopped and took in a deep breath and thought about the men in the ship. He closed his eyes and heard the tapping again. He shook himself from the thought and began climbing towards the surface.

His helmet broke the surface a few moments later. Two tenders grabbed him under his armpits and guided him over to a bench. The turned and sat him down. The weight of the gear without the assistance of neutral buoyancy afforded by the density of the water was taking its toll on him.

He breathed a sigh of relief as the tenders unscrewed his faceplate and swung it open, the cool dry air began to circulate in the helmet.

“There’s men down there sir, we have to get them out.”

The lieutenant walked over to him and looked straight into his eyes, “I know Chief, I know. We are doing the best that we can do. We have to repair this ship so that we can float her. It is just that simple. We need this battleship in the war.”

“But sir, those men are going to die.”

The lieutenant pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one, “I know Chief, I know.” He walked down the platform and inhaled deeply on the cigarette.

The tenders removed his helmet from its bonnet. The sun shone down on his head and the cool island breeze help to dry the sweat from his brow.

“Topside,” a voice crackled through the communications box on the dive platform, “I have finished hanging my patch. I’m heading for the ladder now, over.”

The lieutenant walked over to the voice box and flipped the switch, “roger that red diver, see you topside.” He walked back over to the Chief and threw his half smoked cigarette into the water, “I know its frustrating Chief, but were moving as fast as we can, you know that.”

The tenders finished undressing him. He dried himself off with a towel and put on a shirt, a pair of boat shoes and his sunglasses. He helped out the tenders as they undressed the other diver. All the while, he couldn’t shake the sound of tapping from his mind.

Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

The Chief awoke suddenly. He opened his eyes. Sweat poured into them slowly stinging. He wiped his eyes and pulled the top sheet off of his sweat soaked body. He swung his legs over the side of his rack and placed his head in his hands.

Tap, tap, tap.

He closed his eyes. Utter blackness filled the void.

Tap, tap, tap.

The nightmare never ended for him. He stood up after a few minutes and went into the kitchen of his rented apartment. He grabbed a glass and decided to finish the bottle of scotch that he had started when the drinking lamp had been lit earlier in the evening.

He poured himself a half a glass and took a sip. He paused and then took a swallow. He replenished the glass again and walked into the living room and sat down in his chair. He looked out of the living room windows at the harbor. The anchor lights of the ships dotted the nighttime sky. He thought about the dark months after the attack. The salvage diving, the attempted rescues, the close calls, and the death.

He took a sip from the glass.

He closed his eyes and thought back to the tapping. They had worked on that battleship for two weeks. They had hung all the patches, removed all the twisted metal and remains and re-floated her the day after they had heard the tapping. She emerged from the abyss and as soon as the position of the tapping was above the water line, the divers cut into the hull at the Chief’s X.

They were too late. The divers found where the tapping had been coming from and from whom. Three sailors, skeletons of them former selves lay dead in the forward compartment. They must have been trapped when the ship went down into the harbor. On the bulkhead, the Chief found twenty two marks in chalk. The three sailors had made it for twenty two days. No food, little water, little hope. The salvage crew missed saving their fellow shipmates by a day. Twenty four hours had come between life and death. The Chief watched in disbelief as their bodies were removed from the compartment for proper burial.

The diving crew put a temporary patch on the hull and the battleship was towed into dry dock, to be refitted and repaired for action in the Pacific. The Chief walked away, so close, he thought, so close.

Tap, tap, tap.

The noise shook him from his memory back to the present.

Tap, tap, tap.

He took another sip from his drink and got up and walked over to the living room window. He looked out and saw that it had rained. Water slowly dripped from the gutter and fell into the drain. Tap, tap, tap.

He looked out again to the lights of the fleet at anchor. He head seen so much destruction and so much death during the attack on Pearl Harbor, but he had never been effected by much of it, until that day when he heard those men tapping.

He felt a feeling of guilt. He realized that he would have that feeling with him for the rest of his life.

Tap, tap, tap.

The rainwater slowly tapped as it fell from the rain gutter into the drain. He took another sip of his scotch and stared into the dark, black night.






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