It's 1771 and I've just gotten a secret message from Father who - all of New Bedford says - went down with his ship in 1769. I know I promised Mother never to put to sea, but what's more important - keeping a promise or finding Father? If you want to come with me, help me find a ship bound for the South Atlantic, and we'll search together for a legendary island, and Father. But watch out for a smelly, slim, oily-looking sailor with a tattoo of a viper coiled around his arm. We're going to leave him far behind...
Genre: JUVENILE FICTION / GeneralSales are slow. I have done nothing to advertise the novel, although it won First Place in the International Digital Awards for 21012.
Please read the 39 5-star reveiws on Amazon. A few of the titles of the reveiws include "One of our favorite books of all time!!" "Thrilling Seafaring Adventure" "Treasure on the High Seas" "THOROUGHLY ENGAGING" "A Rip-roaring sea story!" "Expert Prose and First Class Publishing - Professionalism Personified!" "Left me wanting to read the sequel!" "I Love Surprise Endings!" and "Chock full of surprises and suspense."
I have connections in the hispanic radio and twitter communities. I belive that the novel would sell well to Catholiuc hispanics, because of their emphasis on children, and because -- although the novel has been enjoyed by both secular and Christian readers -- the novel is built around a Christian archetype that would appeal to Catholics.
I belive that a Spanish translation would end up in the classrooms of Catholiuc elemenaray schools.
If the the novel is translated into Spanish, I would commit myself to getting radio spots on Hispanic radio, and to mounting an effective campaign on Twitter.
I am in the middle of writing a sequel to Sea Cutter. It is titled Red Stone.
Chapter One
Shipwreck
I kicked the plaque Mother had hung on the church wall.
Sacred to the Memory of the Late Captain Jonathan Childe
Of the Goode Ship Christopher.
Who in Battle with the Storm
Went Down with His Ship
August 3, 1769.
This Tablet Is Erected to his Memory
By His Son and His Widow
“He's not dead!” I yelled.
“Please, Nathaniel. It's been two years. He's not coming back,” Mother begged.
“How can you give up on him?”
She put her hand on my shoulder, but I shook it off and ran from the church. When the world had said Father was dead, I'd defied it, but now Mother had given up hope.
“Whoa! Watch where you're going, lad.”
A horse-drawn fish wagon rattled past on the cobblestones. The dying fish stared at me with wide, surprised eyes. A sob caught in my throat as I stumbled off the road, slamming into the church's elm tree like a man being dashed against the mast of his ship in a storm.
