I always knew there was a book inside me. There were times I came close to a story, but all the ingredients didn’t mix together quite right.
Then I saw the old picture of John Gavin, my husband’s great grandfather. When I looked into those eyes I knew there was, not only a story, but a story that had already captured me and I knew until his life’s journey was written those remarkable eyes would hold me captive.
It’s been an intense journey, bringing a man back to life. But before long he was laughing, crying, playing music and falling in love.
In writing my first novel, HARBOUR OF MY TOMORROWS it has touched me deeply. When I wanted to describe the harbour, I had only to look out my window. When I needed to describe the house John lived in, in the nineteenth century, I had only to take a picture off my wall and place it next to my computer.
His years in Ireland required a lot of research because I had never been there and I am not a traveler. But I swore that until I could feel Ireland’s breezes on my face, I wouldn’t write a word.
After a couple of years reading everything I could find on Ireland in the middle 1850’s, the breezes not only blew across my face, soon I was swept away.
It is my hope that anyone who reads this novel will be touched by the story of a young Irish lad who was forced to leave behind his two greatest loves… his younger brother, Luke…..and his Ireland.
“Against all odds, John’s eyes opened and the stark reality progressively took over his mind. As fragments of recent events returned, he knew that he was on the ocean; rocking, swaying and sick to his stomach. He had become accustomed to nightmares in his young life, but he knew this moment was real. He felt it in the sharp pains that flooded his back, inflicted upon him when he was dragged over the uneven ground. He felt it in his two wrists, which even in the darkness, he sensed were blackened by the roughness of his aggressors.
And he knew the terror that seized each and every muscle in his painful body was as real as the aching and longing gripping fiercely at his heart.
With each rolling wave, he moved further away from Ireland; from the soil of his ancestors, from his new and wonderful family, from his friend Jim, and from Maggie. But the name that he struggled to utter through his misery was that of his brother, “Please God, let me some day, see Luke again,” he prayed, as he drifted back into unconsciousness”.