• book

From the Publisher

At thirteen, Tom Cringle enters the Royal Navy as a midshipman. Assigned at first to service in home water, Tom is soon transferred to the exotic Caribbean where war, piracy, smuggling, and slave running are the order of the day.
Published: McBooks Press an imprint of Independent Publishers Group on
ISBN: 9781590133439
List price: $9.99
Read on Scribd mobile: iPhone, iPad and Android.
Availability for Tom Cringle's Log
With a 30 day free trial you can read online for free
  1. This book can be read on up to 6 mobile devices.

Related Articles

Inc.
2 min read

The Wind At His Back

SHEILA MARIKAR ON A RECENT cloudless Thursday, Spoon Singh, a co-founder of the Hawaii-based beermaker Kona Brewing Company, watched the sun set from his sailboat, off the coast of Marina del Rey, California. Five friends were aboard, throwing back beers and listening to some pretty out-there funk streaming from the speakers of The Indulgence, Singh’s boat. “My religion is very simple these days,” says Singh, who wears a strand of clear beads around his wrist. “Basically, watch the sun set and enjoy life and appreciate the day being on the water.” In 1994, Singh and his dad founded Kona, wh
Money
2 min read

A Mast With a Past

SHE WAS SITTING on a rusted trailer in a driveway on a street in Rhode Island where we were staying on vacation. She was full of dead leaves and rainwater, a fiberglass relic of the 1960s. Her paint was faded, and her deck was laced with hairline cracks. It was love at first sight. What I saw was a boat that could be my very own, a sleek centerboard sloop, 20 feet long, ready to take me wherever I pointed it. What my wife, Susan, saw was a needy addition to the family. But she didn’t veto the purchase, and I, in my wisdom, never asked her to help me work on it. I bought my dream a decade ago
New York Magazine
1 min read

There’s a Wonderfully Strange Ship Graveyard

WHEN I MOVED to Staten Island a couple years ago, it comforted me to see the blackened stubs of old pillars poking out of the harbor where the docks used to be, the overturned tree trunks and scrap metal. I had lived in Manhattan and Brooklyn for years, and on Staten Island—where there’s less pressure to erase and replace—oddities can linger and even flourish. There’s no better example of this than the Staten Island boat graveyard, a wetland area on the North Shore that was once home to hundreds of retired ships, broken-down and rusting in shallow water—most of them beyond salvage, toxic from