Raging Waters Paperback - Book 3: A Rick Waters Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series)

Book Three in the Rick Waters Series. Join thousands of readers in 17 countries.

#1 Best seller by Eric Chance Stone.

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★★★★★ My new favorite author, since Clive Cussler has passed. - Reader Review.

Rick Waters travels to the Amazon to save his true love Jules. Rick must overcome, snakes, spiders, jaguars and flying spears and arrows to find the jewel. If he cannot find the Sacred Jewel of Orinoco, not only is Jules’s life in danger, but so is the fate of the entire Kayapó tribe.

Will Rick survive the dangers of the rainforest and the worlds most dangerous waterfall? Can his bird Chief help him? Without the recovery of the jewel, his other precious Jules is doomed.

Time is running out. No pressure, right?!

"He just keeps writing winners!"

"They get better each time. Mr. Stone is now one of my favorite authors"

"It seems I've known that damn bird Chief all my life."

"This book made my vacation!" 

"Nonstop twists and turns." 

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Enjoy an excerpt from Raging Waters.

A sliver of light peeked over the horizon, and the night sky began to shift from black to a light gray as the stars retreated back into the galaxy. When Johnie turned the key and fired up Nine-Tenths, the sound of the mighty Mann twin diesels startled a great white heron that was hunting for pinfish in the shallows of the marina. Rick was on the stern of the boat, restringing the Penn reels. His cockatoo, Chief, delicately nibbled on a red grape while sitting on the mobile tree perch up on the flybridge. The fourth member of Rick’s crew, Possum, filled the water tanks and sipped on a stainless-steel coffee mug with The Crow’s Nest logo on the side.

“Rick, you want a mug?” asked Possum.

“Yeah, man, I need some brain fuel. See if Johnie wants one too.”

Possum made Rick a coffee the way he liked it, climbed up to the flybridge, and gave Johnie one as well.

“How are the engines?” asked Possum.

“As smooth as a Velvet Elvis hanging in a bachelor pad with three-inch white shag carpet,” replied Johnie.

Possum chuckled. “You have a way with words.” “What’s our eta?” yelled Rick from down below. Johnie glanced at the chart plotter, then looked at his

watch and said, “Happy hour!”

As the first mate aboard Rick’s vessel, Johnie had plotted

the course to the Hemingway International Yacht Club, a mere eighteen-kilometer cab ride to the famous La Bodeguita del Medio salsa bar, where a small autographed sign hung behind the bar that read: My mojito in La Bodeguita. My daiquiri in El Floridita—Ernest Hemingway. Many people believed it was his real signature. In reality, it had been proven to be a forgery by none other than the owner, who’d hired a graphic artist to create the sign based on several Hemingway signed pieces, in order to drum up business. What had started as a small joke among friends turned into a big lie once the place started hopping. There was no empirical evidence that Hemingway enjoyed mojitos or had even set foot in the place, but that didn’t matter to Rick and the gang. They were determined to drink a mojito there and see the infamous sign. The also planned to visit the Floridita, where photographs of Hemingway bellied up to the bar sipping on his actual favorite drink—a daiquiri— hung on the wall.

Rick and Possum untied the lines from the dock as Johnie slowly maneuvered Nine-Tenths toward the end of the channel and open water. The route would take them back to the inside of the Florida Keys via the Channel Five bridge, around the end of Key West into the Florida Straits, and then to a small deep-water channel just to the east of Punta Cabeza de Vaca, which translated to Cow Head Tip. They would side tie the fifty-five-foot Viking sportfisher as close to the yacht club as possible in the narrow inlet.

The seas were smooth today. Rick climbed up to the fly- bridge and took over for Johnie at the helm as they rounded Key West. Chief sat on his shoulder, mocking the gulls that followed the boat. Near him, Possum rigged up four rods with pre-rigged ballyhoo and bright multi-colored trolling skirts. Rick would slow the boat only for a short while once they hit the 6,000-foot drop-off in the center of the Florida Straits, giving a small opening for them to fish.

“Whatcha trying to catch?” asked Johnie, noticing Possum rigging up one of the rods with a high-speed trolling lure.

“A wahoo!” said Possum.

As Rick got into open water and Key West disappeared below the horizon, Possum loosened the drag on the gold Penn reel and fed line out a few hundred feet behind the boat. The normal cruising speed of a Viking fifty-five was thirty-two knots, but with Johnie’s custom-built computer module plug-ins, they were easily doing over forty. The elusive wahoo could reach speeds of over sixty miles per hour.

Johnie kicked back in the fighting chair, studying Possum’s fishing experiment with great skepticism, but anything was possible. Possum was one the smartest people Johnie had ever met, and he always thought outside of the box.

After only twenty minutes, the reel sizzled.

“Fish on!” yelled Possum and Johnie simultaneously. Rick slowed the boat down to four knots as Possum

swapped places with Johnie and strapped himself into the fighting chair, already wearing the rod holder belt. The lightning-fast fish leaped into the air, shaking its head and desperately trying to dislodge the hook from its mouth. Possum reeled with all his might, and eventually, he brought the fish alongside the sportfisher. In one quick motion, Johnie gaffed the massive fish and pulled its flopping body onto the deck.

“Woohoo, wahoo!” shouted Possum.

Johnie grabbed the portable scale and pulled the fish up. After weighing it, he exclaimed, “Eighty-three pounds!”

“Great job, Possum!” yelled Rick from the flybridge.

Johnie quickly gutted the tasty fish and threw it on ice. He would fillet it once they docked the boat. It was too risky to try that with the boat cruising at high speeds.

Before Rick could get the boat up to a full plane, the reel sizzled again. A blue flash spun in the air. Possum secured the rod and sat back in the fighting chair as Rick once again slowed the boat to four knots.

“It’s a sailfish!” shouted Johnie.

“Hell to the yeah!” said Possum.

Rick pulled up The Best of George Jones album on his

iPhone and blasted it through the eighteen speakers of the boat. Possum looked up at Rick over his shoulder and shot him a big grin.

The sleek fish jumped repeatedly and eventually gave up. Johnie pulled it on board, measured it, and weighed it.

“Seventy-three pounds! You know, if you catch a bull dolphin, you get the Blue Water Grand Slam: wahoo, sailfish, and dolphin,” said Johnie.

“Really? I’ve heard of that. Well, let’s get a dolphin,” replied Possum.

“Since you’re so close to the Grand Slam, Possum, I’ll go trolling speed for a while,” said Rick from the flybridge. “Cuba isn’t going anywhere.”