These stories started in a bed, not on a page.

My oldest son loved asking me for a story about a pirate called Barba Roja. I made one up, then another. Soon Barba Azul arrived, inspired by his little brother — a name that sounded familiar even though we'd just made it up, and that fit beside Barba Roja the way two brothers do, without anyone needing to explain it.

Something kept bothering me about the children's books we were reading back then: most of them didn't really say much. Pretty, light, easy to forget. I wanted my stories to leave something behind — a small idea, a question for tomorrow, a word that would come back when it was needed.

Chapter by chapter, writing without quite knowing what I was doing, I realised these stories weren't just for my kids. These islands, these lessons, could be useful to other families too — families where two siblings argue at breakfast, where someone steadies the wheel when everything tilts, where the real treasure isn't something you can buy.

So I polished them. Translated them. Published them. And here they are, waiting to climb onto someone else's bedside table.

Small secret: Barba Roja and Barba Azul are my two sons. La Estrella Valiente carries the spirit of my wife — the one who steadies the course and bears the weight when the sea decides otherwise. Pepino was named by a kid at dinner. If this sounds like your family, it's probably because it also is.

— amragl