Seven Seas

Our Captain screams from his strategic vantage spot, pointing at me and suggesting I sheathe my cutlass. I sheathe my cutlass. The captain moves forward and addresses us all. He addresses our initiative, saying it is nice, but suggests that in the future we consider mercy, that we cease pillaging for so much gold and instead retain the treasures of human compassion. We are his crew. Aside to me he says sorry for screaming. And also for pointing at me, he says that was in error. He surveys our inflicted wreckage and says he is not one to point, he has never been one to aim his finger at another man.

Each of our crew stands on deck of the freshly demolished cruise liner, admiring our work. It has been demolished well. The liner is sinking fast. Many of us return to our pirate ship, which is not sinking. I stay. I stand next to our captain as he addresses the few demolished passengers who can still receive sentiment. It’s my obligation as First Mate to stand next to the captain like this. I have all sort of obligation.

“Regrets,” the captain says to a man who’s been bludgeoned with his own boot. The man is slowly covered by a swell of rising ocean. He looks up at the captain as the bottom of his eyes are met with sea water. “I never wanted it to be this way!” the captain shouts down at him, getting emotional. “My way would include you coming aboard my ship and sleeping in the spare, until you got your health up. Perhaps I’d even take the spare and give you my kingsize.”

The bludgeoned man blinks desperately as his eyes fill with salt water and his breath runs out. He wasn’t getting up from that bludgeoning. I did it myself. I saw what kind of nice boots he had on and wondered why he thought he was so great as to wear boots like that?

“After all,” our captain wails, “we are pirates! You had to have seen those angry skulls across our ship! Why didn’t you escape, or at least fend us off? In a way this is as much your fault as it is mine!” he wails, covering his face with his wide black hat.

I scratch my nose and tell him that man is dead. The liner is almost sunk and we need to be departing from it. I tell him as much.

We stand on the last few feet of unsunk cruise liner.

Floating between the ship’s crushed center a beaten family clings to a box. The box is made of wood. Wood floats, but not unconditionally. They start to slip under. In what are his last words, each said very calmly and distinctly, the family’s father asks our captain if he will take their son and raise him to be a man. The father and mother let go of the box and go under simultaneously. Sitting atop the box, with a concerned face, is a small boy. He is maybe six.

I draw my cutlass and with it between my teeth swim to the boy. Our captain watches, standing gently upon the last few feet of unsunk cruise liner. I assure our captain I will give this wretched child no more pain than he deserves. When I am upon the child I hear a shout. It is the captain. He suggests I bring the boy to him. I reply he will no longer be a boy when I am through with him, he will be mostly blood. Our captain rephrases himself.

“Bring him alive, please,” he says, trying not to sound too pushy.

I put the boy on my shoulders. He smells of peaches.

I return to the last few inches of unsunk cruise liner, and set him down before the captain. We stand on our tip-toes. The crew advises we board the pirate ship before we sink and that is what we do next.

“I could use an apprentice,” our captain says, tousling the boy’s hair and lining his eyes with dark pencil. He keeps the boy beside him. On his right. Which is the side I usually stand on.

I take the left.

Our captain stares at the scene of our victory, watching as the final bubbles surface and explode and debris flies off under the waves.

“I took no part!” he yells at the bubbles. “I merely oversaw from my strategic vantage spot! I consider myself more of a moderator, an arbitrator. It is true you all are dead, but it is also true you are free of guilt and anxiety. It could be said we are now even!”He yells, and the boy looks up at him, devoid of thought.

Our Captain was not always this way. There was a time he was the most ruthless. We would watch in awe as he struck down privateers with a cutlass in each hand, and we would emulate his evil laughs, secretly studying the ways he avoided pity.

Then the cannonball came. It landed on his face. It was not a glancing blow and when we approached him it was with mops, and the acceptance that our lives were moving on to a new chapter.

But there were no pieces of skull or brain to be mopped. When he rose it was by his own accord; when the ball left his face it was because he removed it.

“That was a heck of a shot,” our captain remarked, rubbing a defectless face. If anything he looked sharper. Like his cheekbones had risen and his chin had grown even more prominent. “You have to give it up to them,” he had said, waving his hand at the enemy and suggesting we call this one a draw.

Before the cannonball he was Captain Bloodbeard.

Now he encourages us to just call him Flip.

“I used to be such a gymnast,” he reflects. “I could jump into the air and stay there for awhile. I could flip from one thin beam to another, until they raised tens high above their heads!”

I don’t call him Flip. I call him Captain. I remember when he was my mentor and when he shot a wild tribesman in the back to show me cowardice. Then he defeated two wild tribesmen with his bare hands, to give a counter example. I remember when he let me join his crew, citing a torment in my heart. He said he could see it in my eyes, that the eyes were the window to the heart, to our fears and regrets and aspirations. He said look into his eyes. I saw nothing. He said that’s right, there is nothing there to see.

That liner was a fair prize. I sit with my pirate friends and count loot. We brag over our finest loot, using it to decide who has the best eye for treasure. I got a gold pocketwatch with a long chain. Its inscription says: TO MY GIRLFRIEND KIMBERLY THE ONLY ONE WHO UNDERSTANDS ME. Marco got a gold letter opener with jewels on the handle. He says he has the best eye for treasure and Leonard says you don’t even have eyes. This is true. Marco lost them both and wears dual patches, but he is still a vicious pirate. He says he can smell fear. I’ve seen him running with his nose in the air and his gun pointed wildly, spraying bullets into the weak. Marco waves his letter opener in front of us and says he can feel its quality, that its gold is thicker and more lustrous than my simple watch.

I put my cutlass on his neck. I tell him to think twice about associating me with simple watches. I tell him this watch is more complicated than he’ll ever figure out. I press on the cutlass and ask Marco if he wants to change his tune. He sniffs gently. I tell him he won’t smell anything off me. He laughs nervously and quickly backpedals, explaining how ignorant to treasure he is. Leonard and the other pirates watch as I press on the cutlass. I press on it some more. Finally I sheathe it and tell Marco to give me that letter opener, which he does, but reluctantly. I give it back to him and say re-give it to me, but this time with more enthusiasm. He looks at me. I unsheathe my cutlass and Marco forces the letter opener onto me, telling me please accept it as a gift, it would mean the world to him.

“Gentlemen,” our captain says, moving towards us. He looks grave. “Gentlemen, I have an important announcement.” Our captain pauses, building the dramatic tension. “His name is Ramone! Ramone, step forward and show yourself!”

The young boy steps forward from behind a beam. His pirate makeup is carefully done and his bandana has many skulls upon it.

“Ramone is a fantastic pirate name, don’t you men think?”

The boy picks something from between his fingernails and says Ramone sounds good to him. He says he likes it better than Marty.

“Well, I’m glad,” our captain says, pleased with himself. “But let’s hear what these men think of it. These pirates. They know a thing or two about pirate names, I’d wager. In fact,” he says, “I’d wager a shiny gold coin on it.” At that he reaches down and pulls a shiny gold coin from Marty’s ear. From Ramone’s ear. Ramone beams and hugs him on the leg.

Leonard pipes up from the back that we should name him after Stabbing Mike Edwards, or perhaps James the Slaughterer – two very good pirates who died in the Embargo Massacre. Leonard says it will do them honor.

“No, we like Ramone, don’t we Ramone?” our captain says. “Ramone just sounds dashing. It sounds like a man who could better his enemy with a smooth retort just as easily as with a musket. Ramone it is.”

Ramone whispers something into the captain’s ear, and the captain says: no like this, one leg and then the other, it’s about rhythm, now you’ve got it. Then they skip away in perfect unison.

This liner does not know what is hitting them. They should know, they should know not to sail in these waters or to expect swift doom, but they are freaking out. One fat lady holds on tight and says no, not her ruby necklace, it’s an heirloom. She holds it tight in her hands. I cut those hands of hers off and hold them up in the air, saying now these are what I call heirlooms. My pirate friends laugh appreciatively, taking time away from their assaults to clap me on the back. She stares at her arm stumps, incredulous.

A whistle blows. It tweeters. “Foul, foul,” our captain cries. He tweeters it again. This is new. Where he got a whistle I do not know.

“That’s a foul!” he cries at me from his strategic vantage spot. “She never refused to give up the necklace. She merely expressed a reluctance. There was no clear refusal. Big difference.”

He looks at me. I put the hands down. The fat lady tries to pick them back up, still not used to the concept of stumps.

Ramone looks at me from the captain’s right. He tugs on the captain’s puffy pirate-style blouse and asks why do I have to be so violent all the time? The captain says I’m probably trying to compensate for some major shortcomings. He does not think I hear him but I do. Shortcomings?

I throw my cutlass at a puny man who is so focused on his cowering he does not see it coming. It sticks out of his chest. He looks down and screams at it. He screams some more. He does not think to remove it.

“Tweeter,” our captain’s whistle goes. It tweeters like five times. I tell him I heard it the first time.

“What was that?” he asks me. “What was that supposed to be? That man was puny. He would have gladly given you his treasure. I thought we were going to follow certain guidelines this time, such as not sinking their ship and also not demolishing anyone unnecessarily? Remember we talked about this?”

“But Captain,” I say.

“Flip,” he says.

“Captain, I didn’t know that meant . . .”

“Flip.”

“Captain?”

“Flip,” he says. He raises his eyebrows at me. The little brat Ramone says he doesn’t know what’s so hard to remember about it.

I tell our captain to just forget it. I’m sorry. I walk over and pull my cutlass out and tell our captain it will not happen again.

It’s hard to remove somebody’s captaincy. There is a complex system of ordinances, ambiguous clauses, certain pacts that must be restructured. It is rarely done. I tell this to the other pirates. They groan and say God damn it. They say hell, why don’t we try stabbing him? They say that’s worth a shot. I too think it is worth a shot. But then I ask them: isn’t he still kind of Captain Bloodbeard? I say: we don’t know how much Captain Bloodbeard is left inside.

Patrick the Hideous Killer says good point. He says the old Bloodbeard could wipe out the lot of us. He shivers and says remember what Bloodbeard did to that prudish brothel, and then to the deputies who questioned his motives? The rest of us shiver simultaneously. How could one forget?

Leonard tips his hat and says that man always did demand a certain depravity of his whores. We reflect on it, then tip our hats. I miss Captain Bloodbeard. I miss him so much.

Our captain sees us all gathered together and moves in our direction. Ramone moves beside him, watching his legs and trying to copy that way of walking. We put our hats back on.

“Look at this,” our captain says, giggling. I think that was a giggle. I do not know for sure but I think what I just saw could be described as a giggle. He prods Ramone forward.

Ramone stands there and looks at us. Then he takes three brightly colored balls from his pocket, tossing them to the air in a skilled pattern. One falls away. He looks at it. The captain says it’s okay, he says go on and get it, go on and try again.

The boy tries again. This time it is a nice juggle. I am somewhat impressed. Two balls land in the left hand, one ball lands in the right hand. I probably could not have done it.

“Outstanding,” our captain says, clapping vigorously. “That was almost too outstanding!” He claps harder to try and compensate for our lack of clapping. Ramone looks sheepish.

“Well,” our captain says, “I’m off to eat some fruit.”

I am awoken in the middle of the night by a sound. There should be no sounds in the middle of the night. I unsheathe my cutlass and prepare to punish this sound-maker, but I stop myself. I stop myself inches from his bratty face.

Ramone’s eyes are big. He takes a deep breath and says he has an apple for me. He presents it and says he’d like me to keep it.

I take my cutlass to it and within seconds have minced it to shavings. The shavings sit on Ramone’s palm. I remind him I only eat meat.

He looks at the shavings in awe and says that’s what he’s talking about. He says Flip is the greatest but that’s the kind of thing Flip won’t ever show. Ramone picks up a single shaving and looks at it close, trying to learn its secret. I recommend he quickly scram. I snarl at him and predict my evil secrets would make his head explode. His eyes get big again and he kind of touches the sides of his head. Then he scrams.

Morning brings a rich sun the color of wine and a flock of birds who look to be flying directly into it. Fish leap from the sea, trying to steal its rays. It is warm. Warm enough for short-sleeves. An excited fish leaps too high for his own good, and I get him with my musket. He explodes. That will teach him.

We dock in a place named Sheldon township. I have been here before. It is a nest of cowards but home also to many a whore.

Tradition holds that we whoop and holler as we tie our ship to the dock. It is a contest of sorts, a competition between pirates. I think I am whooping the loudest. I am not sure. Marco is whooping pretty loud but then again he does not have to worry about seeing. All he has to worry about is whooping. The other pirates congratulate Marco and remark how loud and prominent he is, but I explain my logic. I tell them lack of visual responsibility is an unfair advantage. They think about it. One such thinker puts a finger upon his chin and says he does believe Marco should be disqualified.

We tie the ship fast, and I say: who is up for a brothel? The men raise their arms and cheer. We walk off quickly. Kind of walking, kind of running. The townsfolk see us coming and either groan timidly or genuflect before us.

We have not yet cleared the dock when our captain tells us to hold up a sec. Ramone stands beside him, kicking at a rock, continually missing.

“Where to?” our captain asks suspiciously. We do not speak. He taps his foot and folds his arms across his chest.

As first mate it’s my obligation to respond. After a minute I do. I raise my chin and say brothel.

Ramone looks up and says count him in, he says what’s a brothel?

“Oh no you don’t,” our captain says to me. “I’m afraid I have to veto that. Just look at the type of inappropriate inquisitiveness it’s raised in Ramone? You men are my crew and I respect your interests, I sincerely do, which is why I’ve gone ahead and compromised with you, booking us all a tour on the horse-drawn carriage! We’ll tour the whole township! What do you men think of that?”

We look at him.

Ramone looks up at him and recalls that his old dad once took him on a horse-drawn carriage. Ramone recalls how it sucked.

“Nonsense,” our captain says, walking in front and insisting we follow. “It’s elegant and relaxing, and nobody has to die, or degrade themselves for money. Now pick it up men. We’ll miss our appointment.”

Leonard turns to me and says take him. He says I’m the first mate, go on and shoot him or something. I would very much love to do that. I would love it, but then my mind winds back and remembers when Tip-Toes McCoy, a parliament spy, tried to shoot Captain Bloodbeard in the back. I shiver. I ask Leonard to recall the look on Tip-Toes’ face when Bloodbeard whirled on him, and literally bit his head off? Leonard shivers. He shivers and steals a shawl from a passing elderly woman, saying it may get cold tonight, especially if our tour runs late.

Soon we return to sea. The men are grumpy. Some debate whether this is really the life of a swashbuckler? Others clean their guns and sharpen their cutlasses, waiting for the chance to revolt.

I have sharpened my cutlass well. Ramone sees me working diligently and asks what I’m doing? I tell him to scram lest he taste my cold blade. He says speaking of cold blades, check this out. From his pocket he removes a slender gold dagger, all done up with fancy engravings. He hefts it and says he lifted it from a Sheldon township drunkard, what do I think? I say not bad. He lunges at an imaginary foe, slicing through the air, and says he’s been practicing. I can tell. In truth those lunges were quite vicious.

“Ramone!” our captain shrieks from the distance, cupping his eyes and looking for the boy. “Ramone!”

Ramone rolls his eyes at me and says now what. He pockets the dagger. He starts to wander off but I grab him by the shoulder. I tell him keep it in his boot, for if he needs to quickly gut his enemy. He looks down at his boots. He says he already knew that. He says he just forgot.

Today is my birthday. It is one thing I don’t ever forget. Today’s numerals will always stay with me, in that my father, a first mate his whole life, carved them into my foot. Some may say it was a drunken whim and he was cruel. Some may say I was only nine, that the seasons had not a chance to toughen my foot properly, but none of these talkers would be pirates. Pirates are not intimidated by carving or drunken sentiment. My father had forgotten his own birthday early on and he regretted it, he forever rued the lost opportunities for personal celebration. He vowed to not let his own boy make the same mistake.

Soon after this gesture he was killed, lynched by a mob of English scoundrels. My foot was his last great act. Had he not died I’m told he would have been a captain. His pirate friends told me he was on the fast track.

For my birthday I receive presents. The crew really shouldn’t have. I open my presents carefully in my drunken stupor, trying to keep from damaging the wrapping. If the wrapping is shiny or creatively patterned I like to save it.

Leonard gets me a box of truffles. What delicious chocolates. I punch him on the arm and he returns the blow, but when I punch him in the face he trips me then pulls my hair when I’m down. We hug in a manly way, then do shots.

I receive more presents. Two men give me a jar of Isopropyl they stole from a medical ward. It is pure alcohol, which they assure will really mess me up. It goes down smooth. Next, the captain gives me a book. A book about the history of mail service. He claims it goes all the way back to the Neanderthals. It is full of words, which he says are magical things that will take me on the best adventures of all.

My last present is from Marco. It looks the finest, with its shimmering gold wrapping. He blushes and says it’s nothing really, it’s nothing compared to what these men have provided.

I predict he’s being modest. I predict he’s been saving the best for last. My hope, though I do not say this out loud, is that it’s a very small pony, one that could live on the ship with me and learn clever tricks. I take more shots then open it.

It is not a pony. It is, actually, nothing. Marco was telling the truth. This box is empty.

Marco pulls out his gun while the box is still in my hands and says in a dramatic way that I can keep the change. He puts the gun to my head. Then he realizes something and says it’s more than I deserve, give it back, he wants the wrapping for himself.

After he has folded and pocketed the wrapping Marco says my time has come, farewell. He releases the safety and says considering the ways I’ve wronged him, I’m lucky he’s only killing me.

“Marco,” our captain pleads, “Marco, that won’t solve anything. You know it and I know it. The way to solve something is to speak openly with each other, then reach a settlement acceptable to both parties. It’s called communication. Put that gun away, and use communication to express yourself better than bullets ever could.”

Marco declines. He requests that I try not to splatter on him. I say I will try.

But then there is a twist. The twist is a thin knife that slides up Marco’s side, and a high voice asking if Marco wants to test his luck? Ramone has the knife and the voice and is holding them steady.

Marco scoffs. He claims Ramone doesn’t have it in him. Ramone says try him.

“I’ll shoot,” Marco says. “I’ll shoot him in the face.”

“Like I care,” Ramone says in his high boy voice. “But even though I don’t care, you better put that gun down. I’ll gut you like a mackerel.”

The other pirates whisper how this Ramone appears to mean business. They say they like that mackerel line, and remark he seems ruthless well beyond his six years. Ramone stands there, his arms reaching up as high as he can hold them. Marco brings his nose up and sniffs. He sniffs again, long and slow.

Then he puts the gun down and says surprise! He says he was only kidding. It’s a practical joke, he says. Got you!

I consider this.

I take more alcohol, and admit it was a good one. He almost had me, he almost got me to fall for it.

Our Captain is deteriorating. He is proposing a crusade to end world hunger, a crusade of discipline and sacrifice featuring coordinated pirate outfits, he’s thinking greens and yellows, chartreuse maybe. Drawn up on posterboard are his color sketches, which he claims are merely rough drafts. He says we will tour the globe in style, scouring for non-perishables, taking our payment from the warm expressions of the sated.

The men and I consult. Finally we shake our heads, deciding no, this is not within our thresholds.

We revolt. I am the first mate. It is my obligation to inform the Captain we are revolting, and all that this entails. Specifically, it entails us no longer restraining our evil. We are free to terrorize and demolish, and participate in activities we enjoy. It is heartwarming. We can finally be ourselves again, like it was with Bloodbeard.

I tell all this to the captain. I do not know what he’s capable of, or how powerfully he’ll attack, but I tell him it’s over. I tell him he’s through.

He takes it well.

“No man stays on the top forever,” he says wistfully. “I trust your judgment. I’ll just assume a basic role in the crew; I’ll be a smaller part of the machine, though just as important a cog. Possibly I’ll do some cooking. I’ve got these killer recipes I just haven’t had time for.”

I shake my head and say it doesn’t work that way. I say he needs to be outraged and defiant: he needs to shriek obscenities, then I need to shriek obscenities, and we fight until the death. That’s how you do it.

“Oh please,” he says. “Please.”

I punch him in the face.

He crumples. He goes down hard, and it was a fine blow, but he is clearly still living. I tell him to rise, to get up and receive his fate like a pirate.

He gets up. He looks different. My punch left not a scratch. Conversely, his face looks stronger, sharper, and his eyebrows arch in a way that can only mean evil.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he snarls, “or why you men are staring at me, or why this ship has been redecorated. Or what I’ve generally been up to lately. But I am pissed off!”

It is Bloodbeard! He has returned to lead us to glory! We cheer, and yell profanity at the top of our lungs!

He tells us to shut up, then stomps over to Leonard and hurls him to the sharks.

We quiet right down. Bloodbeard says next time get his permission before cheering him. It is so quiet we distinctly hear Leonard plop into the sea; we hear each scream of dismay, each desperate plea to convince the sharks his flesh is sour and leathery and unworthy of consumption.

I don’t know about that. I do not endorse killing Leonard.

“What’s this wretched thing,” Bloodbeard asks, picking Ramone up by the neck. Bloodbeard frowns. “No shark would waste their teeth on this.” He considers something, watching Ramone kick and struggle. “I’ll throw him over anyway.”

Bloodbeard seems meaner than I remember. He reaches back to throw Ramone and I tell him stop. I say stop right there.

He turns to stare at me with his face of hatred. “What did you say?”

He is so scary. I can feel my insides tremble in a way my outsides never could. I tell him I said put the boy down.

“I can’t believe you said that to me,” Bloodbeard marvels. “You are truly stupid.” He starts to laugh in a roaring way. He roars and roars, and points his finger into my face, inviting the other men to join him in appreciating my stupidity. They roar in an affected, exaggerated way. Bloodbeard whirls and orders silence, reminding them they are sycophants and quite worthless. He points at me and says at least this stupid man is amusing.

“Why should this boy live?” he asks, still dangling Ramone by the neck. Ramone, for his part, has smartened up and cut back on the kicking and struggling. He’s just as scared of Bloodbeard as we are.

I cite Ramone’s loyal nature. I cite Ramone’s bravery in proportion to his young age. I cite his sense of humor, and how his small size allows him to clean hard-to-reach places of our ship. I say he is not so bad.

“Shut up,” Bloodbeard says, thinking. He finally says, “He’s not of pirate descent. He doesn’t share our blood. If he were a true pirate, with documented lineage, then fine, I am no monster. I’d let him stay.”

Ramone squirms and says stop! He says look, look down at his ankle!

We gather to look at the ankle.

It is a pirate tattoo. It is unmistakable, in its color and panache. It proves he has been a pirate all along! Ramone beams and says his father was a ruthless buccaneer, who always kept it secret because Mom would’ve killed him.

We cheer! We pirates cheer, then stop abruptly. I ask Bloodbeard if it’s okay to resume cheering? He ignores me.

“Too little too late,” Bloodbeard says, losing interest in mercy. He makes a vague gesture to the tattoo. “If I’d known sooner . . .” He trails off.

Bloodbeard moves towards the sea. Ramone pleads: Flip? Flip?

The seven seas are all I ever wanted. Today the ocean is beautiful. Tomorrow’s ocean will be beautiful too, and I expect this trend will continue. The sea is true glamour. It swells and deflates and throws its curves into our ship, bouncing us gently, as if to remind us who’s really the boss. It glistens with sunlight but keeps its own temperature, its own chilly climate, if for no other reason than to prove to the sun that it is better.

It is not a bad way to die.