Avast ye, wenches! Today be International Talk Like a Pirate Day, so ye scalawags best be livin’ up to th’ day. I know ye lubbers be smarter than bilge rats, so make grab your cutlass and some grog, and join me for a good pillagin’ o’ some booty!
For those of ye who aren’t swayed by such impassioned speechifying, set back and prepare to be hornswaggled by the greatest tale of gore and swashbucklery ye shall ever hear:
Twas naught but a few years ago that a grog-slopping friend of mine saw an old sea-dog wander into his small-batch micro-groggery/bistro. The mysterious pirate found his way up to the bar; his peg leg knocking solidly against the floor-boards as he hobbled up onto the stool.
“Rum,” said the pirate in a gruff voice that was very quiet, but full o’ command. This friend o’ mine quickly acquiesced, not wanting to anger the blood of such a dark character. He set the rum down on the bar with a dull “clunk” of the pewter tankard, and the old pirate reached out with a hooked hand and pulled the rum toward himself.
“Can I get ye anything further?” asked my friend.
The pirate looked up from under his hat and fixed his eye on my friend, his other eye obscured by a patch. “Just make sure this mug don’t empty itself.”
The evening went on as usual, my friend serving other patrons looking for libations of all kinds, but a dark cloud hung over the strange pirate, and no one except for my friend returning to fill his tankard went near him.
At the end of the night when everyone else had made their way off with some alcoholically enhanced wench or cur, or died from overconsumption, my friend approached the pirate to see if he needed anything else before my friend insisted the pirate be on his way.
“No. Ye’ve been serving me smartly all night. I’m feeling my spirits now!”
Happy the pirate was in a better mood, my friend made a risky move and asked a personal question of the pirate, “I hope ye don’t mind me askin’ but I was wonderin’ if ye could tell me how ye lost your leg.”
“Oh this thing,” the pirate said, pickin’ up his leg and bangin’ it against the floor. “I lost this during a miserable time in me life. My crew had just mutinied and marooned me on some far-flung piece of dirt in the middle of the ocean. They forced me off the boat and made me swim to shore. They’d stolen my dagger, my cutlass, my pistols: everything. Not a decent pirate among them. As I was swimming I was set upon by a swarm of sharks, and they was ravenous. Biting and striking everywhere. Dragging me arms down. I swallowed my fair share of ocean that day. Finally one made a mortal strike at my leg and tore free a chunk of flesh. The feeding frenzy nearly dragged me to Davy Jones’ locker. But when I felt my leg tear away I knew I was saved. I barely made it to shore and passed out there. Lucky to have only lost my leg.”
My friend went back to wiping down the bar, shocked that anyone could survive such an ordeal. He grabbed a bottle of rum and made his way back down to the pirate. He filled the pirate’s tankard, “On the house.”
“Thank ye kindly, me boy.” The pirate took a swig of the rum, cleared his throat and said, “I guess ye’ll be wantin’ t’ hear about the hand,” he lifted his hook up into the dim light of the bar and the few spots that weren’t worn down with scratches glinted and shone.
“I must admit that it does have me a bit curious.”
“I’m happy to oblige.” The pirate took another swig of rum then started in on his story. “My crew weren’t the smartest bunch of sailors ye’ll ever meet. They left me on an island alive with tropical fruits and wild animals. Once I regained me strength from losing me leg I fashioned this old stump from a strong branch of teak. I got so used to hobbling around on the thing that I almost forgot that I had lost me leg at all. I started exploring the island and one day decided to follow the trickle of freshwater that had been keeping me alive for the past few weeks. The trickle grew into a small stream, and the stream grew stronger and wider until it was deep enough to see a few minnows swimming about. Further along the stream opened into a dark lagoon that was being fed from many sides by other streams coming out of the underbrush. Knowing that the lagoon would be filled with larger fish I set about making me self a spear for catchin’ some dinner. I couldn’t see but just below the surface, so I stabbed at every flicker of water, every bubble. After what seemed like hours I had success. I pulled a frantic fish out of the water on my spear and reached out to grab it off the spiked end when a crocodile lept out o’ the water and made off with the fish, the spear, and my hand. It happened so fast that I barely felt it. I stumbled back to my camp to stoke the fire to char the wound. I passed out from exhaustion afterward and had fever dreams of being attacked again by the sharks. Nipping and pulling at me from all sides. When I awoke I found myself below deck on a ship! Apparently a passing sloop had seen the inferno I had stoked to stem the bleedin’ of my arm and picked me up in a rowboat and brought me aboard. I did all I could while on their ship, and when they put me ashore at the next port I had earned just enough to have a blacksmith fashion me this hook. I swear I’ll put it through the guts of each of those mutinous crew members, once I’m done keelhauling them, if I ever see them again.”
My friend filled the old pirate’s tankard once again, completely gobsmacked as to how anyone could survive such tribulations. Being eaten alive by sharks? Losing a hand to a crocodile? How could anyone survive such horror? Without even thinking he blurted out, “Your eye! You must tell me how you lost your eye!”
The pirate stared into his tankard, not moving, not speaking. Finally, after what seemed like hours he said, “A seagull.”
“Some misfit bird from Hades swooped down and pecked out your eye?”
“No. Shat in it.”
“Shat in it?”
“Y’arr. It was me first day with the hook hand.”
