The sea, such a majestic beast: free and open and endless. The waves move with a poetic symphony to rival Beethoven. It all just makes sense after a while of watching the undulating waves, up and down. The water washes away everything. Up and down the waves go, and such as life goes up and down. Sometimes we find ourselves at the crest and other times we are in the trough. The water brings us life. As we need water to live…

“Hey! Stop describing the ocean for your internal monologue and load those crates on board!” the red-faced officer screams. He is a fat little bugger with a face only a mother could love. The tubby thumb looks like the anger in his heart aged him by thirty years. “What was that?!?” Drat! Can he hear my thoughts? “Stop thinking and start loading!” Wow, it is weird. Alright, I might as well keep my job. The crates are on board already, I just have to push them to where they belong under deck. The rope and pulley system brings the cargo up and over to the ship to the base on land at the harbor. The contraption is a massive wood beam that looks like a tree with only one branch. On top of the vertical beam is a horizontal beam like an arm. The arm has ropes to attach to the crates. Once the crates are hooked up they are lifted by the arm in the air and placed into the open cargo door on the deck of the ship. The deck is mostly flat, with the cargo door in the center. The cargo door is a square door with hinges on one side to open wide to the reveal inner-workings of the ship. The wooden ship is a beauty. The wheel is above level. The deck is flat and ends in a tip, but on the other side of the ship are some stairs and an upper level. The upper level is where the wheel is. The masts are as tall as trees and just as thick. There are three masts in a particular order with the smallest and shortest one in the front near the tip of the boat. The largest in in the center. That is the one with the big sails on it. Then a medium sized one is in the back.

So anyway, pushing crates is not that hard. I do not sail. I just work at the docks and push crates when someone needs crates moved. It’s not a bad job but it’s not a good one either. The wooden crates are full of stuff and sometimes get really heavy. But it’s a living. Honestly, for me this is a paycheck, it’s not a calling in life. Just because one is good at something does not mean that they enjoy it.

“Here you go, maggots!” the red faced officer hands out today’s wages. A day laborer is not a respected profession. Once I receive my pence it is time to enjoy myself. The foggy streets carry the darkness from the sky. As the sunlight leaves in a hurry the cobblestone roads commit murder on my aching feet. Night, the time where no one walks the streets because they are asleep in their beds. The cold air turns my breath white with every exhale. I come across a building. This building's windows shine with light, unlike windows of the other houses where the occupants are sleeping. The old building is missing a brick or two as if someone got a few good jabs in. The windows are cracked at parts and the sound of laughter can be heard from the streets. The door is loose and hinged at the bottom but unattached at the top. Grabbing the cold metal handle, I open it and walk in.

I see the wide array of massive characters laughing for no reason. Merriment fills the tiny bar as the patrons drink and sing with glee, laughing and smiling to show off their lack of teeth. These men reek of fish and body odor. It appears none of them know what soap is, and the smell of urine is common. Have they any matters?

“Hey!” One of them screams and all activity stops, “Who’s insulting us with thought?” Oh, I think that’s me. My thoughts are louder than I thought. Just do not think of anything and sit at the end of the bar. The bar is to the right as one walks into this place. The tables are in the middle with a dart board in the back. To the left of the entrance way is someone playing piano. The talking, laughing and drinking starts up again. Sitting alone the bar attendant came up to me, “What’ll have?”

“Root Beer.” I know, the most boring drink in the world, but it’s a classic and it has been a long day. “Thanks,” I say as I place the coins on the counter. In the stool I turn to get a good look at the clientele of this pub. Sailors all of them. I know because I work on the docks, and I can spot a sailor. They all are having a grand old time laughing and drinking. “Excuse me.” I wave the bar attendant over.

“Yessir.”

“Who is that?” I point at the only man (besides me) who is in this bar alone. He sits in the corner with no one, in silence.

“Oh, don’t mind him. He’s just some old coot who comes in and never leaves. But I think he’s broke because he don’t order any drinks. But he says that he’ll sing like a canary to any man willing to buy him some ale.” The attendant said.

“One.”

“One what sir?”

“One ginger ale.” I was feeling lucky. Maybe this man has a good story, and if not I only bought one drink for nothing. “Thanks,” I say to the attendant as I pay him. The place smells heavily of vice as the bubble gun cigars take their places in most people’s mouths. The fruity delicious smell of the flavors fills the air.

The man in the corner. As I make my way across the middle of the pub I realize this might be a mistake. He is dark, mysterious and scary. The man is of advanced age and his eyes look tired, like he needs a ten year nap. His eyes are dead and black with a bad case of the ten thousand yard stare. Looking at nothing in the distance, maybe something is off about this guy? The hair on his head is a virtual rat’s nest all mangled and mismanaged. His hair is long and greasy. His beard is equally as long and terrible looking. But his beard shows signs of age as parts are grayed and others stone cold white. His head is hard to see the signs of age because he wears a hat. A simple leather tri-hat covers his the top of his head. His skin is rough and scarred: thin lines from weapons that cut him are common on his face. Sun-damaged cracks and wrinkles age him greatly and add to the intimidation. In his old age, his skin does not look that great. What in his younger years would have been a tanned tone or a darker color now looks more like a pale greenish color. A faint green that could just be the dark corner he in sitting in. His nose bears a nasty scar across it. His ears are hidden by his hair. He wears a large leather jacket. The jacket itself has seen some use. The black leather is faded and sun-dyed and cracked with age and overuse. His shirt is blue and red horizontal striped with a low cut collar. The pants he wears are grey and rough. The faded grey color is covered in dirt and dust. The boots on his feet are ripped in many parts. They have little marks and cuts in the black leather. The soles are coming apart at the bottom of the boot. The boots go up to his knee. They are easily as old as the jacket. He wears no smile; his mouth is simply at resting position with no emotion. He rubs his chin with callused and wrinkled hands. The nails at the end of his fingertips are yellow. This guy looks a lot scarier up close.

“Excuse me?” I squeak out.

“Aye.” He looks at me with his grey eyes. Who has grey eyes?

“I heard you know a good story.”

“Aye.”

“I like stories… So I thought that you could…” He is starring into my soul abort. Abort! He is going to hurt me. The eyebrow above his right eye shoot up to look at me in confusion. “Can… Can you…” I was stumbling over my words like a camel on ice skates.

“Do I look like your mommy, boy? You want me to be telling you a bedtime story?” His voice is low and gravelly, more like a growl than a human voice.

“No. It's just... the bartender said that if I brought you an ale…”

“That drink be for me?”

“Yes.”

“Well sit down boy!” He gestures to the chair. “A man who buys me a drink is always welcome.” I hand him the glass and sit down. He is smiling now, but I’m not sure which expression I prefer, him looking mad or looking happy. Through the thick beard I notice he is missing a few teeth and the remaining ones are yellow with his black gums. Taking a sip of the ginger ale he makes a yummy sound. “That does me heart good.” Alright, this is going well. “What do you want to know?” Now, that’s a good question. I have no idea. I've always wondered want it was like at sea. So I guess I’ll ask him that.

“What’s it like to sail?”

“Sail? You be telling me you don’t know what sailing is like?”

“No, I have no idea. I am a day laborer…” The strange man in the corner lets out a bellowing laughter.

“Alright, I’ll tell ye.”

“Great, what company did you work for?”

“Company?”

“Yeah, what shipping company did you sail with?”

“Boy, I worked with no company… I was a Pirate.”

“A Pirate? So do you know Pirate stories?”

He laughs again. “Of Course! Do you want to hear one?”

I nod yes.

To Be Continued...