Waiting On The Tide

Day 352 (International Talk Like A Pirate Day):

The fair weather of summer brought a surprising change in the demeanor and appearance of the Winged Adventure's crew. If they did not become precisely what one might describe as "model citizens" when they went ashore to obtain supplies, they at least avoided any serious confrontations with members of the constabulary. They cleaned up their salty language as much as any sailor could be expected to do, and their bodies likewise; then they emerged one by one from below decks into the sunlight in spanking-clean sailcloth and colorful silks to walk among the populace with the romance of distant ports surrounding them as much as did the scent of exotic spices. Piracy, for the moment, seemed but a pale penumbral shadow at their backs.

Admittedly, we stayed no longer than a fortnight in any one port, and seldom that; there is only so much good behaviour a proper pirate can be expected to exhibit, and the coincidence of slit purses, missing pocket watches and a sleek barque in the harbour may register slowly in the minds of the official body, but it does inevitably signify. In any event, it was thought that the Winged Adventure was due for a good careening, so we sailed forth and put into a tight cove on a tiny uncharted island for the duration of the season where the graceful ship was brought out of her element and laid over on her side, an inelegant position for a lady of her standing. All hands turned to, the Captain included, for Morgan Corbye is not one to ask of a man that which she would not do herself.

It was of an evening whilst seated by a fire of driftwood enjoying a savoury stew of mussels and wild pork that the subject of the seasonal nature of professional piracy was brought into perspective for this biographer. I had risked giving affront by suggesting that we had been idling under sunny skies for almost three months of the year without so much as a minor raiding party being raised and wondered at the logic, hoping that the innocence and ignorance of my inquiry might temper the Captain's response. Indeed it did. With a laugh which crackled like a lightning strike, she spat a leathery bit of shellfish into the fire. As we watched it sizzle and bubble into greasy ash, she said, "Aye, ye're as green as a little gourd upon th' vine, an't ye? Think ye we'd be showin' o' ourse'fs t' th' 'ole wide 'orizon, sailin' there on calm sea flat as glass, bold as pimple on 'is Lordship's nose? Ye'd no' last long in th' trade wi' that strategy. 'Tis cunnin' wot keeps us alive, weather cunnin'."

My raised eyebrow encouraged her to continue the explanation. "D'ye no' feel it? There's a damp in th' air an' th' breeze 'as shifted direction. A week, ten days, fust rains come in, nought but pissin' rains at fust. We bides a bit then, an' when th' fog rises thick o' mornin's, then's when we puts out, an' no man's eye upon our sails. Slick as oil, we tucks away ag'in, an' when storm comes, why, then ye'd best 'ave yer sea-legs quick as Johnny, fer 'idin' a-hind swells is wot this ol' gal does best." A nod in the direction of her ship told me that Captain Corbye was not referring to herself, although she could have fallen within the compass of the statement with equal ease. "'Tis th' autumn wot's piratin' weather. Did ye no' know that?" As she dipped the ladle into the stew and refilled her bowl, I began to suspect then that the next few months of my life would be divided between boisterous, extravagant enterprises and the gut-wrenching despair of seasickness with our Captain driving the Winged Adventure into the heart of the storms. Morgan Corbye is waiting on the mists, waiting on the tide.