Archive for the 'Teak Chests' Category

Return of the Sea Battle

Avast!

A month ’tis a long time to be abroad upon the waves but shore hoves into view just in time to hear news to give an old buccaneer great heart. And it is a welcome lift, for a heavy gloom has fallen upon the crew and upon their Captain most of all.

Our long voyage was intended to secure a goodly portion of our treasure stash by digging up and then reburying the many, many stout teak chests within which they had been hid.

As any Pirate knows, a treasure chest, well buried with a map on cured goat’s skin is key to the safe keeping of hard-earned booty and plunder. So it was with cries of rage and  misery that we found the whole archipelago of palm fronded islands upon which we had buried our chests had sunk without trace- erased by the rising tide. Curse you Lubbers, and your warming of the Waves!

So it is with pleasure that we return to find that another tide has turned. Tis many’s the year since Ireland has seen a good Sea Battle. Foul weather and fell fortune kept many’s the would-be sea invader from Ireland’s shores.

Protected by the Lubber’s greatest weapon against Piracy, the Royal Navy, sea dogs have had ne’re a part to play in the history of the nation.

Until now, Ireland has fought its battles between various splinters of Lubberism. But from today the Briney Deep is a battle ground again. Lubberist Mining companies and fisherfolk (natural allies of the Pirate classes) have stood fast against each other until one blinked.

Tho tis clear that this is only one battle of a war which may become the catalyst for a fuller Pirate/Lubber revolution. History can only go one way.

Yo Ho Ho!

Who Dares to Speak of ’68?

Captain Morgan
Yarr!

In dark days such as this for the cause of Piracy and when the inevitable end of history in an all-Pirate society seems far away it is important to remember the great events of ’68. For a heady few months it seemed as though all the world was turning pirate- as though the end of history might come not with a whisper, but with a shouted sea-shanty of triumph!

For our younger readers, for whom those days are just tales told in hushed tones by their elders, it may be hard to believe how significant the events of 1668 seemed at the time.

Henry Morgan, one of the most famous priveteers of his day had set sail in command of a ship under the banner of an old sea salt by the name of Edward Mansfield. The were bound for the Carribean islands, then in the hands of the Spanish.

When the Spanish, a cruel and Popish race, had Manfield killed it was Henry Morgan who was chosen by the bucaneers as the new admiral. So successful was he in this post that he was sent by the Governor of Jamaica (an island then, as now, appreciative of the enterprise of Free Traders and makers of finest Pirate Rum) to take the town of Portobello on the coast of Panama.

Panama is a moist, unseemly country mostly known for the fine collection of malarial-based deaths which it offers. Nonetheless the ill-named town of Portobello was home to a fleet of ships scheming an attack on Jamaica. In the fateful year of 1668 Capt. Morgan sailed into Portobello and sacked the town.

Oh, glorious day that could see such sights in’t! Children left orphaned, woman huddled in the streets while their Landlubber menfolk were put to the sword. The streets ran wet with blood and rum as Captain Morgan and his Pirate fleet showed Panama and the world what a true Pirate victory over Landlubbers will look like.

Those who might argue that the great and self-evident benefits of a Pirate society could be achieved without the slaughter-housing of the innocent need only look at the events of ’68 to be shown up as the desultory incrementalists that they are.

Captain Morgan had no such doubts.
By ’71 his powers had grown further, and he fell upon Panama city itself, killing every soul within and making off with a hundred thousand-pound of booty (presumably in serried rows of stout teak chests).

Alas, this is where we Pirates who look to the inspiration of the events of ’68 and after must learn the lesson that the Landlubber powers will always seek to stab a true Pirate Captain in the back and push him off the end of a thin plank into Davy Jones’ Locker. The English, who had first paid for Captain Morgan to help them rid Jamacia of its dangerous Popish neighbors, became squeamish at the total victories he had won. It seems there were some Treaties which forbade the gutting and burning of innocent women and children.

The Captain escaped, as he argued that as a Pirate he knew naught of such Landlubber rules as this and returned to Jamaica, eventually becoming its Governor and ruling as a kind of Pirate King.

Despite this, he was never the same for his ordeal of being clapped in irons and shipped to the Court of the Landlubber English (a race which is well known for their droning tones and hatred of peg legs).

So the dreams of ’68 live on only in the hearts of Pirates today. But I think you’ll agree that they have much to teach us, or not teach us depending on how we read them. Certainly I wouldn’t dream of coming down either way, preferring long, rambling and ultimately pointless retreadings of fact.

Avast!

Heidi Klum: Pirate Or Not?

Y’arr!

Ye join me in me cabin, a few leagues nor’west o’ the Yucatan. As the sun goes down ‘neath the yardarm I ponder once again the difference ‘twixt a true pirate and a feller as has only the bagatelle of a bucaneer, but none o’ the essence. Now, as I showed ye last week, it takes more than an eye-patch to show yourself a brother o’ the sail.

Still, an eye-patch is a start, as can be seen in the case of this here wench, Heidi Klum (pictured, yesterday). To be sure, anyone who’s seen her dish it out on America’s Next Top Model knows that this is a lass as has some steel in her, and a tongue sharper than any barbary corsair’s cutlass. But is she pirate or no?

Not Pirate

* German.

* Has all own teeth.

* Favours couture wrap dresses over long coats, linen shirts and sashes.

* A model.

Pirate

* Accepts payment for modelling work only in doubloons.

* Once sacked the town of Petit-Goave, Haiti.

* Eschews backstage cocaine, preferring rum.

* Chest.

Conclusion: Pirate

This were a tough decision to make, and one requirin’ much thought and ponderin’. But I have ponder’d on Heidi Klum many’s the long lonely night a’seas, and I say that only a damn fool who hasn’t had his lime ration would call her anythin’ but a true buccaneer. An’ I’ll strike down any man who says otherwise, damn their eyes!

This time seven nights, even I knows not where I’ll be, for that is the life of the pirate. But wheree’er I am, anchored or a’seas, you can be sure that I’ll be askin’ once again, “Pirate Or Not?”

Every Captain for Himself!

Ship Ahoy!

‘Tis often said the life o’ a pirate cap’n is a lonely and perplexin’ calling. Sure as saltwater and shiver’d timbers there’s the joy of the treasure-lust and the pleasure of pillaging dubloons from the broken hulls of the boats of the land lubbin’ merchants. The antics of the Dread Pirate Johnny Depp *pthooh* have tainted those pleasures for me however. Recently, when the wind was howlin’ in the yard arm, and the seas are high and whippin’ around the gun’al, l’il Tim our plucky cabin boy looked up at me with his hopeful eyes and asks “Cap’n, we’ll ride this storm out won’t we? We’ll make the shelter of Tortuga ‘fore long?”

I felt as gutted as a catfish a landlubber’s sea legs, for ’twas looking dicey for me ship, the Gangrenous Gull, as the crew were a scurvy lot but short handed with it. Even the tall pirates were short handed. ‘Twas difficult to steer a straight course while trying to compell boarders and get our pirate booty from the hold of the merchant ships. ‘Twas harder still for ship’s cook to fire cannon shot from our 12 pounders on the starb’d side while cooking the grub up in the galley. In me heart I sensed mutiny was not far off.

When we reached the locality of Tortuga and dropped anchor, I gave thought to forming a confederation with the other piratical bucanneers in these here parts. Sure as cuttlefish and canaries it seemed that an alliance under a shared flag was the only way we could properly counter the evil of New Pirates and the various Landlubbin’ confederacies that New Piracy was dipping its wick in. Some form of alliance where we could bring the most vicious and cut throat and skillful of our respective crews together on one boat to wreak havoc on the Main, while the less skilled spent time a-practicin’ their pirating on smaller ships. Yes indeed, this was what I thought was needed. The Confederation of Unified Pirates, Pillagers And Traitrous Evaders of Authority… CUPPATEA.

But then me parrot, Malvolio, piped up that I’d clear forgot that a ship can only have one cap’n and that in an alliance like that I’d soon have to be watching astern for devious malcontents eager to have away with me. As sure as herring and heartbreak such scurvy knaves a-plenty can be found in the company of Pirate Cap’ns. ‘Tis a minimum requirement for the job.

Malvolio reminded me of the great upheaval that occured in years past when the Cap’n and crew of the Yellow Rose persuaded the proud pirateers of the Red Flower to sail under common flag. That was in the days when the Dread Pirate BarbdeRossa was at the helm of the Yellow Rose (long before he decided to become all mercantile and respectable as a landlubber). Indeed Malvolio was right, for ’twas with the ruthlessness and cunning of BarbdeRossa and his firstmate, the Bald Architect (the blacksheep son of a proud merchant family was he) that the crew of the Yellow Rose eventually seized control of the Red Flower and began to sail it on a new course and the evil creed of New Piracy.

He was right o’ course was me parrot. Such a plan would result in in-fightin’ and backstabbin’ as each Cap’n tried to be the Cap’n del tutti Cap’ns as they say in Mediterranian parts. Either that or such an enterprise would inevitably drift towards the scurvy horror of New Piracy and abandon all our traditions of Teak chests buried 10 paces south of a crewman’s body and general piratical pillaging and nautical naughtiness.

So I shot Malvolio and swore off the run ration for a day to banish the humors from me that cause me to think crazy; Timmy the Cabin Boy enjoyed the ‘chicken’ dinner that our scurvy Cook made him.

arrrrh… ’tis a ruthless life as a Pirate Cap’n. But Malvolio knew too much.

Full Sail Ahead!


Photo Credit

Arrh! The Photo above be available for us to be using though Creative Commons by missy_1074 from Flickr. We thankee!
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