Another Day at the Park
Jon Labrousse

I rousted the scallywags I call my crew from their bunks at o'dark thirty this morning. There was booty to be found, and no time to waste where booty's concerned. We loaded the longboat with provisions and shovels, and cast off for shore, just the three of us: me, Peg-Leg Kegan, and Malia the Mauler. Ole Peg-Leg's got a nose for booty, and the Mauler's always good to have around in a brawl.

Early as it was, the day's heat was already upon us, and all that rowin' makes a pirate thirsty. Fortunately, there was plenty of grog tucked in among the provisions. Nothin' worse than a dehydrated pirate.

The beach, where we landed, was positively crawling with landlubbers of all shapes and sizes. They eyed us suspiciously as we dragged the longboat ashore and secured it to a bench, I mean, a weathered old piece of driftwood. The three of us snarled and gnashed our teeth at the lot of them, so they'd know we weren't to be trifled with, but that didn't stop one of them from boldly approaching us.

No more than four feet tall, she was, with bloodthirsty eyes and a maniacal grin pasted across her scarred and wind-seasoned face. "Can I join your crew?" she asked. "I'm a whiz with a cutlass." And I'll be shackled if she didn't, in the blink of an eye, mind ye, slash her cutlass through the air and sever the wings off a passing mosquito.

The Mauler nodded her head in appreciation, and we found ourselves grown to a crew of four, which was fine, because it meant less shoveling for me. We turned to get to work, digging in the fine sand, when lo and behold, before I knew it, the whole beach-full of landlubbers was upon us, all eager to sign up on our pirate crew. All of them eager to dig for booty. Luckily for me, a good Captain always brings plenty of shovels.

I'm not a man of the whip, or other hard implements, mind you. I cast myself a task-master, but fair. If there was booty to find, my crew would find it; that much was certain. I had them digging to the east, foraging to the west, pick-axing in the north, and downright burrowing through hard clay on the south end. There had to be seven of them, altogether, and they were working as if their very lives depended on it. Which they did. I don't favor a lazy pirate when it comes to my booty. But I kept my calm, and no lashes were served.

They brought me small rocks and trinkets, mostly. One wee girl even had the gall to bring me the pull-lever off a zipper! "You call that booty?! " I said, raising myself to my full five feet, ten and three quarter inches, and shaking my sea-hardened fist.

"Well. Yes," she replied, quivering.

"WellÖ Okay, then. One man's booty is another man's coveted prize. Keep it close ye," I told her, and snarled my lip in a scary pirate way. As a full-time dad, and a pirate to boot, I'd mastered the art of snarling.

She sniffled and ran off to find more booty. I shouted after her, "Buck up, pirate! Go find me some real booty, arrr!"

As a rule, I don't usually say, "Arrr," as a pirate captain, but sometimes you have no choice.

And, so, they dug, each of them understanding that anything they found belonged to me, their captain. The best they could hope for was ten percent ,and maybe a bulkhead on my ship to hang their hammock from. If they played their cards right. Things were going so well. UntilÖ

I'd been so focused on the growing mound of booty that I hadn't noticed that the whole beach was surrounded by imperial soldiers. Oh, I'd noticed the ladies, small-talking on the water's edge, but I'd paid them little attention, they seemed so idle, so passive. Suddenly, seemingly as one, they sprung into action! They snatched my pirate crew, one by one, and dragged them away in shackles, begging for freedom before being cast into great iron beasts burnin' oil.

All bets were off. My crew and I stuffed our pockets with as many precious stones and assorted trinkets as we could carry, and made a dash for the longboat. It was a close one! We were back down to the three of us, and our hearts were heavy, but we were also hungry, and, for a pirate, hunger takes precedence over friendship.

We had to row against the current on the way back to the ship, so it was slow going. The crew was worn out from all that digging, but I can't abide a lollygagger on my pirate crew. I kept after them until their muscles were rubber and their lips quivered. But they didn't cry, seas forgive 'em. The only thing worse than a five-year-old cryin' pirate, is his sister, all of seven, all a-blubber.

Still. Hard work toughens young pirates. It's true, and it's me job.

Back aboard the ship we divvied up our booty while the serving wench prepared dinner. There were some fine trinkets, indeed: a lollipop, only half-sucked, a shiny piece of pointy metal, and an assortment of fine stones and baubles. I allowed each of them their choice of one item from the pile: the pointy metal thing for the Mauler, and a fine encrusted jewel for ole Peg-Leg to add to the adornments on his peg-leg. I kept the lollipop for myself.

When the wench rang the dinner bell, we could barely make it to the table, we were in such a weakened state from work and hunger. We pushed up our sandy sleeves and prepared to tuck in.

"Stop!" The serving wench commanded. She sniffed at the air and squinched up her nose. "No one eats until you've bathed. That includes you, Captain." And she served me the look.

"ButÖ we're pirates," I mewled.

The serving wench can serve up something mighty fierce with those eyebrows of hers. Even a seasoned Pirate Captain, such as myself, knows when it's better not to argue.

"Come on crew," I said, a renewed gleam in my eye, I do believe there's a mighty shark in local waters that needs taming, and we're just the pirates to do it."