...avast ye, buckle your swash and brave the briney deep!

Gather 'round, me lads, and let me spin ye a tall tale of the deeps and the stout hearts 'o adversity.

Call me Esau. No, call me Abraham. Hmmmm... that's not much better. I'm running out of Biblical figures. Just call me Chuck.

My tale begins with a woeful morning in Nantucket in the winter, a bitterly cold day of the sort that freezes men in the riggings and turns rum into a slurpee. I awoke with a turrible pain in the head, and straight off set about cursing land-lubbers and all those who lub on land or sea. Ye see, I had been the captain of the Pequod, and a fine stout ship she was! After an evening of heavy drinking and playing cards with a gent named Ahab, I had lost my ship, my crew, my sea-chest, and all my money. Yar, I was greatly upset! What was an honest captain to do?

Obviously, it was time to stop being an honest captain and turn to the way of the sharks: that's right me lads, it was time to lower the stars 'n stripes and raise the Jolly Roger, and set out in quest of cheap thrills, fat Spanish Galleons, and buried treasure.

The first step in my new life as a piratical sort was to skip out 'o the inn without paying up. The next step was to find a vessel -- a stout ship, a small ship, a fast ship; yar, I was in search of the finest ship in the whole of Nantucket that a man could pinch before their owner was any the wiser. "Yar," I says to me, "yar, where do I find such a vessel?" And lo, there outside the inn, sitting in the snow was a small sloop that the owner had parked out front while he ducked inside for a stiff drink.

Quick as a flash, I dragged it away to a private place 'o mine and gave it a new look of paint and pitch, with the proud name "Yar!"

Now I needed a crew of cutthroats and robbers, men without any loyalty except to me. Being a sensible sort 'o captain, I posted an ad in the town newspaper:

Needless to say, the response was overwhelming. I hand-picked such a crew as would chill the bones of any man, women, or child from Nova Scotia to Villanova.

• "El Cubano" Christobol - the ship spoonman.
• Felix "Belligerence" -- our secret weapon, we simply lobbed him aboard any enemy vessel and before you knew it they were waving the white flag and on their knees begging for mercy.
• "Monk Rider" Wayne -- responsible for manning the cannons and leering lewdly at daughters.
• "The Philosopher of Pain" Elizabeth -- the ship philosopher and scrum master.

El Cubano also brought along his favorite wench, "Sultry Sultaness of Seduction" Jeanne, a bonnie lass who properly decorated our ship and did her best to equalize the gender balance. Often while we battled at sea, she would terrorize on land.

We set sail on a right purty Spring morning with nary a cloud in the sky. With the prow pointed south towards the rich Carribean, I felt like I was king of the ocean.

But we somehow didn't quite get on the right route to the Carribean. We missed a turn somewhere, and by the time we noticed, the docks of Philadelphia were off port. Since there were more men on board than women, we would be twice dammed if we would ask for directions. ("Yar! Excuse me -- I'm seeking to pillage and loot the Carribean. Would ye kindly help this lost pirate?"). To this very day, I have no idea how we found ourselves sailing down Crum creek.

But, what ho me lads! A fleet of boats suddenly appeared before us, and it was clear that a regatta was about to occur. Now was our chance to buckle our swashes, man the cannons, and put the Yar to its first test! With a mighty, "hey, ho, Yar!" we raised the Jolly Roger and put our backs into the race.

Without warning, our stout ship moaned a great sigh and sprung a leak. The briny waters began to seep into our boat, calling us to the cold deeps! Gallantly we continued, some bailing and others pushing the boat along. When it was clear that we were headed for the bottom -- and this brings a tear to my grizzled eyes! -- my proud boys Wayne, Chris, and Martin jumped oe'rboard to save the boat, and then by God they pushed even as the cold waters slowed their blood.

What were we to do, I ask you? My lads were in the water being nibbled by sharks and were slowly freezing to death, the ship was drawing water, and the other crafts were pulling ahead of us. It was a moment of despair, I tell ye! But then with one voice, Chris and Wayne began to sing an old sea chanty, and then we all sang:

chorus:
Way hay and up she rises
Way hay and up she rises
Way hay and up she rises
Earl-eye in the morning


What shall we do with a drunken sailor (3x)
Earl-eye in the morning!


Put him in a long-boat till he's sober

Give 'im a dose of salt and water.

Soak 'im in oil till he sprouts a flipper.

Shave his belly with a rusty razor.

Put him in a bed with the captain's mother.

Yar! 'Twer the right proper way to revive our spirits, second only to a good douse of rum! Our arms got stronger, our backs grew sturdy, and in that moment we knew that we would win.

"Prepare the cannon and give them hell!" I screamed, then promptly obeyed my own order.

We pushed, we screamed, we rowed and then, with a mighty cry we crossed the finish line, the mightiest boat by far to acheive that long-sought goal.

Aye, me lads, we won the booty of our dreams -- a prize for the most artisique craft, as well as a healthy chunk of gold.

The gold was enough for me, so I announced my early retirement from piracy and scuttled the Yar.