Pink Pirates

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We travelled west of Ireland. To the crews merriment and my own regret, Claric did depart the voyage. But not before blessing us with numerous drunken insults and one or two obscene hand gestures, got to love Claric. However, he did manage to somehow recruit a disreputable looking lot of nine. How this was possible will forever elude me, Claric was definitely a puzzle to all aboard, me chief amongst them. They, the Irish recruits, all, weirdly, were called some variation of Michael but non of them actually called Michael, they swore on it. Huh. “Mick” or “Micky, Mucka, Mitch, Mike” I didn’t have much dealings with them to be honest, can’t remember all of their names, I just called them all “Mc” pronounced “Merk”.
Not trusting them, at all, I decided to spread them among the crew as evenly as possible, by splitting them out over my two ships. The crew didn’t give a damn, they needed strong backs, the Mcs certainly gave us that much.
I took my new company, still hadn’t decided on a name at that point, forwards on my new venture, trying to put as much ocean between us, and the Brit-Spanish vendetta chasing me, as possible before my past caught up with me.
Destination: the land of opportunity. Opportunity by way of Newfoundland mind, but we all have to learn the hard way, don’t we? I do, I know that much.
For the first week or so the ocean slept, as motionless as a corpse, while we skated smoothly above her. Then she woke up. That’s when I knew the true meaning of sea sickness. We all did, well not all of us, just me really. I was the only one aboard who didn’t know anything about sailing, or the sea, or the ship. But I did know the business end of a dagger! Didn’t help much as we rolled over the biggest rollercoaster this world has to offer. However, quite miraculously actually, both ships made it through and on to the great beyond. The standards had almost been washed clean by the storm. Now they just looked pinky-orange. They would not do, even Skelton commented on the girliness of our once fearsome flags. The nine Mcs sure did like them a lot, a bit too much if you ask me. Maybe they were being in-genuine? The lads doth protest too much when I ordered them down. One of them even suggested that we keep them and go by the name of “Pink Pirates”. He got to swab the decks for the rest of the voyage. Fucking Pink Pirates! Prick! These Irish were a bit weird if you ask me. Very weird but they knew how to guide a ship through the fucking mouth of hell. If it weren’t for them we wouldn’t have made it. My original crew determined to stay the course would have resulted in breaking us apart. The storm was too strong, the Mcs said we should just surrender to the bitch (the storm), Skelton reluctantly agreed with them. I agreed with Skelton. That was how we ended up in bloody Canada, in case you were wondering. Like I said, we learn the hard way.


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