2. All I Caribbean About Is Getting the Hell Out of Here
All I Caribbean About Is Getting the Hell Out of Here
Grinning like fools, Louise and I eagerly follow George down the stairs to the main deck.
There’s a strange fluttering in my chest as I take it all in, my steps sure as I duck under a beam.
I’ve never felt like this, giddy and excited, my pulse leaping into my throat like this ship can somehow disappoint me.
It hasn’t yet.
If anything, this has let me forget the failings of the day, my frustrations with Louise, my fear of the water surrounding us, the feeling of being unsettled.
All of those steadily began disappearing into one of the little boxes in the back of my mind the moment I set foot on this ship, neatly tucked away until I’m ready to face them.
Up close and with my notebook in hand, I jot down more details, trying not to miss anything. The ropes are carefully coiled and tied with complicated knots. Cannons peer out from between rails with lines of cannonballs next to them and pouches of gunpowder tied up beside them, ready for battle.
I spin in place, eyes trailing over wood and metal, scraping along the deck as I picture a pirate crew running across it.
If I close my eyes, I can almost see the crew, hear the calls of a captain on the quarterdeck, and feel the sway of the ship as it cuts through choppy waters.
I puff out my cheeks, biting back bile from the mere thought.
Don’t think about the water and you’ll be fine.
I open my eyes and refocus on the ship.
Unlike the ships in some of the well-loved, grand cinematic portrayals of pirates, there is no separate gun deck aboard it. All in all, the ship is much smaller than the ones I’ve seen on-screen.
“How many people would crew a ship this size?” I ask George.
“Hmm, twenty-five perhaps, no more than forty at any given time, I’d imagine.”
“A tight squeeze,” I murmur. I can hardly imagine a large crew fitting aboard this ship comfortably.
Breathing deep as I swivel to the cannons, it’s as if I can smell a strange hint of gunpowder, the touch of coal and metal lingering in my senses. For the first time since we’ve stepped aboard, the scent of the fish is gone, if only for a moment.
Louise must be reading my mind, because she glances up at me, snorting as she scrutinizes my expression. “It smells much better down here, doesn’t it?” Laughing, I nod.
“According to records,” George starts, peering over one of the cannons, “She Deceitful went down when the British navy appointed a new governor of New Providence. The entire crew was betrayed by a crewman for a universal pardon from the British when they arrived at port, or so the story goes.” George pats the cannon wistfully.
“They nearly took down one of the ships with these cannons in that battle, but this smaller ship compared to three privateering ships?” George shakes his head.
“January sixth, 1718, and New Providence had begun the transformation from a pirate stronghold into the center of anti-piracy. The Golden Age of Piracy was ending.”
“That’s a terrible way to go,” I say.
I can’t help but imagine what it must have felt like for their one place of solace off this ship to be captured by their enemy. My throat constricts, and I blink away a haze of tears as if I’ve lost it, too. Tilting my head, I run a finger along the nearest cannon.
“So this ship doesn’t have a separate gun deck?”
George shakes his head and hooks a thumb in his belt.
“It’s a common misconception that Hollywood has perpetuated.
Most privateering or pirate ships in the Golden Age of Piracy were actually quite small.
In movies and TV shows, they’re typically large, three-masted ships with separate gun decks and large crews, but most pirates sailed small two-mast ships or sloops.
Let me show you the captain’s cabin and the hold,” George says, motioning to us.
The captain’s cabin is down a makeshift hall in the back past several doors through which you can see narrow cots or supplies.
I don’t have enough time to admire the other props and labels before we duck inside.
Luckily, the cabin is just tall enough, leaving well over half a foot above me so I can straighten.
It’s decked out in rich velvet cushions, with a large oak desk anchored to the floor by the windows and a private sleeping nook hidden by black curtains to our right.
“What kind of booty was kept there?” I whisper to Louise as she stops beside me.
She snorts and elbows me. “Gross! They didn’t even have good hygiene.”
“Come on! It was a good one.”
She shakes her head. “You’ve always had a terrible sense of humor.”
“You’re one to talk,” I whisper as she moves past me with a pointed look.
She crosses to the desk where George shows her something on the prop map, motioning to the yellowed parchment.
I glance around, hands on my hips, as I take in the space.
It’s difficult to imagine a bloodthirsty pirate captain residing in this room with all its frivolous fabric, furniture, and books.
Perhaps George got it wrong? Decorated the space like they do on-screen?
I open my mouth to say as much, but when I turn around, Louise and George are already gone, disappearing down the stairs to the rest of the ship.
Cursing, I hurry after them. We follow George down a narrow hall and past several closed doors and small compartments to what appears to be the mess.
Gently swinging tables are spread out here, anchored to the ceiling to move with the ship and prevent spillage, and farther back are a makeshift kitchen with space for livestock and an infirmary.
It looks like the set of a movie, every piece of the replica carefully placed and well crafted.
It’s nothing short of phenomenal.
“So,” Louise whispers excitedly, “what do you think?”
“Okay, I’ll give it to you. This is amazing.”
She claps me on the shoulder. “I thought you’d like it. You just needed to get over your fear of water.”
“Wouldn’t exactly say I’m over it,” I mutter under my breath, stomach lurching even as I think it.
George gestures to us, and we follow him down another hall. I stop at every doorway, peering into corners and rooms. Everything feels so full of magic and stories, and I can almost hear them being whispered to me as we shuffle down the hallway after George.
“A true pirate ship,” I say as he leads us into the cargo hold, where sacks of food and barrels filled with fake grain and water, along with other miscellaneous supplies, are stored.
Louise and I have to bend down to fit in here, and I press my hand to the wall, suddenly woozy.
It’s all fake—plastic placards have been placed on everything, labeling them for visitors like us.
But still, it all feels so real. I shiver as I step to the side to make room for Louise, taking a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dim light of the fake torches on either side of the ladder.
There’s something eerie about being so far down in the ship.
I don’t like it down here, how dark it is, or how the air has turned stale and bitter on my tongue.
George must sense my unease, because he nods for us to follow him with a gentle smile.
I scramble after Louise and George, climbing back up through the ship, past barrels and cannons, up ladders, and back through the hall to the main deck.
I pause at the base of the last set of stairs, hesitating with my hand on the railing.
“Sorry, can I have one more moment?” I ask, glancing back to the captain’s cabin. “I just want to see it one last time.”
George and Louise exchange a look before George nods.
Calling my thanks, I duck back into the cabin, closing the door behind me.
I look over the space, trailing my fingers across the desk and the scattered props artfully placed around the map as if we’ve walked in on a captain checking his navigational calculations.
My fingers dance over paperweights and empty ink bottles, tapping the desk as I read the map upside down.
I bet these pirates were never bored, that their lives never hit a stale moment, unlike mine.
I trail across the space lazily, taking long, languid strides, soaking it all in before I stop in front of a small door.
Opening it, I peek in, reaching out hesitantly to run my hands over a thick wool coat hanging on a hook in the closet.
It’s a deep blue, decorated with black thread and large brass buttons, with pockets for days.
Peering over my shoulder at the closed door to the cabin, I pull it off the hook and shrug it on.
It is heavy and thick, but it fits me surprisingly well, which is unusual considering my height, but I think nothing of it as I straighten the sleeves. I run my hands over the costume, marveling at the build of the jacket, the tight stitching, the thick wool.
“A proper jacket,” I say quietly, wishing I had a mirror.
It’s ridiculous, I know, but I can’t stop myself from spinning in it, from seeing the fabric move around me, relishing the heavy reassurance of it across my shoulders.
It feels like my weighted blanket, comforting, warm, sturdy. Hell, I could sleep in it.
My hands tighten on the collar, hesitating.
I’m not ready to leave this ship. I’m not ready to say goodbye to it and all the things aboard, to go back to my deadlines and notebooks.
I don’t know why I find joy in this place and these things.
Why when I look out over my flat and my belongings in what’s supposed to be one of the greatest cities in the world, I feel nothing but suffocation.
I find no joy in trekking across the globe anymore, and though I love writing, how much longer can my career sustain me, continue to fulfill my desire to do something … more? How much longer can it satisfy me when, at the end of the day, I’m just as alone as I was before?