As the autumnal breezes blow, my mind has turned near fully to the open seas. I have nearly reached the final page of Master and Commander, despite being utterly lost in the jargon much of the time. Been playing Puzzle Pirates, of all things — but only because I couldn’t get my hands on a copy of Sid Meier’s Pirates Exclamation Point. (I must confess, though, it is fun.)
Just got back from New Orleans, and while there found myself growing awfully naval. On a self-made bookstore tour of the French Quarter, I picked up the dramatically-named and hideously-covered Men, Ships, and the Sea for some steamjournally research. Also bought a few old prints of (what else?) Boston Harbor circa 1800.
After a few days I even began to look like a seaman. My skin burned, my stubble grew. I wore my shirt far more open than is my normal Northeastern habit, and pale drawstring shorts which may just as well have been made of sailcloth. I even went barefoot at times, heels scraping on the sun-bleached deck.
This is all well and good, as International Talk Like a Pirate Day grows large on the horizon, large as a great Spanish brigantine heavy with booty and ripe for the takin’, me hearties.