The gunner’s daughter

Said wench was so heavy with child I feared she’d be naught but burden. But with a fierce drunk on one side of me, and the vexatious ordinance of equal opportunities legislation on the other, I was indeed between the devil and the deep blue sea.

As if that wasn’t enough, she was the fighting sort – quick to temper and doggedly cold in revenge. No deck-swabber she. Not that I could I countenance such a career move, for only that yuletide morning had she appropriated our mop to stave in the skull of an excessively lively youth who had had the temerity to bid her glad tidings before she had lit her first pipe of the day.

Yet what some people may think of as a character flaw, I prefer to see as a strength *overdone*. There had to be a way to profit from this ruthlessness. If I couldn’t harness it for good, then at least I could give it some focus and direct it away from me.

I smiled warmly and welcomed on board the ship’s new facilities manager.

Within minutes her dastardly agenda was finalised and she was already researching stationery vendors.

Facilities manager
Skinhead Hellknuckles, The Five Fisted Romany
Likes: lechery
Dislikes: static caravans

Bristol fashion

Two may be company, but it’s by no means a crew. So far I had the vision and the executive officer. The next obvious step was to recruit someone with a bit of nous that might prove useful in making things work – an engineer no less.

On reflection, ships without engine rooms possibly don’t require engineers per se. At the time, however, the recruitment drive was more led by grog than common sense. Besides, I’m sure that engineers have a whole host of transferable skills, such as, er, being good with anchors?

The aforementioned brother in law stepped up to the breach. In addition to a glorious résumé of outstanding achievements and employee-of-the-month decorations, I recalled he also plied his trade from the busy port of Brizzle, so I was certain he’d seen a boat or two in his time. Plus he knew how to operate a compass, or so he claimed.

Due to the man’s voracious appetite for liquor, agreeing personal terms proved tough. A fierce negotiator, he demanded an inordinate share of the ship’s rum, even if it meant sacrificing other fringe benefits such as pension and medical insurance. He also demanded I find a role for his wench.


Chief engineering officer:
JB "Sleazy Lover" III
Likes: Depeche Mode
Dislikes: Antiques Roadshow

First call for shipmates

Recruitment for the inner circle started right away.

Calling to mind the wisdom of old wives (or possibly old mobsters) I remembered the following cardinal rules:

Rule 1(a): Blood is thicker than water
Rule 1(b): You can’t pick your family, but you can pick your friends
Rule 1(c): Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer

So what does that mean vis-à-vis the staff? I’m not entirely sure. If I knew more about algebra and loci I could probably work out something, but unfortunately I majored in pirate mathematics rather than the regular kind – I may not have successfully measured the height of the maths building, but it was my long division that split the booty after we looted the art block. Who’s laughing now, Pakrash?!

Sums aside, we return to the conundrum of crew, namely where to turn first.

I needed someone who could invest in the corporate vision; a mover and a shaker; someone who eats goalposts for breakfast. I needed a first mate, one who wasn't afraid to use that cat o’nine tails should the rank and file step out of line.

In short, I needed to bring the missus on board.


First mate:
Deb "Dark Heart" O'Stone
Likes: eatin' raw children
Dislikes: mercy

Here be the rationale

Christmas 2007 – that’s when the patch and earring came into my world. My brother in law had seen it while away on business, and decided, there and then, that I *needed* it.

He was right, you know.

Before the patch, my life had no focus. What was I achieving? Nothing. Where was my life going? Nowhere. I may as well have been a battery bunny in a hamster wheel, powering a treadmill factory run by sausages. For all I know I was.

Then it hit me. I should leave it all. Run away to sea. Make a living through deft cutlass work and buccaneering.

At which point my dad gives me the reality check, pointing out that were I to try and live by my hands I’d starve in a week. He’s wise like that, my dad. He knows full well that I progressed no further than the reef knot at cubs, and that anyone leaving their rigging in my mitts will be run aground in minutes.

So I put that one on the backburner and revisited my cv. Relevant skills: nil. Hmmm. Sounds like management material to me. All I needed was a crew.



The skipper:
"Long Nails" Jonas Stone
Likes: fightin' and readin'
Dislikes: chewin' and chokin'