Ronald the Pirate

RONALD the PIRATE

“So what’s it gonna be, ol’ boy?”

“Two cases of steelies and 3 pouches of Top.” Ronald had a bit of a vacation planned and so was stocking up with more than his usual twelver and tobacco—he departed the store and strode down McMillan Ave focused on his mission—he had already obtained groceries from St. Mary’s Church that morning and water would come from the dock—he staggered a bit under the weight and awkwardness of his purchase envisioning the vacation he was soon to escape on—land life always tensed his alertness—when he came to the end of the road he saw that his dinghy had taken on some water which would soak the cardboard in which case everything would fall through upon transporting it to the boat—too much to think about—“FUCK IT” he thought and boarded at ease back to the comforting sway—and as expected little extra effort was needed as 2 six packs at a time could only be put aboard—his boat the Zambwini was a 32 foot sail boat cleverly manipulated to make it singly sailable—all lines adjusted by the captain—Ronald—sitting proudly at the helm—the Zambwini is easily spotted with a hull colorfully painted with abstract design—personality—as this boat had much of—a deep sigh sounded as he sat back and checked off the preparation list in his head: “water would be gotten directly before departure—food, booze, smokes purchased and securely stowed—and I guess that that is it”—tilted his head with a yawn and then went below to read by candlelight—he arose at dawn for it was said that Sunday the wind would blow from the South which would send him sailing straight towards his destination in the Gulf of Mexico: an unclaimed mangrove island—peace and quiet—tuck the boat in a bush to be hidden then climb on the mangrove jungle in search of treasures—“the creatures that must inhabit an island that has no solid ground”—a rush of excitement at the thought of adventure kicked up his adrenaline to energize the take-off—accompanied by a few cups of espresso—yet he still chose to make use of the little inboard motor to maneuver his escape from the harbor—and to fill the two 5 gallon water jugs—beyond you could see with blind eye the endless ocean and steering straight out he reaches to the left and raises the mainsail—immediately catching a strong breeze—cuts the motor—then reaches to the right and winches in the line taught to climb right up to 7 knots within a few seconds—flying—cutting the waves—open ocean—excitement—contentment—“and away we go!”—the weather was right so he planned to sail all through the night—nonstop—the situation was energizing—getting his bearings and steering for the stars with waves lapping the hull and a steel reserve in his grasp accompanied by a satisfied grin—a pleasant farewell to that island—smooth ride—he decided that since there was no foreplanned destination that the first abandoned island in sight would do—as his course was steered due West he figured that the onset of an island would most likely signal upcoming mainland—Ronald sat back with a certain calmness that can only be reached in perfect solitude—lost in your own world—sailing on open water with not a thing in sight—the vast unknown—overbearing at times until there follows the sigh—“FUCK IT”—a thought quickly pushed aside as it passes between his ears: “I am at the mercy of the wind and the waves in my present situation—out here, the term is simply: DISAPPEARED”—and onwards the Zambwini slices the water—Ronald—exhausted—dazes off into a deep snooze—in his head he wanders the islands—he sees himself glide up on what appears to be that mangrove island he is seeking but when he is exploring among the snakes, spiders, and vines he finds that the center of the island is an inviting sand pit—here—he deems—would be the perfect place to set up his pirate base—a grin comes across his face—then fast he is jostled awake—the sail has caught some wind—he looks around at the 5 foot swells growing ever larger—crashing down with caps of white—“where am I? what time…?”—he winches in all slack from the lines and keeps on his forward gust—with a sigh reaches for another steely—“ahhh…what a life”—not long after is it that Ronald—who has reached a light buzz and is sitting with a cigarette in the crock of his mouth behind the helm role-playing and singing as though he were a pirate “oh—a pirate life is the life for me—scandalous and living for free..”—up over a gigantic swell—the waves splash over the sides as the Zambwini comes down with a crash—this happens 5 more times before Ronald is struck with the situation—the alcohol intensifying his panicking thoughts—then—as though a god-send—“LAND HO!!!”—remarkable resemblance to the paradise he had earlier procured in his head—“it was meant to be”—the bump on the horizon was directly to windward…and so the excitement begins—maneuvering the lines tacking towards the unknown island—with a steady wind he simply approached the shore and eased into a perfect sized eddy—it all worked very smoothly and as Ronald often did he patted himself on the back as he reached for his victory beer—it was sure to be a Beefaroni night as a welcome—his twisted thoughts already pondering permanent residence upon arrival—“just happy to be calm—fuck all the hectic bullshit” and that night indeed the sky was bliss—pitch black spotted with firing balls—not a wave bumped the hull—he dined on some instant mashed potatoes, his prized can of Beefaroni and a steel reserve—after that it was near dark so he had his night-time cigarette then went to curl up in the bow berth for a well-deserved rest—he awoke at 8:00 AM—sleeping in 2 hours from his body clock—he skipped up to deck and stared into the mystery—“what could only be behind the leaves/below the roots”—the thought gave him a tingle on his spine—“oh, wait, that’s a fucking mosquito!”—he leaned over the edge at the stagnant murky waters of the mangrove—soon coming would be swarms of the pests—he unpacked yards upon yards of mosquito netting from the aft lazarette—firstly to prepare the main fort—the Zambwini was wrapped around the halliards from deck to halfway up the mast—the boat was tied off so with one step you were on to shore—this Ronald did—maintaining his balance—and began scrambling to discovery and the sand dune that surely lay at the center of this island—a perfect replica of the one foreseen in his head—“FUCK—GOD DAMN IT!”—a tree jammed his side as he steadied his feet—“inevitable—so why the frustration?”—he continued scavenging—aimed for dead center of the clump—thinking that he had found himself a perfect pleasant place to wait out death—he twisted—slid—ducked—jumped—weaving his way through—the irritating pricks resulting in itch drove him on—then he spotted something moving below and stood stock still—

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