Ah, Wench, you should have told old Looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong John that ye were dyslickick at times! He'd have forgiven ya right off, but no, ye had to go and offend him, even tho ye might not have meant to or known that ye were. But old Loooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong John will forgive ya. Now, will ye put down that cat? Whipping it around like ye are, there's fur getting in all drinks. That's a good lass.

Now, Old Looooooooooooooooong John used ta be a dab hand with a cutlass, a boardin' pike, a scimitar, a snickersnee, a snickersbar, and a fouling piece, back after he got himself blown up and all. Argh, I remember once, 'twas on the old "Jolly Thundermug," bound out of Juan de Fucha (named for a Spanish mate o' mine who was named for his best trait, which was why the water near the town was called the Trait of Juan de Fucha), with Old Vanderdekker as the Cap'n. She was a trim craft, she was, mountin' two 36 pounders, four 18 pounders, eighteen 4 pounders, thirty-six 2 pounders, a quarter pounder, and two happy meals. Jacques Fries -- we called him "Frenchy" o' course -- was the mate, and a finer man ever trod the deck. Myself, I was signed on as Ship's Ghost.

We were sailin' under a letter of Mark's, which he'd written to his mum explainin' why it was that he, a fine lad of some 34 years, hadn't married and settled down yet ta raise a crop of grandchildren for her. We were thirty months outbound, red to the left, before we cleared the mouth of harbor and sailed smack into the worst gale that I ever clapped me eye on! She'd blow from abaft, she'd blow from larb'rd, she'd blow from starb'rd, she'd blow from dead ahead. Why, half the time she was blowin' straight up or straight down, and sometimes all directions at once. Frightful, it was.

Old Van (as we called the Cap'n) stumped the foredeck, tortured, torn between, wantin' to turn back, wantin' to sail on, but locked by the wind and tossed high and low on the seas like a dead leaf in a whirlpool. Ah, mateys, a time it was then, with the crew aloft reefin' sail, setting sail, close reefin', half reefin', and all the while cussin' Van until the white sails were stained a deep ocean blue. Now and again ye'd see one of 'em, their hands wet and frozen from the gale, break off their finger and go fallin' below into the hold, landing head foremost on the cargo o' mattresses we were takin' to Eek.

Aye, they'd land on 'em, poor mates, and bounce right out of the hold, too, and back over the taffrail and into the jollyboat. Why, after a couple of hours the whole crew was behind the ship, and Van was still shoutin' orders at the wind!

After some thirteen or twelve hours o' this, the painter to the jollyboat parted and the crew was set adrift, drawin' farther and farther from the "Jolly Thundermug". As they drifted more and more astern, ye could hear sounds of gaiety come faintly over the water as the boat got more and more jolly.

But there was only the Cap'n and me left on the ship, and he was tryin' t'order me aloft, and the gale such that it would blow me away, wraith that I am, and I sittin' calm on the barrel of a long gun, smokin' me twist and now and then salutin' the cap'n, jest to let him know what I still thought of 'im.

Finally, he roars, "I'll get this cargo through if I have to sail through Hell to do it!" and the water got glass smooth all of a sudden and I knew that Van was in for it. "I'm not one to desert me mates," thinks I to meself, "but they're all in the jolly boat, miles astern, and a Captain that talks like that I want no part of." So I blivalated, vanishing all at once before his very eyes, and watched from near the crow's nest above as a shoot of flame came on the deck and a voice like thunder, but evil, said, "Vanderdekken, you shall have your wish. You will sail the Trait of Juan de Fucha until the End of Time, always lost, but always trying to deliver your cargo as you contracted to do! You have but one hope, and that is if someone will, at your asking, volunteer you the directions to Eek."

And the fire swirled and whirled and shot straight up, and you never before saw the face of Captain be so sick, so damned and knowing it, as that of Old Van.

Mateys and you, too, Lass, if ever you're out on the Trait of Juan de Fucha and you hear a mournful voice crying, "Eek? Eek?" and you think it's the riggin', pay no attention to it, for it's just Van, hailin'.

Now, how about some good rum to take the chill out of me old bones, what's left of 'em?