As the Pirate Band strums and jigs their way through Gypsy Davey, something casts a tall shadow in the slanted light of the moon across the water. It is a tall three-master, moving forward smoothly across the tossing sea. She passes nearby and is hailed, but no response comes from her. And it is seen that her rigging is split and frayed, her sails holed and tattered. Her wheel is unmanned, but holds a course dead to North. Even the Pirate Band falls silent in awe or respect, as she sweeps by. She goes her way as she always has and always will, and on her stern the moonlight picks out tarnished gold filagree that spells out Flying Dutchman.

Brrrr. Pass me that bottle o' rum, shipmate.