The sea was angry that day, me boy. Angry, turgid and grey as the hair on me pubes. We’d been out from Portsmouth for nigh on 40 days, the men were restless and ready to get back into Yarmouth.
Tin-Eye Tom was the first to set eye on it, hollerin panicked, drunken nonsense from the nest. Why should we give credence to anything running out of his rum stained gob? Then, like a priest through a cathedral, a hush crossed the entire sea. And then we saw it.
At first none of us could speak or move, so strong was our disbelief. We all snapped out of the stillness when Tin-Eye Tom wunched onto the deck, his neck at an odd angle and blood trickling from his ears. Then it was my turn to shout.
“HOIST THE MIZZENMAST! ALL HANDS MUSTER! MR JULEP HARD TO STARBOARD” I heard meself screaming, my voice high and hoarse and panicked. But it was for naught, the great black beast was upon us.
As the merciless grey sea surged over the port side, my ship, The Dainty Lass, creaked and struggled and groaned against the force. Then a great gnashing of teeth and a roar-I swear by the boots I’m wearing- the beast ROARED- and we were in the drink.
37 stout men met their maker in the worst way I can imagine and The Dainty Lass lay in splinters deep in Davy Jones’ Locker. I can tell you a thing or three about the sea, me bucko, but there aren’t horses enough to drag me back out there, out to the grim grey sea.