A wave of water awoke him as he lay huddled, without bread or bonnet, under the rail and rope of the port-side deck. The salt-water no longer stung his callused wounds but its taste still scorched his tongue. Salty air blew through his beard, seagulls circled his head, clouds filled a crimson-colored sky and the unfettered- bar now- tattered sails of the scuttled ship fluttered in the wind.

Struggling to stand, he looked starboard across the tangled mess of blasted oak timbers and iron-coated, blood-crusted shrapnel. Through the assorted hatchment of fallen beams and bodies of the brawn he saw a small patch of sand and surf; a paradise of concealment and clam.

Dragging his bludgeoned leg behind him he shuffled to the bow of the shattered ship. Water careened between jagged rocks, creating moss-filled slippery steps. An oasis of hope awaited him less than thirty paces to his fore. Surviving contagion and cutlass, the savage sea splashed over- once more to swallow- the buccaneer and the rue of life he lived.