Meaning of It All, Piratically Speaking
Hyrum spat into the sea, sure to turn his head to leeward. He evaded his own spit being blown back at him, but the sea spray dampened his neck to send a chill down his spine. Early September in the Atlantic was no time to be on deck in a nightshirt as he was.
Bosun’s mate Crispus might have told him as much but instead grunted a greeting as he came by on watch. The two men stood for some time in the moonlight there at the bow of a ship as scarred as themselves. That was life as they knew it.
Thus Crispus had to cock an eyebrow at the other man’s question, “Is this all there is, old friend, the great expanse of sea and the plunder that awaits?”
Hyrum didn’t turn from his consideration of the rolling waves and night sky to watch his companion fetch a pipe and begin the ritual of packing it as Crispus sanguinely mused, “Yer daft, boy. O’ course that’s not all there is. We sail. We plunder. That’s not what gives it all meaning though, is it? No, it’s all the whores and rum we can buy with the plunder.”