15 January 2027
Friday. Unrolled the Queensland charts on my table tonight and weighted the corners with four of Duchess’s favourite biscuits. She has eaten two. The north-west of the state is now missing.
My galleon is due in Brisbane in the first half of this year. Which week, nobody will say. Which street, nobody will say. I asked Scarface. Scarface said the management will put it on the noticeboard when it is ready, and that a good captain does not rush a mooring.
I have planned my arrival anyway. Cannon salute. A brass band. Myself on the bowsprit in the good hat. The management has asked me to plan for a lift and a lanyard, as before.
They tell me Queensland is warm and that the prisoners there wear thongs. I have sent word that nobody boards my ship in thongs. Closed shoes or the plank. The management agrees, and for once we are of one mind.
Scarface asked whether the shanty is going north too. Nobody has said so. He looked disappointed. Why would my first mate care where my shanty goes?
— Captain Calico Jack, Terror of the Seas (all of them)
