14 May 2027
Friday. Autumn, and fog on the water every morning, thick as porridge. I asked the management why my ship has none. A pirate galleon in fog is a magnificent thing. A pirate galleon in clear air is just a large wooden room.
They said the fog in my story is told, not pumped. No smoke machines, no haze, nothing to make a prisoner cough. One of tonight’s prisoners had a puffer in her pocket and never needed it. She said thank you on the way out. To the management. Not to me.
They also reminded me that my hold has no tight corners and nothing to wriggle through, which they seem to think is a selling point. In my day, a hold was a hold. You lay in it and you thought about your choices.
I have written a strongly worded letter about the fog. Scarface has offered to deliver it. He offers to deliver all my letters. I never hear back. The post must be terrible.
The parrot sat in the rigging all evening looking misty on my behalf. It is the least she can do.
— Captain Calico Jack, Terror of the Seas (all of them)
