12 March 2027
Friday. A crew of children tonight, with a parent apiece to keep the paperwork in order. The youngest was seven. She told me so at the gangplank, and then again in the hold, in case I had forgotten.
I am told that nine and over is the best age for my ship, that seven- and eight-year-olds may sail with their family, and that any child of nine or under must have a grown-up aboard who has paid like everybody else. I asked whether the grown-ups were hostages. Apparently they are help.
I had expected tears. It is dark below deck, the timbers creak and the captain is fearsome. Instead the seven-year-old organised everybody into teams and asked me, in the middle of it all, whether I had ever thought about being nicer.
They got out. Of course they got out. On the way past she gave me a drawing of my ship. I have pinned it up in my quarters. It is not bad. The sails are wrong.
Scarface laughed out loud at something tonight. He never laughs. I must ask the children what they said to him.
— Captain Calico Jack, Terror of the Seas (all of them)
