The cool ocean breeze carried a spray of salty seawater from the cresting waves as they crashed against the hull of the Bermuda-rigged sloop Will, Jack, and Mr. Gibbs were sitting in. Will stood astern behind the steering wheel, carefully observing Jack as he hung precariously from the riggings near the top of the sloops' main mast. Near the bow, Mr. Gibbs had fallen asleep in his cups, and was snoring loudly enough for Will to develop a firm irritation for the noise. He bit his lip.
A fine mess Jack had gotten them into this time, he thought. Six days out to sea and no sign of the Pearl or its hijacked crew. Jack had no doubts that he would return to his beloved ship. Will was no longer so certain.
"Jack!" Will called. As expected, Jack ignored him. The second call was louder, sharper. Mr. Gibbs stirred in his sleep. Jack swung dangerously wide at the top of the mast as the sloop ran broad reach with the wind but refused to acknowledge young Will Turner.
With mounting frustration, Will placed two fingers between his lips and whistled loudly. Mr. Gibbs sat up with a start, dropping his flask and spilling whiskey on the deck. He cursed.
"It's bad luck to spill whiskey at sea," he grumbled.
"What is it, lad?" Jack slurred from atop the mast. He had turned around such that he had to switch hands, and the appendage that now gripped the top of the mast glinted in the sunlight. At the end of Jack's wrist was an ornate, jewel-encrusted golden hook. The one that had caused this debacle in the first place.
"We're running low on supplies," Will said. "We've only got enough food to last two more days. We've got to head to port and regroup before continuing our search for the Pearl."
Jack waved his free hand. "It'll be alright, young man. We'll manage."
"And we've only got three more bottles of rum," Gibbs chimed in. Will smiled darkly. His grin was sly and vengeful, and he counted down in his head until Jack's inevitable reaction.
With a motion that began as fluid and ended up with the pirate spilling onto the deck in a mess of jackets, belts, and boots, Jack dismounted the main mast. But, like a shot, he regained his feet and approached Mr. Gibbs with two quick steps. "Th-three bottles?" he asked shakily.
"Aye," shouted Will from the steering wheel.
Jack pointed an accusing finger. "This was you, wasn't it?"
His hooked hand went for his pistol before realizing what he was doing, then he switched hands and pointed the small one-shot at his navigator. "You dumped the rest overboard, didn't you?"
"Jack," Mr. Gibbs placed a hand on Jack's shoulder, and Jack looked at his old boson out of the corners of his eyes. "Will didn't throw anything overboard. We're just running dry is all."
"That's impossible," Jack bites. "We left Port Au Prince with over 60 bottles. I drank…"
Jack counted in his head, using the barrel of his pistol to tally off bottles as he sorted through the murky haze in his mind. He came to a conclusion he didn't like, shook his head, and began counting again. After a moment, he put the pistol back in its holster.
"Alright, we're going to make landfall," Jack said. "Mr. Turner, adjust your course so we're going…"
Jack scanned the horizon. As far as Will could see, there was water in every direction. Jack pointed.
"That way."
"Haven't you got a compass to check or anything?" Will asked him.
"Don't worry about that, my lad," Jack reassured him as he began mounting the small main mast to climb back up to the top. "Just head that direction and I promise we'll make landfall soon enough."
Will shook his head and began turning this sloop so it was running with the wind. After all they'd been through, he should know well enough to trust Jack's judgment. The Caribbean was his home and his life. There wasn't a mariner in the world who knew it better than he.