The humid air hung thick on the deck of the ship, barely moving in the hazy
afternoon sunlight. Water splashed lazily on the hull, the only sign that
the ship was moving forward. The ship hadn't traveled any more than two
nautical miles in the past hour, and it was clear, judging from the flat
horizon that land was nowhere near, and made making it home within two days
seem improbable. But there was nothing at all to suggest that the crew was
excited about their impending return to Port Royal. They all just sat in
anxious silence, staring at the stoic figure on the bow of the ship. He was
a middle aged, the wearied lines in his face growing more prominent, as he
strained to see something, in the dense Caribbean waters. It too seemed
endless in its deep blue translucency, only interrupted, of course by the
occasional silver line of a barracuda flitting by the ship, in search of
smaller fish.
The man began to pace, his footsteps echoing eerily on the floorboards. None of the crew dared interrupt the pacing, for they all knew that the Commodore did not take well to even the slightest interruption as he paced, for this meant that he was in deep, serious thought. They all saw by his creased forehead that he was contemplating his latest failure in attempting to catch the Black Pearl. Or, as the Commodore put it dangerously, "The last real Pirate threat in the Caribbean." The crew knew that was what the captain wanted; how he would like to see nothing more than Jack Sparrow's body hanging limply from a noose.
It had been years since the day that Jack Sparrow had escaped from Commodore Norrington, nearly eight and a half by his count. And there had still been no sign of him since the day he had made his grand 'escape' from Port Royal. Since that day, Norrington vowed that he would come back with Jack Sparrow in tow, and since that day, he had come back empty handed each time. It had become a sick cycle: He'd come back empty handed and despondent, and, out of the blue, he would see a set of black sails on the horizon. And he'd go and search for it again and again, each time to return with nothing. Everyone on board knew that the stoicism was a façade, even the Commodore himself. His will to search was fading, skepticism breeding in its place.
He then turned on his heel and went to the first mate, which was leaning over the edge of the stern. He stood, his back needlessly erect and announced: " Turn the ship to Starboard. We're off home."
The man began to pace, his footsteps echoing eerily on the floorboards. None of the crew dared interrupt the pacing, for they all knew that the Commodore did not take well to even the slightest interruption as he paced, for this meant that he was in deep, serious thought. They all saw by his creased forehead that he was contemplating his latest failure in attempting to catch the Black Pearl. Or, as the Commodore put it dangerously, "The last real Pirate threat in the Caribbean." The crew knew that was what the captain wanted; how he would like to see nothing more than Jack Sparrow's body hanging limply from a noose.
It had been years since the day that Jack Sparrow had escaped from Commodore Norrington, nearly eight and a half by his count. And there had still been no sign of him since the day he had made his grand 'escape' from Port Royal. Since that day, Norrington vowed that he would come back with Jack Sparrow in tow, and since that day, he had come back empty handed each time. It had become a sick cycle: He'd come back empty handed and despondent, and, out of the blue, he would see a set of black sails on the horizon. And he'd go and search for it again and again, each time to return with nothing. Everyone on board knew that the stoicism was a façade, even the Commodore himself. His will to search was fading, skepticism breeding in its place.
He then turned on his heel and went to the first mate, which was leaning over the edge of the stern. He stood, his back needlessly erect and announced: " Turn the ship to Starboard. We're off home."