AN: This is just a little drabble about Jack. Maybe continued and maybe not. This is in fact inspired by a previous Johnny Depp movie, Chocolat. I hope you enjoy!
Dedicated to my Norah
**********
The North wind is my way.
True when a ship sails it needs wind in order to move, to puff the
heavy sails outwards and propel it forward. Against the waves, over
the swells, through the foam. A ship is dependent on the wind.
Just like me.
In a weird sense, my ship, the Pearl, is dependent on the wind in
more ways than one. True it needs it to move, as I explained already,
but it needs it to know its way. People wonder about me compass. I
never bothered to explain the details to anyone though, no matter how
often they ask. But ye see, the wind guides it. The arrow is loose,
so loose that the most subtle breeze will set it drifting. And
whatever way it drifts, I follow.
I trust the wind with me entire being. Whilst searching for the Pearl
and `Lizabeth, I followed my North wind. And it has never led me in
the wrong direction. True to its nature, it blew straight to the
isle. And to my ship.
Gibbs doesn't understand how the `blasted' wind knows where to take
us, presenting us the most desirable targets. It has never let us
down. He can't figure it out; I offer no explanations as well. It's
more of an instinct.
The wind is more like me freedom, personified.
When it dies down, I feel anchored and in response, the Pearl becomes
anchored as well. Me crew trusts me instincts, when I say to weigh
anchor or drop anchor, it happens. Not just because I be Captain Jack
Sparrow, nay, they know it to be the most opportune action of the
time.
When the wind is dead, I feel slightly dead. Heavy. Anxious for it to
liven up again, agitated, waiting for a squall to blow us in whatever
direction that it feels like. I truly do hate to see the main sails
and the top sails hanging limp and lifeless, simply dead. I tend to
lose myself during those days; staring at whatever mast I happened to
be nearest to, whether it be the fore, main or mizzen. Anamaria would
have to shake me from whatever non-rum induced stupor (aye,
surprising eh?) I fall into, and lead me away. But I always prefer to
wait on deck. Near my helm. Wetting my finger or thumb every several
moments and testing if there is even the slightest breeze.
Storms are euphoric for me. So much force there is in gale winds.
True, the crew becomes terrified as they cling to their ratlines and
cut the sails to keep them from tangling, or the poor fool you has
bowsprit duty during then and has to dangle over that unforgiving
ocean and try to free that fore sail. All the while, I stand there,
in another form of trance. There is this burning during those times.
I feel so alive.
Ah, but probably the strangest thing about me wind is the personality
of it. The North is a cold wench of a woman, aye that she be. But she
is whom I am closest to, the one that has most of my trust. Then the
South is a warm friendly fella, who wishing no harm upon ye. He is me
crew's favorite. The East tends to come and go, unpredictably. He can
either carry soft whispers or sharp shouts. I don't know too much
about trusting him. But he has led me in some right directions. And
then there is West. She is colder than her brothers but not so as her
sister. She reminds me of fall in England and Ireland, where I spent
some days as a young whelp. Kind, she can be, but she is also old and
wise.
Most think I am mad for trusting my life in the hands of a ship and
four winds. But they got me through this much of life. Why give up on
them now?
Now that I think of it, that's could be another reason why I haven't
given up rum either. I drank most of me life and no harm has come of
it, sort of. Why quit now? That and besides, water goes bad on those
long months at sea, why get alkali sickness instead of a nice bottle
of rum.
I probably should tell Will that.
Will.
More often than not, my thoughts stray from the fateful Four and
settle on the young impulsive blacksmith. Who was probably living
that fable like life with his one and only. Unless his wind directed
him in another route.
Sitting on a crate near the wheel, I can sense the shift in the wind
before anyone could see the change in the sails. That's how it is
now; I am in part with the invisible force. I know what it will do
before it does.
Ah, North. She is blowing again. The breeze was soft now, just a bare
hint of ice on my face that is soon warmed out by the sweltering
Caribbean sun.
She goes by many names, that she does. I know each of them.
In Spain, she is called "Viento del Norte"
Germany, "Nordwind"
Portugal, "Vento Norte"
The Greeks called her a he and he was known as "Boreas" son of
Dawn "Eos" and the Stars "Astraeus"
And long ago, as with the Greeks, the Romans called `him' "Aquilo" (I
still remain to the fact that North is a woman, cold as ice as any
woman is)
The supposed heathen god of the Aztec was known as "Ehecatl" and the
other Mexicas, the Mayans called her "Kukulcan"
All the way down in the Southern Americas, she was still felt and
known as "Brisa"
And in Cuba, "Brisote"
Over in the Middle East, very warm there, I might add, "Nashi" or
also "N'aschi" she was known.
Over where I got my P, near India, I heard her name there too, "Vata"
But here, in the Caribbean North, South, East and West are all
governed by one beautiful lass, er, goddess I should say, whose name
is "Gaubancex". I learned from her to trust my four friends, and she,
no other God, is the one I put my faith into.
She, along with North, has never steered me in the wrong direction. I
can feel her push now. Still cold, though that sun remains burning. I
can feel my smile growing wider by the moment.
After days of staying with South, in his warm embrace, North as
returned to me. To guide me. To lead my way to where I belong next.
The North wind is my way.
Dedicated to my Norah
**********
The North wind is my way.
True when a ship sails it needs wind in order to move, to puff the
heavy sails outwards and propel it forward. Against the waves, over
the swells, through the foam. A ship is dependent on the wind.
Just like me.
In a weird sense, my ship, the Pearl, is dependent on the wind in
more ways than one. True it needs it to move, as I explained already,
but it needs it to know its way. People wonder about me compass. I
never bothered to explain the details to anyone though, no matter how
often they ask. But ye see, the wind guides it. The arrow is loose,
so loose that the most subtle breeze will set it drifting. And
whatever way it drifts, I follow.
I trust the wind with me entire being. Whilst searching for the Pearl
and `Lizabeth, I followed my North wind. And it has never led me in
the wrong direction. True to its nature, it blew straight to the
isle. And to my ship.
Gibbs doesn't understand how the `blasted' wind knows where to take
us, presenting us the most desirable targets. It has never let us
down. He can't figure it out; I offer no explanations as well. It's
more of an instinct.
The wind is more like me freedom, personified.
When it dies down, I feel anchored and in response, the Pearl becomes
anchored as well. Me crew trusts me instincts, when I say to weigh
anchor or drop anchor, it happens. Not just because I be Captain Jack
Sparrow, nay, they know it to be the most opportune action of the
time.
When the wind is dead, I feel slightly dead. Heavy. Anxious for it to
liven up again, agitated, waiting for a squall to blow us in whatever
direction that it feels like. I truly do hate to see the main sails
and the top sails hanging limp and lifeless, simply dead. I tend to
lose myself during those days; staring at whatever mast I happened to
be nearest to, whether it be the fore, main or mizzen. Anamaria would
have to shake me from whatever non-rum induced stupor (aye,
surprising eh?) I fall into, and lead me away. But I always prefer to
wait on deck. Near my helm. Wetting my finger or thumb every several
moments and testing if there is even the slightest breeze.
Storms are euphoric for me. So much force there is in gale winds.
True, the crew becomes terrified as they cling to their ratlines and
cut the sails to keep them from tangling, or the poor fool you has
bowsprit duty during then and has to dangle over that unforgiving
ocean and try to free that fore sail. All the while, I stand there,
in another form of trance. There is this burning during those times.
I feel so alive.
Ah, but probably the strangest thing about me wind is the personality
of it. The North is a cold wench of a woman, aye that she be. But she
is whom I am closest to, the one that has most of my trust. Then the
South is a warm friendly fella, who wishing no harm upon ye. He is me
crew's favorite. The East tends to come and go, unpredictably. He can
either carry soft whispers or sharp shouts. I don't know too much
about trusting him. But he has led me in some right directions. And
then there is West. She is colder than her brothers but not so as her
sister. She reminds me of fall in England and Ireland, where I spent
some days as a young whelp. Kind, she can be, but she is also old and
wise.
Most think I am mad for trusting my life in the hands of a ship and
four winds. But they got me through this much of life. Why give up on
them now?
Now that I think of it, that's could be another reason why I haven't
given up rum either. I drank most of me life and no harm has come of
it, sort of. Why quit now? That and besides, water goes bad on those
long months at sea, why get alkali sickness instead of a nice bottle
of rum.
I probably should tell Will that.
Will.
More often than not, my thoughts stray from the fateful Four and
settle on the young impulsive blacksmith. Who was probably living
that fable like life with his one and only. Unless his wind directed
him in another route.
Sitting on a crate near the wheel, I can sense the shift in the wind
before anyone could see the change in the sails. That's how it is
now; I am in part with the invisible force. I know what it will do
before it does.
Ah, North. She is blowing again. The breeze was soft now, just a bare
hint of ice on my face that is soon warmed out by the sweltering
Caribbean sun.
She goes by many names, that she does. I know each of them.
In Spain, she is called "Viento del Norte"
Germany, "Nordwind"
Portugal, "Vento Norte"
The Greeks called her a he and he was known as "Boreas" son of
Dawn "Eos" and the Stars "Astraeus"
And long ago, as with the Greeks, the Romans called `him' "Aquilo" (I
still remain to the fact that North is a woman, cold as ice as any
woman is)
The supposed heathen god of the Aztec was known as "Ehecatl" and the
other Mexicas, the Mayans called her "Kukulcan"
All the way down in the Southern Americas, she was still felt and
known as "Brisa"
And in Cuba, "Brisote"
Over in the Middle East, very warm there, I might add, "Nashi" or
also "N'aschi" she was known.
Over where I got my P, near India, I heard her name there too, "Vata"
But here, in the Caribbean North, South, East and West are all
governed by one beautiful lass, er, goddess I should say, whose name
is "Gaubancex". I learned from her to trust my four friends, and she,
no other God, is the one I put my faith into.
She, along with North, has never steered me in the wrong direction. I
can feel her push now. Still cold, though that sun remains burning. I
can feel my smile growing wider by the moment.
After days of staying with South, in his warm embrace, North as
returned to me. To guide me. To lead my way to where I belong next.
The North wind is my way.