Think shallow, breathe deep.
The water is thicker than you are. It's bigger and stronger.
He inhaled, a little surprised by the breath. Still alive. He lived from heartbeat to heartbeat in these times, and he could hear the pitter-patter of it, like little clockwork wings. It was constant. Like him.
Jack was outside. The blurry pinpoints of light must have been stars, must have been. Still alive: no heaven is this dark, no hell this cool. His second breath was louder, a little jagged like a stalling engine and it left a gap in his chest that made him cough and shudder.
Tremble, shake
a trepidation quake.
He was always a grand and terrible sight, especially if you'd heard the stories. (or sometimes, especially if you hadn't)
And as he sauntered up the pier's side, he could still taste the salt in the air around him.
His existence was at this stage a thing of pure bullheadedness -it was not that he had a reason for it anymore, but that extravagant Captain simply refused to die-- and it seemed almost symbolic the way he had picked himself up off of the beach moments before, had begun to walk inland without so much as a glance for the sand plastered on his back. What's a little more sediment to carry, after all?
His obvious inebriation seemed almost casual as he made his way forward. This was routine, after all; certainly not his first time to wake up somewhere strange in the middle of the night.
Captain Jack Sparrow was a drinking man..