As far as he can figure, he is in a universe of infinites. He started out in an ocean that stretched on as far as he can see, and for a brief moment he thinks maybe his life has been spared and he was simply tossed off the ship – but the Flying Dutchman is nowhere to be seen. He begins to swim in a random direction, hoping vainly there will be something nearby, but there is not. For hours and hours, possibly days, until his legs begin to cramp, and before he knows it he is falling, falling into blackness.
And the blackness, too, seems to go on forever, and he thinks maybe this isn't so bad, just floatingfalling freely into nothingness – but no. After hour-long minutes he begins to hear the voices – the voices that laugh and snicker and whisper. In spite of himself, he strains to listen, to catch the fleeting words, but he only hears bits and pieces: "…disgrace…" "…backstabber…" "…worthless…" and he is surprised to realize he knows these bodiless voices as Port Royal's finest. The words repeat over and over again, a chorus of harsh accusations, until he feels he might go mad with despair.
Eventually the voices cease, much to his relief, but he feels a sort of dread as to what might possibly come next. He wonders now if he has been sent to hell and Dante got it wrong after all, for there is no violent storm or flaming tombs, though perhaps this may be Limbo (it had been hard for him to accept the Bible's teachings after his dealings with undead pirates and whatnot). He is no longer floating through the abyss; strangely there seems to be solid ground under his feet once more. He cringes in anticipation what is next.
Tiny pinpricks of light flicker on around him, enveloping him, and it takes him a moment to realize they are stars. What purpose they serve he cannot fathom, though he is abruptly struck by an old rhyme his mother used to tell him when he was but a child, something about the first starlight of the night and a wish granted. As he gazes around him in wonder at the sheer number (something he had not contemplated for years now) of glowing dots, some flare brighter before fading into blackness once more, while others are born right before his eyes.
He contemplates the birth and death of these celestial bodies for a long while, though by now the length of time he spends in one place is beginning to seem immaterial. Gradually he becomes aware that the ground beneath his feet is getting softer and he is sinking into it. Suddenly the stars around him all disappear into the blackness, like so many lamps being doused at once. Yet he can see the brown mess at his feet – mud that he is indeed sinking into. He lifts one foot, then the other, walking, trying to find firmer ground once more.
He walks again for an eternity, or what very nearly seems like one, but now he is getting used to this. As he walks, he thinks, reminisces, ponders, bemoans, laments, regrets, recollects, and broods. All the what ifs and maybes flow in and out of his head, as he alternates between sadness and a sense of inevitability. And he wonders if this is why he is in this place of indefiniteness, that he may reflect upon his life and come to a conclusion – the question is: which conclusion. Is he to forgive himself his actions or to admit his mistakes?
Without warning, though he is still moving, he is no longer going forward (or what passes for forward in this strange place) – the mud has become something stronger, thicker, which pulls him down at an agonizingly slow rate. He struggles, thinking he might free himself, but he quickly realizes the more he moves, the more he is dragged down. He weighs his choices: resist harder and get through it faster, or relax and pass through slowly, saving his energy. Then again, he was never really one to take anything lying down, and it is better to go down fighting – literally.
Despite his movements, it still takes awhile for him to get through the endless sea of sand that presses in on him, yet does not crush him. It occurs to him that with all his exercise, he should be feeling some sort of soreness or fatigue, but this is the afterlife. He is starting to get used to that idea, that he is dead, that he is no longer mortal. This he ponders as he travels ever downwards, this concept of being dead. He rolls the thought around in his head, deciding it's not so bad, if a bit lonely.
Finally he makes it through to find himself in a different sort of sea of sand – this time a desert, complete with rolling sand dunes, a merciless sun, and utter nothingness. Well, what else should he have expected? Grumbling something about the unoriginality of whatever god(s) created this hell, he starts forward once more, picking a direction at random. He is beginning to feel a sort of weariness that comes from his very bones, as though his body no longer has the will to continue, no matter what his mind may feel. He takes not a hundred steps before collapsing.
Somewhere he finds the strength to roll over, and this time he finds himself staring into a bottomless pool of chocolate, and hazily he thinks maybe this isn't so bad. He smiles, reaches out to touch the chocolate, and is shocked when it pulls away. And he realizes it is not chocolate, but a brown eye, outlined in black, one he knows too well. Before he can say anything, a warm hand pulls him up, a familiar voice chatters on about finally finding him and how he has come to rescue him. And he knows – he is finally heading somewhere.