When he woke up that morning, he knew it was time. Oh, he'd spent the occasional night aboard her, but now he needed more than just the feel of her keel beneath his feet and the sway of the soft swells in the bay.
The ladies all protested. They had become quite fond of the company of Captain Jack Sparrow. The men all laughed. Why would he want to leave the perfect community they had found? He laughed with them, and swaggered about in his usual daft manner, bidding them all adieu and refusing invitations for another game, another drink, another lady.
His lady was waiting for him in the bay, where he had quietly provisioned her with food and rum over the weeks, months, or years past. Time was quite fluid here, and no one was ever quite sure how long it had been. But he knew it was time.
He swam to her side and climbed gladly aboard. There was no crew waiting for him, not a single other man was with her. Here, he knew he needed no hands but his own to guide his lady. As he stepped up to her wheel, he caressed the wood softly, a lover's touch, and sighed with contentment. This was what he had missed, what they both needed.
With a gentle tug, he turned her wheel and pointed her bow at the safe passage through the reef. Her anchor obligingly rose and her sails filled with wind, trimmed perfectly for the path they had chosen.
"That's it, love," he whispered. "There's a storm on the horizon, and it's been far too long since we've flown."