Saltwater Taffy

Have you ever wondered to yourself if pirates still exist in this day of age? I know that some of you have thought that at least at ONE point in your lives. Don't deny it. Everyone wonders this. It's what fuels our imagination and makes us wonder "What if...?"

Anyway, you don't have to give a reply to my question. I already know the answer. You can deny it, or you can admit to it; either way, I know the truth. So there.

Where was I? Ah, yes. People have wondered if pirates still exist in this day of age. Always, before the dullness of logic sets in, a small kernel of hope and wonder lives deep within their hearts. But, before I go much further, let me tell you this: Pirates DO exist in this day of age and you do NOT want to meet one. They're rude, unkept, noisy, drunk most of the time, and all they want to do is pillage and plunder--remind me of Vikings, they do.

And this is my story.

* * *

It all started out on a normal day. The sun was shining, the ocean crystal blue, and the sand warm under my feet. My parents and I had gone to the Bahamas for summer vacation and I was enjoying every minute of it. Everything was bright, sparkling, and new. I loved it.

I was walking down the beach, the beach house my family and I rented becoming smaller and smaller in the distance. I loved feeling the sand shift between my toes, it felt wonderful. And so down the beach I walked, following an iguana as it meandered up and down the beach. I wasn't paying much attention to my surroundings, keeping all of my focus on tracking the lizard several feet in front of me.

"Avast there, mates!" a gruff voice called from the palm trees above me. "We got ourselves a young one!"

Then, before I could even utter a squeak, a dirty hand clamped down over my mouth and I was soon trussed up better than a turkey on Thanksgiving Day. Not a nice feeling, you know. Thinking back on all of this, I feel bad for the turkey--_any_ turkey. And for me.

One by one, dirty and smelly men crawled out from their hiding places--trees, burrows, bushes; anything and everything was a hiding spot to them. As they came closer, I noticed that some of them were missing limbs: eyes, ears, noses, fingers, one man even had his whole entire lower leg cut off. And, as they drifted closer, I could see the assortment of scars that they sported. Now, I ask you this, if you were presented with this situation, what would _you_ have done?

Me? I bit the hand covering my mouth as hard as I could and screamed at the top of my lungs. "HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP!!! HELP ME!! 9-11!!!!"

"Shut yer trap, ye squawking yeller-bellied parrot!" the man with the missing leg roared and shoved me to the ground.

Before I go any further into my story, I must warn you: All of my life I've been told that I've had a temper. Sometimes, that temper has helped me out profusely. Other times...it's gotten me into _worse_ trouble. Guess which of these times it was? "Who're you calling a yellow-bellied squawking parrot, you dirty, smelly, uncouth neanderthal?!" I retorted, giving him my best Death Glare.

"Uppity woman," he answered.

"Knave. I bet you couldn't find your butt with a roadmap and both hands placed on top of it," I replied smartly. I may have _replied_ smartly, but it wasn't a very smart thing to say, now was it? My defense: Things blurt out of my mouth before I can think of what exactly I'm saying. Not my fault, honest! It has to be a genetic defect or something...

"TAKE HER ONTO THE SHIP SO THE CAP'N CAN DEAL WITH HER!" the pirate roared to his shipmates. Then, before I could even utter an 'Uh-oh...,' I was tossed into a boat with stinky pirates on either side of me and was soon tossing and turning on the water.

Oh, and guess what? I found out--the hard way--that I easily get seasick. By the time we got to the ship (as they were dragging me up the ladder, I noticed that the ship's name was the Queen Anne's Revenge; now, where have I heard that before?), I was sick, tired, and all I wanted to do was go home and crawl into a dark, quiet corner. Too bad for me that wouldn't happen.

"And who is this?" a deep, booming voice asked. Bleary eyed, I looked up...and up...and up...and up...

"And who are you?" I replied waspishly.

The big man tilted back his head and laughed a full-bellied, booming laugh that filled the ship with his mirth. Me, I was _not_ amused. "I'm Blackbeard, lassie," he answered amiably. "And who are you?"

"I'm Rory," I answered, still as waspish as ever. Then, thinking back to what the man had said, I blinked. "Did you say that your name was Blackbeard?" I asked.

He nodded. "Aye, that I did."

"Oh." I blinked again and asked, "Who're your crew?"

One by one, Blackbeard pointed out each member of his crew. "This is Smithers, this one is Smiggens, that one over there with the missing eye and x-shaped scar is Samuel, here is Simon, Steven, Stefen, Skeeter, Snail, Scotts, Sams, the Chinaman over there is Shin-ji, Smith, Stockson, Sharoff, Simpson, and Sarks. And this one here is my first mate, Bob."

All I could do was raise my eyebrow and ask: "Bob?"

Blackbeard smiled at me widely, displaying his rotting, brown teeth to their best advantage. "Yes, Bob," he answered. "And so, Rory, welcome to the Queen Anne's Revenge."

My reply? "I think I'm in trouble..."