Yes, I believe that at one time he loved me, but no more. That life is gone, left to the cruel brine and harsh lapping waters of yesterday. Now this is the life I have, they say that every pirate has their own tale; stories of homes before the sea and of faithful loves waiting for a safe return, stories of gold and roguish trickery. I wanted those stories. As I heard each one, and lingered on the raspy voices of their owners, I knew that I was meant for it. I would have an adventure to share, and I would gain riches beyond anything offered on land to a blacksmith's daughter.

I was called, then, Eleanor Morehead. My father, a strapping lad from Berwick, fell immediately in love with my mother, who was only a girl at the time, whilst in Scarborough, hired by her lord and destined to marry his daughter. He was the wealthy family's personal blacksmith. And I remember fondly, times I squinted from the blue hot metal, beat harshly into shape, and asked every time when I would learn how to do it. Of course, that answer was always never, and in those times I didn't understand. I would follow my mothers path and wed early, give birth and settle in town, near home, only to be burdened with motherhood and a family of my own.

I wanted none of this, and sometimes when I would become so angry I might cry, I ran down to the shore. I don't know why, perhaps I thought that the waves would pick me up and carry me to someplace better. Some land that had everything I wanted, and certainly no house wives. I sat on a creaking wooden dock, my knees pulled tight to my chest, and I would stare for hours at the lapping dark waves, trying to imagine a place where I could be a part of them.

That was when Timothy came and fed my dreams. A young sailor, and handsome chap, he carried me off into the world I grew to love, without ever really knowing it. He showed me other sailors, with stories and lives that seemed to be filled with nothing but ale and a smile. It appealed to me and from then on I went to the docks everyday and waited for Timothy. Most days he came, and I followed him into a tavern, where I sat, entranced by the sailors for an entire evening.

Other days, when I finished my chores, I would skip down to the sand, and let it be washed between my toes by a calm salty wave, always singing, yes, always. I had never had so much joy, a pirate folk song rolling right off my tongue, like I had written it myself. Of course they were all tunes and melodies I had picked up from spending so much time at the shore.

And little by little, bit by bit, more of my life took place with Timothy, and less at my father's blacksmith shop. I saw less of my home and of the market where we shopped weekly, and more of the vast waters separating me from the rest of the world. More taverns, more stories, more laughter; these sailors had, or seemed to have, every whim they'd ever fancied, gold, kinship, and most of all, freedom.

I longed for freedom, freedom from the future saw fit for me, freedom from daily life, and freedom from a land that held no interest to me beyond the scent of cheap beer mixed with ocean water. That was the night my life changed and I would never have to worry about becoming just another housewife.

The date was March 7, 1652. It was the day my father's family would come down to see that he was fairing well. He would show off my mother and I like prizes or trophies, and I was too busy to play any part in it. Yes, I was with Timothy, loading a ship due to set sail that very evening, with Timothy on it.

I can still remember the feel of his rough hands on my face and arms. He had offered me what I wanted most, to come with him. He had seen me work and knew I was up to it.

"Ellie." He said.

I laughed and looked down, as if it were the last time I would ever see him again. Ellie is what my father called me, but it sounded so much sweeter from his lips.

"The ocean calls to you, I see it in your eyes and in your voice when you speak of it. Ellie, come with us, with me, and you will know adventure like never before. You will fall in love with it, as I have."

He was right, I wanted it like nothing I had ever wanted in my life and I could already taste the story on my lips. It was my story, but I argued with it and with him.

"Timothy, my father would never let me. He never knew what I was doing all those days and nights when I was with you. He doesn't know what I want like you do."

He held my shoulders, like it was keeping me from declining.

"Make him know. Show him the desires you have for it like we have you."

I shook y head. He was born a sailor, he didn't understand the destiny of girls like me, and no matter how much I didn't want it, I was meant for the same fate as my mother.

"It's not that simple." I complained.

My heart was for Timothy and everything he represented, but that was it, a thing I longed fore, never expecting to become real, like flying. My brain know, oh logical thinking, plugging the bottles of dreams that might be a reality, it knew that I should let timothy go, along with the stories and laughter.

Timothy sighed. One of the other men called for him to get back to loading the ship, and he ignored the order, taking a moment to survey me, his young green eyes looking for hope but giving up quickly. He kissed me on my cheek, and whispered into my ear, his breath tickling.

"Then you are not the person I thought you were."

At that he backed away and without another word, continued his labor. I almost cried, but I was too angry. He was right. I had conveyed to him a dire need to become a sailor, and be around the ocean. He had taught me to write poetry, and I wrote it often, about the sun and creaking wood of a ship that I was on, simple fantasies of a silly girl. But I never expected even the chance for it to be real; too much of my life was still rooted to Scarborough. I felt my cheeks become red with frustration, and I turned on my heel towards home, trying hopelessly to forget about everything.

Little did I know of the horror that awaited me back at my father's blacksmith shop.