This rampage was beautifully orchestrated by achild and fulguritus, with hot breakfast tacos arriving as the pirates hit the water. Blackbeard never had it so good. Redbeard had it better. At first.
But of course the story doesn’t start here. Much of my own pirate mission began with shopping for maritime marauder gear with emeraldmyst. Having once been illustriously described as a “Cheap Rum Pirate” I took advice on moderately priced rum, hoping to advance my status in the booze-swilling brigand community. I experimented on valkyriie with a variety of rum based concoctions the night preceeding the rampage. I discovered a few things about myself. For me, that’s what being a pirate is all about. I found that I can make a caiperhina quite well, and that I have very little sensitivity to the amount of lime in a drink. From this voyage of limey self-discovery was the Red Beard’s Grog begat. And the birth of this fruity cocktail was the beginning of my undoing.
The day of the rampage, we bashfully (shamelessly) posed for (many) photos with Californian visitors. Flash took to spanking the birthday girl. We set sail, and our sturdy vessels took to the lake. We completely failed to meet a peace march underway, but hey, that’s what pirates are like. We instead found two kayakers who had found the march, and talked to them about being in Vietnam. It seemed the thing to do.
Lou was first to baptise herself in the lake. superbestia and Sonya were the first to find an island – a stone and slime bound opportunity to lacerate the feet scrambling from the boats. The island was duly claimed and named as Songuerra Island, and the stalwart swashbucklers soon set off once more for more adventure. Not before I’d slipped, got my foot stuck between two rocks and dropped a bag full of glass bottles.
Dave Doak was by this time showing himself as the master stroker, propelling his craft with unassailable velocity. achild and I were well armed with high speed, but it was of the more directionless weaving kind. We reached Clyde’s Island to discover untold treasures buried in the secret spot. Pausing only to add more treasure to the chest, to down more grog, and to pose for photos, we set off once more. By this point the pain in my purple foot had subsided; all was good in the world.
A pleasure craft was the next object of our claim-staking tour of the lake, and we shantied and span with the original occupants. I can’t remember too much after that to be honest. My Cuban Parrot flew away, my clothes went to Davy Jone’s Locker, and my captain abandonned ship. According to reports, it was partly my inability to avoid continually abandonning the ship myself that led him to his decision. Looking at other photographic evidence, it appears that someone turned gravity off, or at least adjusted the vertical hold on the world. Which explains the scenes of bedraggled buccaneers.
Dave Doak had to rescue me when I couldn’t stay in my boat any longer. I think he rescued myself and Rainy right into a bee’s nest, but that could be a false memory implanted in my brain by all of the lake weevils that buried eggs in my ears. All I know is that I whited-in (opposite of blacking out – think of coming to without actually being unconscious) outside Wendy’s on South Lamar wearing some tiny shorts. Of course, I didn’t know I was on South Lamar. But I knew I was wearing shorts because I was cold. I was just getting to that stage where you suddenly realise that you have to take care of yourself and find a way home when Dave pulled up in a car, gave me a towel and took me to where the other pirates were feasting on Mexican food. And margaritas, which soon picked me up.
Just like the last US pirate rampage I buccaneered at, this one ended with me just wearing a pair of shorts, having lost my cooler and having some pictures. Thanks to flipsideghost for looking after my camera and taking these photos. And thanks to Dave for rescuing my boat and myself, and fulguritus and achild for rescuing my cooler.