SALT, SAIL & SHORE

Dark figures floated around above. A couple more seconds to hear their squawks and they were then known. Beyond them were clouds clumped in clusters and, beyond those, blue. But none of this concerned the man, naked, sprawled out across the planked deck of a boat he did not know the name of. In fact, he was not entirely aware he even laid on a boat at all until waves came that nudged the vessel gently, Mother Ocean rocking her naked, hairy child to rest. However, he could do anything but. This man was trusted with a task, and he knew this because of what he saw just beyond the circling seagulls overhead: great, massive letters that spanned a sentence, ocean foam white filling in deep black borders. The man had never seen words hang in the air in such a way, but he did not have much difficulty discerning their meaning. Across the sky, it read:

QUEST ACTIVE: SAIL TO SHORE

The man squinted. His eyes stung. His skin felt the sun. He knew he was up against wood, and he rose and looked down to confirm as much. Directly ahead of him lay the deck, the mast, and the unattended wheel. He stood there, salty wind kissing his skin, pondering the whereabouts of the crew. The man glanced up back towards the instructions above. Were they for him? Well, who else? He surveyed the deck once more to catch the sight, sound of anyone, but squawks were solely that which broke up the silence. The wind continued its kisses, and so the man found himself ushered down below deck.

Dark was all that awaited the nudist. He fumbled for a moment until managing to open a port hole, blasting light straight through the cabins. The man, truthfully, expected a grisly scene. Instead, he found a ship seemingly caught in time--the tables that denoted a mess hall of sorts were clattered with plates piled high with loaves of bread, meat, wine. The man did not particularly feel like sampling any of the food before him; the same could not be said for the bottle he gripped the neck of, sipping and swigging. He poked his head through doorways, pried open more port holes, and found cots in various states of dress, recently poured drinks--a flickering candle in one instance. The nude investigator found his investigation mystifying; moreso with every further sampling of wine. It seemed to him that the ship had been hastily evacuated, and he'd missed out. What exactly had they run from, though? He'd found no leaks. All he had found indeed had been crates, barrels, rope, and wood. Wood ran all around the nudist, and he found its use vaguely disturbing. But he did not have much time to consider why for while danger did not seem to lurk throughout the vessel's decks, it may have instead been sailing straight towards him. Catching sight of the black flags that began to close in across the horizon, he felt and groped his way back up to the deck.

The sails sailed closer. The nudist had neither plan nor cloth. He had found no weapons of any kind--were they taken with? He had found clothes, but hadn't thought to put any on until he felt the wind return to its lover. No time to regret. The man stood by the rails and watched as a vessel similar in appearance drew closer and closer. But across its flag a skull smirked. Across its deck, an eager crew groped their own rails to watch the distance close. The man clothless on the other ship sipped his spirit, grateful that it had yet to dry. He also considered his own fate likely to be the opposite, tossed overboard and plunged into depths he would never swim out from. He felt grateful to be tipsy. He smiled to himself with a dumb look, full of grate and liquor.

Both ships found themselves parallel with each other. A plank was hoisted up by the dark flagged crew, doubtlessly heavy given the number of men who performed the task together. It was then released, and the crew crossed over the bridge neatly, as if that weren't once the case. There were nine men in total that had made the journey, and they looked over their wooden prize with hunger. In contrast, the nudist, their sole reception, received strange faces, and they did not say a word about it or much else. The nude man met their looks with equal puzzlement. He wanted to ask if they were re-enactors, if their black flag flew over a captain as well, but the man realized one of his answers had just begun mounting the plank. His size tripled any of that of his underlings, and while he each wore a piece of jewelry or two, the captain seemed to be more gold than man.

At last the captain came to stand before the nudist, no more than two inches dwarfing the latter. His earrings and chains blew in the wind. The man before him did not seem to shiver.

"You stand erect in the nude, boy."

"I am not erect," the ‘boy' responded.

"Hmm."

The captain surveyed his plunder.

"Where be the rest of the crew?", he asked.

"I'm not erect," the nudist said with a tone of uncertainty.

"Hmm. Your mates, boy. Have you any mates? And where be your drawers?"

"Got none.."

"Mates? Drawers?"

There came to rest what the captain considered a thoughtful pause. He then watched the nudist vaguely gesture around them with the bottle of wine he gripped the neck of. It was this motion that caused a smile to creep up on the captain. He asked if the man in nude had been drinking. The man in nude failed to hesitate.

"Yes," he said, "... No. Ain't got any more for you'n yours, if that's what you're getting... at."

"Boy..." the captain began. "Yer vessel's the property of Cap'n Blackgill now. Everythin' aboard from top to bottom belongs to me'n me crew, and that includes her stores and drink." He then brandished a cutlass, bringing the point precariously close to the nudist's nose. "Don't got time for drunken nonsense. Now see, I get enough of that from me own boys. So I'll have ye step aside now, ‘ave a seat, and you'll let me'n the lads have a gander at what ye got stored up here, how's that?"

Heat within his heart flared up from the booze in his bosom, and the man without cloth crashed his bottle of wine against the captain's steel. A second later, and the man corked the saber that had threatened him within his very bottle. Blackgill looked astonished. He drew his blade back but found that his opponent followed forward with the gesture, keeping the end of the steel sheathed within what once held wine. He attempted to whip the blade to his left and right, but the effort did not bear fruit. So he then laughed at once and walked forward, intent to close the distance between he and his naked adversary. To his second astonishment, that adversary slammed the back of his bottle with a flat palm, sending what felt to be a shockwave through steel and grip, the cutlass flying out from the captain's grip.

Quick on his feet, Captain Blackgill felt the fight he had involved himself in needed desperately ending. He drew his hand up quick reaching for the flintlock stored across his chest. The weapon withdrew from its scabbard and rose through the air. The captain then felt glass crash against his face, the man thrice the size of his men sent down against the deck with a thud. The man left standing continued to hold the neck of his own weapon, dulled now in effectiveness. He looked at the body and frowned.

"Can't wear these."

But the man once nude did help himself to the captain's great black hat. He collected as well the unfired flintlock and the saber, their scabbards, and Blackgill's boots to boot. A surprisingly snug fit, the man felt considerably more clothed, though several more bouts of affection from the wind cut through his reality. Then, he looked over the temporarily captain-less crew. He wiped at his face. He addressed them:

"No dru... drunken nonsense, now... which of you knows how to sail to shore?"