Tis a surprising hard thing to keep good track days when one is out to sea. I say surprising since the rising and falling of the sun is about all there is of things to look at aside from, well, the sea. I reckon I’ve seen most of what all else there is to see at one time or another, but I’m starting to wonder about that, and perhaps starting to wonder if I’m collecting a little bit too much salt behind the eyes and in the brain area. Just the other morning I woke from when I must have dozed to find a few of my things missing. I wouldn’t have thought much of it, except for I’m without a crew at the moment and as such have nobody to blame for thievery, specifically, a lack of thieves for thieving.

Well, that’s no matter. It was another day I wanted to tell about, and I know it was a Friday. I call it a Black Friday owing to certain occurrences. I had arrived at port, and having seen to the immediate business of securing some cargo in need of transport, and also having the good fortune to find an able shipmate, I made a hurry to get myself back out to sea. They say you should always read the fine print, and I can’t say there’s anything too fine about it for upon reading said print (mind you some considerable distance from shore) I discerned that among the usual lot of goods in my hull were a few more crates of dried-up leaves destined for the same two lunatics I was so glad to be rid of the last time.

It’s true that the ship nudged a little lower in the water what with the weight of knowing that I would once again be forced to suffer through their lunatic fool-talk and smiling. A simple nod of the head will do, no need for hand-shaking and all that. At least it ain’t until next Tuesday that we arrive, but a man dreads what he dreads and there isn’t much for it. Maybe I can get this new fellow, calls himself Thomas, to take care of them. He looks quite swarthy and I can scarcely believe he’ll tolerate them any more than me.

Well, it’s been 2 weeks to the day by my reckoning since I delivered my last cargo. Didn’t linger any longer than I had to, such as I needed for repairs and provisions only, as the men who met me at the dock struck me to be as wild a pair of lunatics as I have seen. I have seen a few, yes. Perhaps that’s being unkind, as my general dislike of the land and those on it is steady as the wind on a high sea, but these two struck me as trouble of which I desired no part.

Offered to climb aboard and help they did, as much as their weak arms would allow, for which I politely declined. Instead, I was made to listen then as I worked to their plans to set their shipment into some sort of webbing contraption that would inspire the good people (their term, not mine) to offer up all manner of gold for its purchase. I have never been one to mind a good day’s labor, and have toiled in some foul places and for some small rewards, but I do not tolerate well listening to ravings and was all too glad to be on my way as soon as my ship and the tides would allow.

I suppose I should hope that someone had talked sense into those boys by now, but I have some other hopes I wish to attend to, and will trust that their fate no longer collides with mine. I’ve a hull full of new cargo, a strong wind, and a good reason to keep a close eye on the water as I venture to warmer climes.