Ransom

Happy Birthday, Gertie. Hope your day is grand.

Thanks, Blackbead. I intend to stick with it, as I like the end results. And I am starting out with simple things, just to get the feel of working with wire. Best tool investment= Nylon-jawed pliers. They make straightening bent wire super easy, and will flatten shaped pieces so they lay correctly. And Rumba, so far I am only selling my things on-line. It's slow going, I admit. I'm thinking of holding a few home jewelry shows at my house, with maybe snacks and tea/coffee, where I can hand out cards and women can actually try on the pieces. You can invite people you think would actually be interested. I've read that many jewelry artists do that, and it's pretty successful. We'll see.

It's been awhile since anyone dropped by. What are you all working on? I have just started working with wire. I discovered quite quickly that it is a lesson in futzing, tweaking, cussing, and getting up and walking away before you toss it all in the trash. End result of my first attempt is okay. I copied an idea from a beading book, and altered it a little. Let's just say, I'm on a learning curve.

Not in the slightest. Actually, that line was meant to be a little joke. I know in reality they could be very organized.

This I can agree with completely. I have fought in armor ( and looked like I'd been beaten to a pulp). I have done jousting on horseback. For sure, shyte happens.

Organized pirates? Isn't that an oxymoron? And again, no offense intended, Hawkyns, but your battles are still a reenactment, just the same as any — in your words — farbfest. No one dies. No one is seriously injured. It is a fantasy battle, not a real one. Gritty, bruising, yes...real life or death, no. Let's acknowledge that everyone has a different idea of how to play and leave it at that. It's what makes this forum interesting. My wish is that someday we could have this same discussion without using such derogatory terms as Stitch Counter, Farbfest, Pollywood Schlock, etc. All of these terms have been used lately, on this thread and others. Just because we don't all play the same game, doesn't mean we should use insulting language to describe how the "other guy" plays. It's insulting to everyone.

Just to clarify a few things. As far as I know, the event organizers do not offer discounts on hotels. It's not like a convention where everyone stays at the same place. The Best Western in Benicia is the closest to the event — it's right off the freeway, and a ten minute straight shot to the event site. Also, the BW free dinners are only provided on week day evenings, not on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday. The free continental breakfast is every morning — and it's a really good one. Just around the corner from the BW is a gas station and mini-mart. Another block or so down, and there is a shopping center, with a Kentucky Fried Chicken, and the famous Pirate Pizza, where we hope to get a big gang together for dinner Saturday night. They love us there, so it's lots of fun.

Woo hoo, that's great Eyes. It will be fun to have you hanging with us all weekend!

I know it's a bit early, but for those wanting to head south/north for NorCal, now is a good time to get your hotel reservations in if you don't plan to sleep in a tent on site (must be part of a crewe encampment, there is NO GENERAL ON SITE CAMPING at NorCal). The Best Western in Benicia is perfect. It is a straight, five minute shot from the hotel to the event. A plus, they have a very nice free full continental breakfast each morning, and on week nights (we get there a few days early to play tourist in SF), also serve a free simple dinner—with beer and wine! Saves you quite a bit of food money. If you make reservations on line, the rooms are only $99. We waited until end of May to make them last year, and almost got aced out. We got the last room, as there was a big NASCAR race somewhere close by, and all the officials were staying at the hotel. I made our reservations today, just to be safe. We have stayed there three times now, and I recommend it highly. There is no other hotel that close to the event. You do NOT want to stay in Vallejo, where the event takes place. Vallejo has no good hotels. Make your plans now, mates. It's an awesome event!

This event occurred just this weekend, at the Time Traveler's Tavern, a very large, unheated barn-like building in the mountains at a State Park. Quartermaster James turns off the blowers in the kitchen so the scent of frying bacon would waft in the air, in an attempt to get everyone up a little earlier on Saturday morning. It worked better than he anticipated. The smoke detector went off. A very loud smoke detector. Yup, it got everyone awake in a hurry! LOL Jamie referred to it as "The bacon aroma-therapy experiment gone wrong." BTW, the bacon was excellent!!!

There is also the fact that, if something at a Total Experience event goes sideways (someone gets sick, seriously injured, etc) you can call an ambulance, or resort to very 21st century means to save a life. Those who lived back then did not have that option. That's the kicker. You can opt out when you get tired of the uncomfortableness off it all, or it suddenly goes past harmless playacting. I seriously doubt you would all stand around and let someone die for the sake of authenticity —"Oops, sorry ol' mate, but antibiotics and cell phones aren't PC, so I guess you're going to bleed to death, or go septic and die" We are all dressing in funny clothes, playing a grownup game of pretend. How serious can we really be? And Hawkyns, no offense intended, but by your posts, I get the impression that your events are something to be endured, rather than enjoyed. I totally understand and "get" your dedication. Maybe for you that's a personal challenge, but for most reenactors, once the game stops being fun and becomes something to merely survive (for bragging rights?), then what's the point?

A-singing, Eye patches, peglegs, and parrots, People who wear them should be lined up and then shot! I don't care if your bucket-boots are heeled or vamped, Don't bring that s**t into my living history camp... There was a jolly pirate, with an earring made of gold, He thought it made him look the part, whatever he'd been told. So we pinned him down and beat him, an authenticists' attack, We tore it out his ear and he was never invited back. Eye patches, peglegs... There was a jolly maiden, who asked to join our crew, We said 'you seem the right sort, so we would love you to, But if you turn up to our camp as a made-for-TV tart, We'll never let you in our gang, 'cos you'll never look the part.' Eye patches, peglegs... If you've got a cooler, to keep you beer on ice, And if your sail-tarp shelter is devoid of rats and lice, If you don't have scabies, typhoid or pox too, You never be allowed to join, so go and find another crew. Eye patches, peglegs... So dress as a sailor in a tarry jacket blue With canvas slops and waistcoat, and they must be handstitched too. Or go for Royal Navy garb, and sleep upon the deck In a grey kersey jacket from the A-S-Contract specs. Eye patches, peglegs... And if you meet our standards you can join the waiting list, For a vacancy in our elite, a treat not to be missed. We'll share with you the secret of life, we've found it out, And we'll talk with great authority on stuff we know f**k all about. Eye-patches, peglegs... BRILLIANT! :P Now, where's that bucket boot thread! LOL

Although I did direct my questions to those wanting the Total Experience, I will, for the sake of continuity, if nothing else, answer my own questions. However, I have never wished for the Full Monty, sort-to-speak. A) I have had limited experience crewing on a 72' schooner, and will again in June. I have not sailed at night, nor in bad weather, therefore I would not presume to call myself a sailor. Letter B - I do have a very nice Windlass sword. Am I a danger? Only to myself. I would very much like to learn at least stage fighting, or maybe some live steel action, but as yet that opportunity has not presented itself. I would never attempt to inflict bodily harm on anyone, and sincerely hope no one would wish to inflict bodily harm on me. C) I currently do not own any black powder weapons. However, thanks to Red-Handed Jill, I have fired her pistol both on land and on a moving vessel. It was only a powder charge, and there were no barns in sight, so I have no idea how good a shot I would be. D) I am part of the cannon crew at both NorCal and Ojai. I have made powder charges, maned a slow match, and fired cannons both on shore and on a moving vessel (while also working the ship). E) Hand-to-Hand combat? Who me? No thankee. At only 5'6" and around 118 lbs, I wouldn't stand a chance. LOL Who am I? I am not an actor—that's why I write and do artwork. I am good with a crowd if I have a specific task to do, but to ad-lib, I am terrible. I am good at answering questions, but I can't speak in a fake Irish, Pyrate, or whatever, accent. I feel silly. My garb is not made of fake satin. As a rule I wear a man's clothes, and have been mistaken for a slightly-built male, which is the idea. However, I don't care if my collar isn't right for the period, or my coat sleeve is three inches too long. I wear boots. Not bucket boots, but more of a high riding boot. They worked fine on board. In other words, I'm close to PC, but I'll win no cigars. And I have a hell of a good time with the Tales of the Seven Seas crewe.

They shouldn't. Each to his own, sez I. However, I don't think you can call even the most intense re-enacting the Total Experience. We will never be able to recreate the past. Oh, and to clarify my list, I don't mean "back in the day, I did this..." We could all do stuff "back in the day" that we can't do now. I meant, could you walk out of your house tomorrow, board a ship, and perform A - E on a ship at sea?

Bingo!!!!! That's my point...exactly!

Well, I'm going to throw this into the discussion, just because.. This is directed at those few who purport to want the full experience. They want to wear PC clothes, talk PC, shun nampy-pamby pirates, and get fully into the "head space" of a GAoP sailor. Alrighty then.. Remember, this is a "Sod the public, we do this for ourselves, Total Experience event. So, in MHO this is what you would be required to do. A) Work a ship — This is the biggy. Are you physically fit enough to climb rigging, sweat a line, haul in canvas and perform any other task, including basic maintenance? You would do this for weeks, night or day, good weather or bad, calm seas or rough. You would do this with little sleep, poor food, and do your "business" using a real ship's head. Letter B (I keep getting a smiley face) Weapons — Sword, cutlass, boarding ax, whatever. Do you have the mental and physical skill to use said weapon with the intent of inflicting bodily harm, while at the same time defending yourself from someone with the same or greater skill, intent in inflicting bodily harm on you? C) Black powder — Pistols, blunderbuss, etc. Can you break it down, clean it, put it back together, load it, aim, and fire, and hit something other than the broad side of a barn? D) Guns — Can you load, fire, swab, and reload a cannon, swivel gun, or rail gun? E) Hand-to-Hand — When the cannons are still, you have fired you last ball, and your cutlass is wedged into someone's ribcage, could you defend yourself fighting hand-to-hand, tooth and nail, against someone trying to exterminate you? So, step up lads, don't be shy. Who amongst you can truly "Walk the Walk" of a GAoP sailor? Especially point A. Come on, you're a pirate b'Gawd. If ye can't work a ship, then what bloody good are ye? If ye can't work a ship, then your total experience is a bloody sham!

Aw, come on Callenish. When was the last time you saw a woman dressed in poly-satin psuedo-Victorian corsetry, claiming to be a reenactor? I bet if you asked her if she was a reenactor, she'd reply, "Hell no, I'm just here to have fun." If you asked the guy in jeans and eye-patch, he'd probably say the same thing. I would be equally surprised if anyone dressing in a more fantasy-type garb would claim to be authentic. I think most of the folks who show up in off-the-wall garb are the mundanes. I've seen some pretty weird shyte—including a woman dressed as an albino big-bird. Asked what she was intending, her answer was, "I'm a pirate's pet cockatiel (?)." Most of us who actually participate in events, even if not PC, dress more toward historical, even if not exactly spot on.

LOL Only if I can count my lung surgery scar (looks like I've been cut in half), my hysterectomy scar, various puncture wound scars where chest tubes were inserted (look kinda like musket ball sized scars...very appropriate), and a rakish scar on the bottom of my chin, where I fell while rollerskating as a kid. :angry: Oh, Gawd, I hope this thread doesn't degenerate to a "I'll show you my scars, if you show me yours!" Oh, and Bo, we now have horses at Ojai. Started year before last. 'Course, their riders are dressed in the wrong period (Elizabethan), but hey, it's a start.

Ha! I'm slimmer than the owner of the 17thC sailor's outfit in the Museum of London, have black-powder embedded in my face, am missing five teeth (tea, smokes, and hard-tack), scars over both eyes, broken nose, callouses on my hands with embedded tar, grey hairs in my beard since I was about 25, and a gammy leg. But then I work on a ship and had a dissolute youth, so maybe I'm just showing off... :angry: Okay, there is always an exception to every rule...well done!

Maybe we're not disagreeing on doing "wrong stuff" but maybe the degree? At any event there will always be the group that goes against the "rules", and they can usually get the crowd on their side, cheering for the rule breakers. Human nature. I think we've all done that, and had a great time doing it. However, I don't think it's fair to call the public the "great unwashed" considering how rarely we wash our garb. I suspect we're the great unwashed. If there are those who want to camp out, totally in their down & dirty character, spit, fart, and cuss...hey, battle on. Have a great ol' time. If you can get away with a bit of vulgarity with the public, go too. If someone finds it objectionable, you'll know pretty quick. As for portraying the "real deal, lowly sailor" I'm sorry, but we are too well-fed, too clear of complexion, have mouthfuls of pretty teeth, and are way too healthy in general, to be taken seriously. Rather than ask the question "Who are we?" which kinda implies that we are all playing the same game, maybe the question should be "Who are you?"

Glancing quickly about to make sure no one had witnessed the encounter, Gray Dog picked up the cudgel and stuck it through his belt. He knelt down and searched the man’s pockets. In the one over his breast, he was shocked to discover a mirror-mask like the ones worn by the demon-boat people. He flung it away, as if contact with it burned his fingers. In other pockets he found coins of a denomination he didn’t recognize. Also, a small comb, and a leather folding envelope filled with rectangles of paper, and stiff little wafers with strange writing and letters on them. He kept the comb and tossed the useless envelope into the shrubs. Then he examined the leather satchel on the man’s belt. It encased a strange box with a narrow window at the top, and adorned on the front with tiny buttons. The thick finger protruding through the top was attached to the box within. Gray Dog unbuckled the man’s belt and removed the leather case. He fumbled with it, trying to figure out what it was for. It felt heavy, but when he shook it, nothing rattled inside, so it wasn’t some kind of personal coin chest. He turned it over and over, totally baffled. He was about to set it down when he brushed one of the buttons on the bottom. Suddenly a sickly green glow emanated from the little window, and the buttons lit up. At the same instant, a loud bleat erupted from it. With a horrified yelp, Gray Dog tossed the demon box into the spring. Working quicker, he removed the man’s heavy shoes, added them to the basket, readjusted the ale canisters and the cudgel, then bolted for the beach. The water was knee-deep on the isthmus. He splashed across and returned to his little campsite. He tried on the black shoes first, and was gratified to discover they fit. When he stood and walked around, the shoes felt heavy and awkward, but would be much better for tramping around the island than his long worn-out buckle shoes. He sat on the sand, removed the shoes, then walked to the beach to clean his knife and wash the blood from his arm. He knew the colonists would be out searching for him in earnest once the big man’s body was found. He wasn’t too concerned, because they seemed nonviolent to the point of stupidity. Other than the blond-haired man and his doxy, not one of the colonists had shown any signs of hostility. If they’d been a religious colony, he could understand it, but these people flew the Jolly Roger, the very symbol of violent death. He shook his head, once again totally confused by the colonists and the strange things he’d encountered since waking from the hell-fog. When he returned to his campsite he opened three more of the canisters, and although the ale tasted weak as water, he drank it down with gusto. He then ate most of the remaining crackers and half the dates. Before falling asleep, he decided it was useless to keep taxing his brain trying to figure out what he couldn’t explain. He would prey on the weak colonists like a fox preys on a flock of chickens, find Renaldo’s treasure, and leave San Cristobal a rich man.

CHAPTER NINETEEN September 19 Artesian spring, San Cristobal Island Gray Dog had been lucky. He’d explored the summit of the island without meeting anyone. He’d learned the lava was riddled with hot, dusty paths, and that he had no idea which path was the right one. He’d also seen fissures and piles of rock, but no indication they had treasure hidden within or under them. He kept trying to envision Renaldo’s map, and where the place had been marked. He could only remember it was toward the north of the summit, but he’d walked those paths all afternoon and found nothing. Several times he’d paused in his searching and looked down on the colonists. They had gathered at the large shelter again, taking turns parading in front of three others sitting at a wooden table and bench. It reminded him of a slave market, but he saw no money being exchanged, and none of the merchandise was stripped down so you could see what you were buying. Just one more bit of strange behavior he didn’t understand. By late afternoon, hungry and thirsty, he’d returned to the spring. Rather than return to La Perla, he decided to stay on the big island to await darkness. He needed to steal more food before heading back to his hiding place. He crept to the ridge, lay on the warm stone, and watched the goings on below. He thought he could smell spices on the breeze, which made his mouth water. As the sky deepened from azure to indigo, and the sun blazed the clouds orange and pink before slipping into a calm sea, Gray Dog heard the rasping music of a fiddle, then drums. A bonfire was lighted and the colonists sat around it eating and drinking. When the dancing started, he was envious, remembering the last reel he had cavorted to, in the company of a toothsome Madagascar beauty who drank him under the table. He inched closer, deciding that while the colonists were distracted, this would be the best time to steal more food. Careful to stay under the trees, Gray Dog circled the camp, looking for another crate. With dismay, he realized most of them had disappeared, hidden no doubt, now the colonists knew he was here. Damn and blast. He had to have food. He scuttled closer, looking for anything edible. Music, laughter and clapping filled the night with merriment while he went about his task. Some of the tunes he knew, but others were strange to him. It wasn’t until he’d gone halfway around the encampment that he discovered a crate close enough for him to grab. He scooted in and attempted to heft the thing to his shoulders. It weighed more than he’d anticipated. He couldn’t pick it up. Cursing, and glancing toward the bonfire, he dragged the chest into the trees. Back in the safety of darkness, he opened the crate and was dismayed to find it full of metal canisters, held together in groups by some kind of flat, clear flexible rope. He pulled a manacled group out, trying to figure how to open one of them. But for a small flat ring, both ends of the canisters looked to be the same. He shook them. One slipped from its noose, but the canister he held dented under his grip into an hourglass. The metal was flimsy as tin. Quickly he slipped his knife from his belt, and with a quick jab, punctured the canister to see what was inside. Liquid spurted out like a hissing snake, much like the syrup bottle. He put his mouth over the geyser and was surprised to taste something like weak ale. Well, this was a fine thing, he mused, tinned ale. He removed three more groups of roped canisters, unbuckled the belt he’d stolen from the colonist, and strung the canisters on it. Smiling, he pulled the rest of the canisters out of the chest, hoping to find food under them, but there were only a half dozen frozen bricks. He abandoned that crate and went looking for another, the canisters bobbing against his hip. What he eventually found was a basket full of grain boxes, paper tubes of crackers, a small bunch of bananas, and a slick bag that, when ripped open, contained sugared dates. He decided to take the whole basket. As he made his way back toward the spring, he chuckled, thinking how he must look—like some old grannie just come from Market Street. He had reached the far side of the water tower when, over the music, he heard screaming. He turned quickly, thinking someone had spotted him, but the crowd was intent on a heavy set man with his arms wrapped around some floozie. Gray Dog moved a safer distance away from the crowd, then paused to watch. By that time the woman was trying to scratch the man’s face. Then another man rushed up and hit the big man in the nose. Gray Dog liked a good fight, especially one he wasn’t involved in, so lingered to see what the big man would do. To his amazement he did nothing, other than fling curses. What sort of lily-livered sod was he, to let a punch like that go unanswered? Gray Dog noticed the big man wasn’t dressed like the others. He wore an odd cut of shirt and loose pants. His shoes were black and heavy, with thick soles. Hooked through one side of his belt was a heavy cudgel. On the other side was a rectangular black satchel with a sort of thick black finger sticking up from the top. He wondered if it was some kind of weapon. It was apparent the colonists didn’t like the big man, for they surrounded him like a pack of jackals, even the women joining their men. Curious, Gray Dog crept a little closer. Apparently the floozie belonged to the blond haired man, for, after she landed a smack on the big man’s cheek, she was pulled away and Blond Hair stepped between them. Why didn’t the big man use that fine club on his belt? Then Gray Dog saw the rapier on the blond’s belt, and the little knob on the point. What the hell? What good was a rapier with a practice knob on the end? He shook his head. What kind of man carries a useless weapon? He noticed many of the onlookers had weapons at their side, but no one made a move to use them. Why? They could turn the big man into a sieve if they wanted. Was this a lunatic colony after all, and the big man a guard? He was wearing something that vaguely resembled a uniform. He better call for reinforcements, Gray Dog thought, ‘cause he was surely outnumbered. Then Blond Hair said something, and everyone laughed. Gray Dog watched in amazement as the big man, after more cursing, retreated. The crowd began to disperse. Suddenly remembering how close he was, Gray Dog jogged into the trees, heading back to the spring. When he reached it, he set the basket down, cupped his hands, and drank. He used his knife to puncture a hole in another of the ale canisters, dug the crackers out of the basket, and leaned back against a palm to enjoy his little feast. When finished, he must have dozed off, because he woke with a start. Not knowing how long he’d lain there, he quickly got up, slung the basket over his arm again, and turned toward the path to the isthmus. “Hold it right there.” The big man stood blocking his way, his voice muffled and nasal. In the moonlight, Gray Dog could see the man’s nose was swollen and crusted with blood. In his right hand was the shiny black club. “Having a little picnic, are we?” Gray Dog froze, inwardly cursing he’d been so stupid as to fall asleep, so hadn’t heard the man approach. This was no bumbling drunk he could knock over the head. The look in the man’s eyes was murderous. Carefully, he set down the basket and took hold of his knife. “You’re a pretty old fart to be playing at pirates and stealing food.” The man moved closer, slapping the end of the cudgel in his left palm. Then he pointed it at the knife Gray Dog held, and a sly smile twisted his mouth. “And that little item is against island rules. Hand it over, along with the rest of that stuff, and come with me, or I’ll knock that filthy head off your shoulders.” The man had that air of smug authority Gray Dog had detested all his life—stripe after stripe, beating after beating. Men who thought they were better or smarter than everyone else. Men who, given a uniform and a weapon, used them to bully and punish those weaker or beneath their rank. It was an attitude he’d lived under ship after ship until Renaldo had taken the Galliard. At least pirates had a say in how things were run on board, and no man was punished without due cause. This man, and all like him, were one of the reasons Gray Dog craved Renaldo’s stash. And he’d sink to Davey Jones before he surrendered to that life again. “I’ll not be going anywhere with you, mate.” Gray Dog crouched, ready to spring if the man attacked him. “A man’s got to eat, and you colonists seem to have plenty, so I’ll be keeping the basket.” “You don’t get it, do you? Your little game is over. Either you come with me, or I’ll whack this club upside your stupid head.” The man stepped closer, waiting for Gray Dog to give him an excuse to bash his brains in. Gray Dog almost laughed. Big though the man might be, the lowest of pirate scum would be more dangerous than this fat-bellied drunk. Did the man really think that fancy cudgel would scare him? “Well, you can try. But I’m thinking anyone as slewed to the gills as you be, and who lets a gang of lunatics get the better of him, is not much of a threat to me.” The big man’s eyes blazed in a face contorted with rage, and he raised the cudgel. “Fucking asshole.” Before the cudgel could make contact, Gray Dog, with a vicious growl, sprang aside. With a quick thrust, he shoved the blade of his knife between the man’s ribs. Before the man could hit the ground, Gray Dog jerked the knife out and stabbed him again, and again, burying the blade to its hilt. With a slight gurgling noise, the man collapsed at Gray Dog’s feet. “Good riddance, swine,” he snarled.

I think one of the first things you would have to establish is, do you want the public involved or not? If you do want the public, then I suspect you'd not get many to pay hard cash to see dirty, cussing men and women, riddled with lice, skin sores, and drunk and vomiting. I don't think they'd appreciate having their purses stolen, or their wives assaulted. People attend events to be entertained, maybe learn a bit of history, and have a turkey leg for lunch. I also suspect that few event organizers would condone such actions at their events, or get approval from the local constabulary. If you want to portray the very dregs of the GAoP world, then you would have to do it at a private event, where the pubic would not be a witness, and where attendees knew up front that it was an "anything goes" type of thing. You might discover that there are fewer people out there wanting to play that part than you think. I would venture to guess that most re-enactors do it to escape their mundane lives, and to learn the history. Why would they want to escape to portray a character whose life was worse than their own? OderlessEye plays a scurvy, pocked character, but he does it in fun (okay, he did gross out the young girl behind the counter at the Pirate Pizza, when he asked her to attend to the boil on his forehead, but that's another story. ;=} ) Done in a joking, fun manner, you might get away with a little vulgarness, but if you played it serious, unless on private property at a private event, I think you'd have problems. Just a side note. As for fancy dressing pirates. I learned pretty quickly that frock coats and sailing don't blend well. The sleeves get in the way, and the skirts get hung up on stuff. When I crew on the Aldebaran, the first things that come off are the coat, the hat, and the sword. On land, strut your stuff all you want. On board, it's bare minimum.

I printed out and was looking over your Arc of the Verse. Blimey, William, I am beyond stunned. What a fantastic job! Totally beyond my mental realm how you put that together. Oh, and for some reason, I really like the fact that there is a moon called Bob.

Here's another of our favorites on the West Coast of Oregon, this one located in Florence. We had lunch there last Sunday, and it was wonderful, as usual. With your meal, if you're not into beer (like me), try the Mt. Baker Merlot. Yummy! Restobar 1285