Ransom

Scary as it is to me to admit it ( ) I agree with Mission. I'm a freebooter. I just don't see how a centralized "board" would do anything but cause problems. Been there, done that, not interested. You also run into the issue of fees. Someone is going to have to pay for said insurance, site fees, etc. Do you charge each group a monthly, quarterly, or yearly fee to participate? Do we then all have to sign new or extra wavers, which we already sign at events now? Can one body of governors take in the interests of so many different styles of participation in pyracy reeanacting? It's a logistic nightmare. Better to have an event like, say, PIP, where the two camps of pyracy seem to come together with no animosity, have a good time, and leave with a lot of fun memories. It boils down to what each individual event organizer wants — exact history, or a pyrate festival. No central ruling board is going to change that, and if they try, all the local crewes will ignore them and keep on having fun in their own way — like they've been doing all along.

Reminds me of my old SCA days, when we would go to "wars". It was just meant for the participants. If someone happened to blunder in from the outside, then they were free to watch, but we weren't "on show" and didn't have to worry about language, actions, or alcohol — other than the limitations we put on ourselves as a group. Very few players got totally out of hand, and it was fun to just play. The pyrate community could probably organize something like that eventually, but it would take time, money, and commitment from everyone to get it going. And finding a place to hold it would take a lot of searching, especially if you wanted the event on a coastline. You need a large bit of land, a place for everyone to camp, and a place for parking. It would be fun, though. Maybe someday?

Happy birthday, Blackbead. And thanks for popping into the Jeweler's Coffeehouse once-and-awhile. Hope your season was a good one.

Sweet! Too bad it's so far away from me.

Ye got me on that one, Eyes! Oh, and Chris. I guess it counts if you don't have a ride-on lawnmower.

Hope your birthday is grand, suh!

LOL Can't wait for William to see this. Now, if they would just make it: Pyrates, Pigs, Pints, & Pinot I'd be even happier.

It's a bit different on the west coast because we don't have any historical period events. There was very little reason for pyracy on our coast during the time period, because there was nothing to pyrate. The region was unsettled, other than by Native Americans, and strategically useless for raids in the Caribbean. Our living history events are geared more toward pioneer days, the old west, and early mountain men/trappers, because that's our history. Those events can get extremely accurate in all aspects. The Spanish may have explored the coastal areas, but they didn't make permanent settlements until much later. I don't know of any pyracy living history events on our coast. If there are, then someone can correct me. So the whole question of how accurate we get is kinda moot. Some do — Like the Kern Co. folks — some go halfway — Like Tales of the Seven Seas — and other don't even come close. I don't think there is any event organizer here who would lay down strict laws governing garb and encampments. That being said, I think it's great that there are venues in other areas of the country where strict accuracy is requested. Maybe, eventually, us West Coasters will have something similar, where those who seek strict authenticity can play with like-minded souls. And I do think most event organizers and reenactors are welcoming to newbies. They are the life blood of the community, so should be encouraged, not slammed for off-period garb. It happens, but I don't think it's the norm. I would also encourage anyone who hears a newbie being snarked at, to step in with a diversion. And I must say, I am liking this discussion because it has remained just that...a discussion. You are all to be admired for keeping things calm and rational...well, as rational as reenactors can get. Huzzah to that.

I like the idea of rotating current events to the top of the list (or however that would work). My biggest complaint about the events forum is that it takes forever to find something, and after-event discussions/picture posting get lost as soon as someone else posts in a different event thread, and then you have to go scrolling/searching again. Without the knowledge of the back room workings of a big forum like this, I can't recommend how to fix the problem, I can only point out frustrations with the current format — to be ignored or changed, as Stynky sees fit.

I think the main issue is the difference between Living History reenacting, and Pyrate Festivals. You're talking apples and oranges here. Personally, I would not presume to show up at a living history event wearing out of period garb. When you know ahead of time that there will be rules regarding the period correctness of clothing and encampments, then it would be rude to show up and expect to participate. As has been stated already, show up in street clothing, ask questions, and decide if it is something you want to get involved with. Pyrate festivals are a lot more open to any type garb, although there are groups who stay very PC at these events as well. The Kern Co. Privateers come to mind, who had a very PC encampment at Ojai, even though Ojai is an anything goes event. They made a good example of how those who are playing with the more theatric side of pyracy, can see what the real thing looks like and decide if they want to change their garb to something more accurate. Lots of people are not interested in PCness and just want to play...and that's okay. Event organizers rely on participation by reeneactors, whether living history or fairs. People make time to travel (in some cases, long distances) to put on demos, shows, and interact with the public — in most cases for free. Event organizers would never be able to afford to pay that many people to show up. They can set perameters for individual events, but if they become too strict, they may end up with few people willing to make the effort to show up, and the event dies. It is easy to contact an event organizer ahead of time to find out just how strict they are going to be concerning garb and encampments. This would help people avoid showing up at an event and feeling unwelcome, or being told that they don't qualify for participation.

A most happy and grand Birthday wish to Pirate Pete. So great to finally meet you at Ojai this year. Hope your birthday is grand in every way. Cheers mate.

MacTavish hawked and spit over the side, then put the glass back to his eye. The three ships had not moved from their position, and it was putting a niggle in his brain wondering what they were up to. Ships didn't just loiter in the middle of the Caribbean for nothing. "Umm, Captain, sir?" The first mate approached warily. "Aye, what is it noow?" MacTavish snapped. "Begging yer pardon, Sir, but, well, the crewe be wondering why we're wasting our time on those ships when we could be headed back to port and drinking our own health?" "Gawd, ye are a bunch o' complainin' ninnies! We'll watch them for as long as I say, and them as dinna like it can jump overboard. Yon ships are there for a reason, and I intend tae find out what it is." "Aye, sir, but.." "What!" "It were only my job to tell you what the crewe be thinking, is all. They ain't happy, and some say they be seeing visions. Old Sheamus swears he saw his dead wife peering back at him from behind a keg of molassas." "Yea tell ol' Sheamus that any more talk like that, and I'll throw his carcass inta a barrel and pickle him." "Aye, sir." The man knuckled his forehead and scurried away. MacTavish put the glass back to his eye and continued to watch the three ships, barely visible on the horizon.

Minor kitchen rehab — simple you say. NOT!!!!! Week one — I lose my working kitchen. First, remove old sink & faucette and buy a new ones. Okay, that was easy. *Have counter people install new counter tops. They break one. We have to reorder and wait four days.Finally, new countertops in. Guy says he won't drop the sink in place because he has a bad back (it's a heavy Kholer enamel sink). He shoved the old stove out into the middle of the kitchen and left it there...bad back. *Husband has to call a friend to help him set the sink in place and take old stove into the garage. Husband starts to hook up sink, and discovers that the drain holes in the old sink were centered in each basin, and the new sink drain holes are off-set into the corners of each basin. The under-sink plumbing doesn't match up. It's 9:00 at night, and husband takes one look at the situation, says, "Shit", then turns to me and says, "I don't want to mess with this. I am not a plumber." Call plumber. He can't come out until the following Monday. This is Thursday night. Sigh...another weekend with no running water. *Saturday we buy new stove. Husband says he can install it, as to get it delivered and installed would be over a week out. We take home stove. New stove is bigger than old stove, so the cut-out in the counter is too small (we had originally intended to keep the old stove, but changed our minds). We have to call back counter guy to re-cut the countertop. He can't come until the next Wednesday. Week two — still no working kitchen. *Plumber arrives, assesses the situation, and decides he has to add another trap. Not something husband would have thought of. Plumber is a very nice guy, did a great job, and even fixed the fawcette and drain covers, which husband had put in wrong (he followed the instructions that came with the kit). Okay, now I have running water and a dishwasher again (had been washing dishes in the garage sink...not fun). *Husband attempts to hook up stove last night. To get the stove in our small kitchen, we have to take the door off the refrigerator to make room. Husband gets the wiring from the floor done, but discovers he doesn't have the right tool to hook up the wiring to the stove back. Does not want to buy new tools he will never need again, and also decides, after looking at the way the stove is built, that he doesn't want to risk scratching the new counter tops because the damned thing looks almost impossible to adjust the level, one in place. Stove gets left in the middle of kitchen. I have about 8 inches of clearance in front of my new sink, and I can barely get the frig door open. * Husband calls this morning to tell me he called the Sears service dept — the 800 number — then tells me that they won't be able to come out until Friday, and that it will cost $125 because we picked the stove up ourselves, therefore voiding the free delivery and set up option, which we couldn't have used use, as the counter top opening was too small. At this point, I am furious, and sick of the whole mess. I call the local store where we bought the stove, explain the situation, and the lady says, "No problem, we can have someone out tomorrow first thing, and it will only cost you $97 dollars." Wonderful. * So, today the counter guy is due out to re-cut the stove opening. I pray he doesn't break anything...what with that bad back and all. Tomorrow the Sears guy will be out to finally hook up the stove. I MAY have my kitchen back by Thursday afternoon. One can only hope. And, I don't even want to think about what would have occurred had we replaced all the cabinets ( which I would love to do as they are butt-ugly). This saga may make my husband sound rather inept, which is not the case at all. It is more a case of him coming home after driving for 12-15 hrs, and just being too damned tired to want to mess with stuff. And in the case of the plumbing, which ended up being even more complicated than the plumber thought, admitting when he is in over his head, rather than blunder through something and get it wrong. Rehabing — a lesson in patience — and microwave cooking.

Currently I have no sketchbook, but pyrateleather has posted that I should get Red-Handed Jill's soon.

Wow, it looks just like mine! However, I think mine is older. Going by the serial number, and the fact that there is a B in front of the number, mine was build between 1904-1905. But it looks like the gold leafing design is the same? Are yours Egyptian-type designs? Mine is currently in need of rehabing, but all the parts move. I just have to unfreeze the footplates so I can get the shuttle out and see if it is still good. Oh, and I need a belt. Right now I have a lot on my plate, but as soon as things ease up a bit, I'm going to start working on it and get it running. It will be fun to compare the projects we do on these old girls.

Well, one can always hope. You know, after a quick look in that forum, a lot of those events listed have never had activity on them. Do we really need to list every event in the known world, or could we only list major ones — Reenactor's Fest, Port Washington Pyrate Festival, NorCal, Ojai, Lockhouse, etc — then let people list smaller venues under a Misc. Events thread? Just a thought.

I'm all for the idea. The Pub is way too confusing, fuddled, and unorganized, making it hard to find things, or keep track of forums. Especially the events forum. Simplify, I say!

You look quite dashing, Patrick. And, since I'm part of your crewe, I guess I would buy a used airship from you. How was Burning Man this year? Not so many dust storms, I hope. BTW, we missed you at Ojai again this year. But we drank some rum in your honor.

By the time they returned to the Boca crew, it was getting dark. The scent of grilled chicken made Helena’s mouth water. Bill and Arthur hovered over a propane stove, while Don tossed salad in a big wooden bowl. Julia, with Christa’s help, was setting up a wooden folding table. Helena suddenly felt guilty that she’d done nothing to help set up the little camp, or prepare the evening’s meal. “Here, let me do that.” She took Julia’s place and unfolded the legs of the table. Don looked up. “You okay, Blue?” “Yeah. Sorry. I kinda lost it there for awhile.” Alex took in the bustle of activity. “I should have said something earlier, but you guys have done a great job setting up camp. Thanks.” Julia smiled, obviously relieved Alex was no longer angry. “We knew you’d be busy today.” She gave Helena a nod. “Both of you. We put your tent up and stowed your gear.” Alex glanced over to the tent he would share with Helena. Pinned above the opening was a cardboard sign that read, Captain’s Quarters. He grinned. “You guys are great.” Christa smiled at Helena. “I wanted to add ‘and first mate’ to the sign, but the others weren’t sure you’d like that.” Helena was eternally grateful to whomever had stopped her. First mate sounded subservient, and conjured up images of inept TV sidekicks. “No, I wouldn’t have.” “Bird’s done,” Bill announced. “I bought sourdough bread at a deli in Key Biscayne. It’s even already buttered.” Christa set the loaf on the table, just as Bill brought a platter heaped with golden-brown chicken and set it next to the salad bowl. The group pulled up canvas folding chairs and settled in to enjoy the feast. “God, I was starving,” Helena said, while thinking the chicken was the best she’d ever tasted. Must be the sea air, she thought, plucking another drumstick from the platter. “Better enjoy the fresh food while it lasts. By Wednesday, we’ll be down to freeze-dried or canned,” Arthur said. Helena made a face. “Please, don’t tell me someone brought freeze-dried ice cream.” “That’s gross,” Christa said. “It’s beyond gross.” Arthur, the group’s resident gourmet, wrinkled his nose. “It’s sacrilegious.” For the next fifteen minutes or so, everyone was too busy eating to talk. When the pace slowed, Alex rapped the edge of his fork on his pewter beer mug. “I need to talk serious for a minute.” All eyes turned toward him. Helena took a deep breath and waited. “I think you know by now that Tibbits looks at this event as a chance to practice his billy club skills. Don’t give it to him. Helena,” he nodded in her direction, “made the suggestion we put the word out to be careful with this guy. He’s just looking for an excuse to bash heads, and I don’t want anyone hurt. It’s plain he thinks we PFCers are a bunch of nut cases. So, I’d like you guys to quietly pass the word. I stress quietly, because if Tibbits gets wind of it, he may react badly.” Bill frowned. “Logistically, there are forty of us and only one of him. What can he do?” “Make our lives a misery, for one,” Alex answered. “Second, if he deems it necessary, he’ll call the ferry and we’ll all have to leave the island.” “He has that authority?” Julia asked. Alex nodded. “He is Mr. Ross’ representative, even if a temporary one. If he decides to play hard ball, he can call this whole event off.” “That hardly seems fair,” Christa said. Alex snorted. “I don’t think being fair has anything to do with it. I’ll bet you anything he’s a wannabe cop who never made the cut, so he’s stuck working for a security company, while dreaming of working a homicide division.” Don took a sip of canned screwdriver, then said, “Tonight’s the first bonfire meeting at the Bilge Rat. We can secretly start to pass the word. Will Tibbits be there?” “I don’t know,” Alex said. “I think the women should be especially careful,” Helena said. “Tibbits strikes me as the type to prey on those least able to protect themselves.” “I’m sorry we have to deal with this guy,” Alex said. “It’s going to cast a shadow over the event. I’d hoped we’d end up with someone a little more tolerant and open-minded.” Helena smiled at him. “Tibbits isn’t going to ruin your event. We won’t let him.”

CHAPTER SIX September 17 Boca camp, San Cristobal Island Helena had to admit, the first glass of Merlot did its magic and she felt much better. By the second glass she was positively cheerful. Alex, finally able to relax for a while, downed one beer, then poured another, while Christa handed around a wooden platter of crackers and cheese. Julia enjoyed the Merlot as well, and Don, Bill, and Arthur drank canned cocktails poured into horn cups. The Boca group had settled into folding chairs gathered in a loose circle. A light breeze cooled their faces as the sun continued its slow decent into the west. “Now, how’s this for class, Hurricane?” Bill said. “Just as fancy as one of your gallery openings, I’ll bet.” Helena popped a cracker in her mouth and nodded. Alex winked at her. “Might be better. No art snobs to deal with.” Helena swallowed. “Those are called patrons, if you don’t mind, and they can be as snobby as they like, as long as they buy something expensive.” “So, what’s a painting go for at your place?” Don asked. “Depends on what you want and who painted it.” Helena shrugged. “Some are relatively inexpensive at, say, six or seven hundred dollars. Others can go as high as twenty thousand.” Arthur choked. “Twenty thousand?” “Ruben recently sold a piece by one of our more prominent artists for sixteen thousand, and last month I sold a sculpture for ten.” “You make commission off that?” Don asked, eyebrows raised. “The commission goes to the gallery. I’m paid a salary.” “What’s the commission?” Julia held out her glass for Helena to refill. “Fifty percent.” “Ouch. That seems pretty high.” Alex leaned over to pluck another cracker from the plate. “Don’t the artists complain?” “No. In some galleries the commission can be as high as sixty or seventy percent. We think the White Gull Gallery is quite fair.” “My, this looks cozy.” They all turned to see a uniformed Charlie Tibbits standing under a nearby palm. His relaxed stance gave Helena the impression he’d been watching them for quite some time. “Didn’t know being a pirate could be so much fun. Maybe I’ll look your group up when we get back to civilization.” Helena couldn’t read his expression, as he was still wearing the mirrored sunglasses. He joined them, peering down at her. She suddenly felt exposed, as she was still wearing the low cut bodice. Alex stood. “I see you’ve recovered from the boat ride.” Tibbits frowned. “Never liked boats.” “Guess you better rethink joining our group then,” Alex said. “Hard to be a pirate if you hate boats. Is there something I can help you with, Mr. Tibbits?” Tibbits shook his head. “Nope. Just taking a look around. Getting the lay of the land.” His mirrored gaze raked over the group. “Better be careful with all that alcohol. Don’t want to have to break up any fights.” He slapped the billy club at his side. Alex, his voice low and precise, said, “Look, Mr. Tibbits, this is a peaceful group. You can see there are children camping with their parents. No one is going to cause any trouble.” “Just a warning, that’s all.” He nodded to Alex then swung his gaze to Helena again. “Have a nice afternoon.” Then he strolled away. Alex flung his empty pewter mug to the ground. It hit with a thunk and spray of sand. “What an asshole.” Don stood, putting his hand on Alex’s arm. “Take it easy, Blue. Don’t let the guy rattle your cage.” “Don’s right.” Helena joined Alex. “Just ignore him.” “If he looks at you that way again, I’ll take that billy club and bash his brains out.” “Jeeze, calm down.” Julia said, retrieving the mug. “Sit. Have another beer. Besides, the crackers are going soggy.” Alex unclenched his fists. “Come on. Let’s take a walk.” Helena took one of his hands, gently trying to pull him toward the beach. “Go on, Blue,” Arthur said, “take Hurricane for a nice romantic walk.” With one last look toward Charlie Tibbits, who sauntered among the PFCers like a warden through a prison yard, Alex let Helena lead him away. Once they reached the beach, as if she’d been holding her breath, Helena let out a sigh of relief. They walked in silence, their bare feet sinking into the warm wet sand. Every now and then the incoming surf curled and foamed around their ankles, then hissed back down the shore. The sun lay low in the turquoise sky, tinting the high wisps of cloud shell-pink. If Alex weren’t still so obviously angry, it would be perfect. She gave his hand a little shake. “Come on, you’re spoiling the ambiance.” He blew out a breath. “Sorry. It’s just, that guy rubs me the wrong way.” “That guy would rub his own mother the wrong way.” “I don’t think he has one. I think he was spawned under a rock.” She stopped. “Alex, I’ve never seen you like this. Usually you can handle anything. What’s going on?” He ran a hand through his hair, then met her worried eyes. “When he looks at you like you’re prey, it makes me want to strangle him. If he ever touched you, I don’t know what I’d do, but it wouldn’t be pretty.” “He isn’t going to touch me.” The mere thought of those beefy hands on her body made her nauseous. “He’s a slob, I agree, but don’t let him spoil this event for you. You’ve worked too hard, and everyone is looking forward to having a good time.” “I just wish we weren’t stuck with him for the next seven days.” “Look, quietly put the word out this guy is scum, that he’s just waiting for someone to break the rules so he can play big bad cop. That way, everyone knows what we’re dealing with and will take care not to piss him off.” The anger and frustration that had furrowed his brow and given his voice a clipped tone, melted away. He took her face in his hands and gave her a long, lingering kiss. “Does that put the ambiance back?” “Ummm, close, but not ... quite.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her so close she could feel his heart racing, and kissed her again. “That about do it?” “Arrrr ...” He burst out laughing. Then, hand in hand, they continued their walk along the beach.

The muggles might have thought it was a place they weren't meant to be, as on the opposite side, you had the fighting area, which was off limits. I doubt the guys in the Double Cross encampment got much traffic either, for the same reason. It really is a shame, as the Kern Co. encampment was so authentic in every way...okay, except for the Dorrito bags. LOL You guys did an awesome job, and should be rightfully proud of your accomplishment. And I agree, Ojai is sort of an "anything goes" event, which is all part of the fun. There was a Spartan woman? Oh, and after two days of "My eyes, my eyes" I'm going to make up a button for next year that reads, "Spoobage! Please, put that away!"

Awesome! I'll get to work.

I would suggest, at this point, that you send the books on to Callenish without further delay. Also, if you are due any more books, I would also suggest that you decide whether to drop out of the round if you are not going to have time to work on the journals. Life gets in the way, we all know this. Better to admit you don't have time to do the books, than have them sit around and ignored for several months, causing a log jam in the round. It's just too easy for books to get lost, forgotten or damaged when they sit. Like I said, life happens, but it's better to move on, than to try and fit books in when you don't have the time to work on them. Everyone will understand.

CHAPTER FIVE September 17 Southeastern shore, San Cristobal Island As soon as the long boat gouged its prow into the sand, Gray Dog stumbled over the side. With his rapidly dwindling strength, he hauled, pushed, and tugged the boat further up the beach, not wanting to lose his only means of transportation. Too dizzy to stand, he rested a few minutes, then forced himself up again. You need water, old Gray Dog, he thought, or all the gold in the world could be lying at your feet, and you’ll be too dead to enjoy it. He remembered the spring marked on the map and knew he had to get there if he wanted to survive. He looked around. Near as he could figure, he was close to the southern end of the island. He could see the isthmus that separated La Perla from San Cristobal, the tide low, but rising, the sandy passage glimmering under about two feet of water. Further up the beach the land began a gradual assent, thick with palms and shrubs, to the highest point on the island, a crown of rock approximately three hundred feet high. Gray Dog knew the spring was nestled in the rocks on the southern horn of the crescent, where it ran for about a quarter mile before it splashed down into a small marsh on the western shore. It wasn’t a hard climb for a fit man, but for Gray Dog, starved and dehydrated, it became an ordeal. He collapsed twice, but doggedly crawled on, knees and hands bleeding. By the time he found the spring, he couldn’t have crawled another foot. He drank frantically, puked it all back up, drank again, puked again, took a breath, and drank slowly. The water tasted like ambrosia, cool and sweet. He lay back, his eyes filling with tears, and laughed. “By God, you made it, Gray Dog, you scurvy bastard, you made it.” Then his world went dark, and he slept the deep sleep of the near-dead.