Ransom

Hope your special day is grand, Silkie. Happy Birthday!

My JT? Wrong usage interpretation here, Mr. Snarko. The "my" in question is used as an exclamation, such as in "Oh my!" NOT in the possessive, as in "my sword." I don't know whose JT you are, but if Iron Bess wants to claim you, she's more than welcome. Now, THAT'S being snarky! (No, folks, this is not a feud JT and I are really good friends. We do this all the time. Read the Pyrate Hunter's Smarter Brother, and you'll see. LOL ) In all honesty, JT, the poem was lovely, and after our phone conversation, I understand it even more. Well done.

Awesome job, Eyes! Ye be a man of many talents, to be sure.

My, JT, aren't we snarky... Actually, I was thinking it was more about you loving your kids. Suggestion: Next time you post a poem about love, maybe you could make a dedication, and give people a better idea of what you're on about, instead of getting all pissy when they make the wrong assumption.

Any update on these?

The loading dock for the ferry was a madhouse. Forty people of various ages and shapes, all dressed in some mode of pirate garb, stood amid a sea of suitcases, ice chests, tent bags, and propane stoves and lanterns. Some had brought fishing poles, others inflatable inner tubes for floating in the ocean. Helena noticed a few make-up cases and silently wished their owners luck. Alex stood, clipboard in hand, checking off names as each person came aboard. PFC volunteers not staying on the island helped load the baggage, and would enjoy the ferry ride out to San Cristobal to help unload, then return on her to Key Biscayne. Helena stood at Alex’s side, trying not to wince at the twentieth “Permission to come aboard, Cap’n?” Everyone was in high spirits, and the ‘Avast matey’s’ and ‘Damn your eyes’ were flying fast and furious. The rules stated, once on board the ferry everyone went by their pirate name until the group returned to the mainland. So, Bill Summer became Black Hand, Julia Cox was now Irish, Don Gilbert turned into Flynt, Arthur Anderson morphed into the clumsy Loose Plank, and Christa Pullman flounced around as Tortuga Tess. To everyone but the Boca crew, who were allowed the privilege of calling him simply Blue, Alex was Captain Blue, and she—God, could you believe it?—was Hurricane Helen. It took over an hour to get everyone on board, then the ferry slowly pulled away from Key Biscayne and headed for the open ocean and the thirty mile trip to San Cristobal. She and Alex were standing at the bow enjoying the view when a man dressed in a uniform, not pirate garb, introduced himself. “I’m Charlie Tibbits, Temp Security. Saw you on the dock with the clipboard, so figured you’re the man I need to touch bases with.” He held out a beefy hand. The man appeared to have been a high school or college football player whose physique had gone to seed with age. He was taller than Alex, weighed at least two-fifty, and had a military-style haircut and neat mustache. His khaki uniform stretched over a barrel chest and Budweiser stomach. Helena guessed he was in his late forties. Alex took the offered hand. “I’m Alex Hunter, this is Helena Lindsey.” Tibbits looked around and shook his head. “Quite an interesting group you’ve got here. What’s the point of all this?” His gesture encompassed the entire boat. “Fun, mostly,” Alex said. “Pretty strange kind of fun. What are you supposed to be?” “Pirates. We’re a reenactment group called Pirates of the Florida Coast. PFC for short. We study the history of pirates, learn about how they lived, what they ate, that kind of thing. We also put on demo’s for schools and fund-raising events.” Charlie smirked. “From what little I’ve heard, most pirates didn’t live too long.” “That’s true, but we’re not trying to bring back piracy, Mr. Tibbits, just learn a little and have some fun in the process.” “Well, let’s hope you can keep this bunch under control. I don’t like not being able to carry a weapon, other than this billy club. Anyone causes problems, he’ll get a nice knot on his head.” Helena saw Alex’s body tense. She took his hand, then smiled at the security man. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Mr. Tibbits. As Alex told you, these people are here to have fun, not cause trouble.” Her skin crawled as the man’s gaze dropped, then lingered on her low-cut bodice. With obvious reluctance, Tibbits’ tore his eyes away from her cleavage and looked at Alex. “A lot can happen in seven days. Best mind your P’s and Q’s. Only thing connecting us to the mainland is this.” He patted the satellite phone clipped to his belt. “If anyone gets hurt or messes up, I’ll call the ferry, and this little party will be over.” He slid mirrored sunglasses over his eyes and sauntered away. “God, what an awful man.” Helena shivered, despite the warm, moist breeze. Alex banged his fist on the deck rail. “Shit. I spend over six months planning this trip, and I get stuck with some police academy dropout who thinks he’s Rambo.” “He can’t do anything if everyone keeps to the rules and stays away from him. Makes me glad about that no-gun rule. Can you imagine having to deal with him if he was allowed to carry a firearm?” “I don’t even want to think about it. I also didn’t like the way he looked at you.” “I didn’t like it either.” Alex scowled as he watched Tibbits bully his way through the PFCers on deck, his hand resting authoritatively on the billy club. “There’s a security cabin on the island. Hopefully, he’ll stay in there most of the time. I don’t want him harassing us.” “Hey,” she turned his face to hers, “Captain Blue, we’re supposed to be having fun. Forget Tibbits. Better still, think up a good, insulting pirate name for him.” Alex grinned. “How about Tidbits, as it looks like he spends most of his time sitting in a easy-chair, sucking down brewskies and eating pretzels or popcorn.” Helena laughed. “God, whatever you do, don’t call him that to his face. He’ll use your head for billy club practice.” She reached up and ruffled his hair. “And I like this head too much to see it caved in by some rent-a-cop.” Behind them, a trio of singers started a ribald sea chantey, accompanied by fife and hand drum. Helena felt better as she saw Alex relax. She tried to relax as well, but the image of Charlie Tibbits’ hard dark eyes staring down her cleavage continued to haunt her. The rest of the trip went smoothly. At first Tibbits patrolled the deck, inspecting the groups who gathered along the rail, or sat together on blankets while enjoying snacks from baskets or picnic hampers. A couple of miles off shore, as the catamaran bounced lightly over two-foot swells, he suddenly disappeared below deck, where the restrooms were located. Helena and Alex joined the Boca PFCers, who were sitting together on the port side of the bow. A bottle of wine was uncorked, glasses filled, then all enjoyed the perfecttropical weather. Maybe, Helena thought, this trip wouldn’t be so bad. As long as Tibbits left them alone. She knew Alex was a pretty laid-back guy. The cold fire she’d seen ignite in his eyes when Tibbits visually stripped her, told a different story. It was a side of Alex’s personality she’d never witnessed before, and it disturbed her. A barefoot young man wearing bright red baggy pants and an open shirt, pointed, and called out, “Avast, mates. Land ho!” Along with all the others, Alex’s crew rushed to the rail, anxious to see where they would be spending the next week. San Cristobal lay on the sea like a crescent jeweled brooch on blue satin—a cabochon of onyx, surrounded by emeralds, and set in a bezel of white-gold sand. At the southern end, one horn of the crescent dipped into the sea, then reemerged as La Perla, a small hump of mostly sand and palms. Sprinkled around the northern horn were about a dozen rocky outcroppings where sea birds roosted. Protected within the arms of the crescent lay Azure Bay. “It’d be paradise,” Helena said, “if only it had a real bathroom.” Alex laughed. “Hurricane Helen doesn’t need a fancy bathroom.” “Speak for yourself, Captain Blue,” she shot back. “Come on, where’s your sense of adventure?” “I left it back home, along with my blow dryer, my make-up bag and my cell phone. Not to mention my indoor shower, and my flush toilet.” Alex put his arm around her. “We’ll have a blast. Guaranteed, you’ll want to come back next year.” Helena didn’t answer, not wanting to dampen Alex’s spirits. She leaned into him, watching as San Cristobal grew larger and larger. She saw palm trees, shrubs, and black rock. Then, as each had been marked on the map, the water tower came into view, the small security cabin, three covered cabanas with picnic tables, pit toilet sheds, and last, the bleached-wood finger of a pier. About a mile south of the pier, also as it had been marked on the map, she could just make out the reed bed of the salt marsh, where the spring emptied into the sea. She felt the vibrations of the ferry’s engines as the boat slowed to approached the pier, then thrust in reverse to stop them alongside, then idle. A man jumped to the pier with a fat mooring line and wrapped it expertly around a metal cleat bolted to the wood. He then trotted to the stern, where another line was tossed to him, which he secured the same way. Tibbits, a handkerchief to his mouth, and carrying a black clothes duffle, reappeared from below, strode to the opening in the deck rail, and quickly left the boat. She took satisfaction in noticing he looked very green around the gills. Alex, watching the security man’s abrupt departure, commented, “I hope he spent the last half hour puking his guts out.” The Boca crew gave Alex an appraising look. Helena assumed she wasn’t the only one unused to seeing him so volatile. “Better get our gear,” Bill said. “Glad I put Irish on my things. In this mess, anything could go missing,” Julia remarked. “Oh, you’re so organized, Julia. All I did was tie little pink ribbons to my gear,” Christa said, then giggled. “I sure hope no one had the same idea, and used the same color ribbon.” Another hour was spent getting all the passengers and their equipment unloaded. Groups fanned out over the campground, claiming places in the shade to put up their tents. Since Alex and Helena would be busy until everyone was situated, Bill and Don had been assigned the task of finding a good camp site for the Boca crew. Helena noticed Tibbits had gone directly to the island cabin, which had its own, private outhouse. With a couple of throaty blasts of its airhorn the ferry started to pull away. From the deck, the PFCers retuning to Boca waved farewell to their friends. Helena had a sudden urge to run down the pier and leap back on board. The rest of the day was spent getting everyone squared away. Circles of tents, like circled wagons, collected under the palms. An emergency medical station was set up in one of the cabanas, for treatment of minor injuries, manned by a member who was a paramedic when he wasn’t reenacting. Communal gatherings would be held in the largest cabana, which had already been dubbed the Bilge Rat Pub. In front of this cabana was a pit just large enough for a fire to sit around and roast marshmallows or hot dogs. The Pub would also be the information center, where notices of classes and contests would be posted. After an hour of answering questions, coordinating crews, arbitrating minor disputes over campsites, and looking for a young boy who’d gotten separated from his parents, Helena and Alex were back at the Bilge Rat. She held a sheet of paper listing possible flora and fauna hazards while Alex thumbtacked it to a bulletin board. She was happy to noticed the list was a short one. When he was finished, she asked, “What next?” “A beer and a chair, in that order.” Helena was relieved. She was tired and although Alex’s assurance that helping him would get her more in the spirit of the event, she’d felt like a hindrance. She’d fumbled with tents, had answered questions with “ You’d better ask Alex”, therefore receiving scowls of impatience, and nearly gotten herself lost while looking for the boy. Swiping a small black beetle off her arm, she asked, “Where did Bill and Don set us up?” “I have no idea.” Alex turned to a stocky woman with long red curly hair, an overflowing bodice and a wide grin. “Hey, Mad Matilda, have you seen Black Hand?” “Sorry Captain Blue, not since the ferry.” She turned to shout at a young boy of around thirteen, also with red curly hair, and sporting several lurid temporary tattoos. “Justin, have you seen Black Hand?” The boy’s face twisted in frustration. “Mom, yer supposed ta call me Dirty Red Rackam.” “Sorry, Dirty Red.” Her grin got wider. “So, have ya seen Black Hand or have ya not?” “Down by the third cabana, close to the beach.” “Thanks, Dirty Red,” Alex said, his blue eyes sparkling. “My pleasure, Captain.” The boy gave a salute, then scampered away. As they strolled in the direction the boy had pointed, Helena had to admit, everyone appeared to be having fun. Among the few dome tents were more authentic looking tents made of canvas stained to look old. It was obvious not all the PFCers had opted out of authenticity in exchange for convenience. She saw period eating utensils, small wooden benches, and worn carpets on the ground. Most ice chests or modern items were covered in bright cloth, or hidden within the tents. Many of the groups had put up flags sporting various combinations of skull and crossbones, hourglasses, arrows, and blood drips. Others had signs that read ‘Spotted Dick Tavern,’ or ‘Crew of the Merry Death.’ Helena shook her head. “What’s wrong?” Alex asked. “I feel like I’ve been dropped into the twilight zone. I had no idea, even with the few events I’ve already attended, that people could get so into this stuff.” She wrinkled her nose. What the hell is a spotted dick?” “Give us time, woman, and you’ll be having just as much fun.” “I don’t think I’d go that far. Give me a few days, after the no bathroom thing has really sunk in, then ask me that. And the spotted ... whatever? “Spotted dick is a pudding, not a venereal disease. Haven’t you ever read any Patrick O’Brian?” “No, is he a cookbook author?” “Oh, woman, you’ve got to be kidding! You’ve never heard of Jack Aubrey, captain of the Surprise, or his friend, Stephen Maturin? Of soused hog’s face, toasted cheese, or spotted dick?” “Not a one. Does that disqualify me for active service in the PFC?” “Close.” “There are worse things in life.” She sighed. “I’m never going to get the hang of this pirate stuff.” He draped an arm over her shoulder. “Would a nice glass of Merlot put you in a better frame of mind?” “In a real wine glass, not some nasty pewter mug?” “In a real wine glass.” She grinned. “Just call me Hurricane.”

CHAPTER FOUR September 17 Palms Motel, Key Biscayne, Florida Helena lay in bed listening to the light traffic noise from the street. It was still dark and the bedside clock showed her it was four in the morning. Next to her, Alex lay on his side still deep asleep. She wasn’t surprised. He was probably exhausted. He’d been planning and organizing this island adventure since before she’d met him. On their third or fourth date, he’d told her it had been an idea tossed out to his local group, that had then snowballed into this excursion. Of the hundred or so members of the PFC, only forty would be allowed to go, due to the limitations of the campground. Besides, the logistics of getting forty people from all along the coast in one spot, with clothes, food, and camping gear for seven days was bad enough. A hundred people would have been impossible. She’d asked him about the food. With no electricity on the island, how were people going to bring enough ice to keep food fresh for that long? Alex had grinned, then tossed her a package of freeze-dried soup, the kind made for backpackers. “You can get almost anything freeze-dried these days. Even ice cream,” he’d said. She’d been incredulous. “Who in their right mind would want to eat freeze-dried ice cream?” Adding to the problem was the fact that San Cristobal could only be reached by the private ferry from Key Biscayne. It took groups out to the island, dropped them off, then came back to pick them up when their stay was over. The ferry wouldn’t be back for the PFCers until the twenty-third. Helena hadn’t been joking when she’d told Alex she’d have preferred a nice hotel with a jacuzzi. She didn’t like being cut off from the rest of the world. Her life revolved around cell phones, business lunches, and art openings. Camping in a tent, with outdoor showers and, ugh, pit toilets, was definitely not her thing. She wasn’t excited about having to wear pirate garb, speaking pirateese, and being called Hurricane Helen for a week, either. Only love made her sacrifice the vacation time she had left for something this ridiculous. She glanced at Alex, his broad shoulders a dark silhouette against the streetlight glow coming through the venetian blinds. Well, she thought, you better make up for all this foolery when we’re alone at night. Otherwise, it will be the last pirate event you drag me off to. * * *

Spoken like a true gentleman, which I know you are.

Ioan watched the exotic woman leave the common room with Mr. Neede, her spicy perfume lingering, and suddenly had no more interest in the card game. His fellow warehouse workers were extremely drunk — one had passed out and fallen to the floor — so skill was no longer required to win a hand. Ioan tossed his remaining cards on the table, scooped up his meager winnings, and stood up to leave. He felt safer now that the two Irish boys had left without recognizing him, but used caution when he stepped out the door, just in case they were loitering in the lane. There was nothing but the usual nighttime activity. The rain had stopped, but had done little to wash away the stench and filth. Wrinkling his nose, Ioan walked back to his small rented room, the image of the strange woman lingering within his mind. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, and he was determined to win her respect and admiration. Oh, he knew what she was, and that he didn't earn enough money in a year to pay for one night with her, but that wasn't his goal. He wanted her to give him, out of desire, what he couldn't afford to pay for in coin. He was so absorbed with these thoughts that he forgot about his unseen, but always present, watchers. However, they had not forgotten about him.

WHOOOO HOOOOO See you there, Pete. We'll finally get to meet.

Okay, let me get this straight. The guy has been firing this thing off into a bank for quite some time, with no ill effects. Did the neighbors complain then? The fact that the ball hit a rock and pinged off 400 yards into a neighbor's house, was a freak accident. He had taken the precaution of firing into a bank, instead of just lobbing the thing into the air, which shows he had considered safety issues. There was no mention of drugs or alcohol involved, and he was on private property, in what appears to be a fairly rural area. Let's not condemn the guy out of hand. Shit happens, even under the most strict of conditions. He seems willing to pay for damages, and will no doubt not be firing the cannon again in his neighborhood, and is no doubt very grateful no one was hurt. Lesson learned. We all make mistakes. Let's not keelhaul him just because he happens to be a history buff. If the Press had reported on a Jo-Blow citizen, would you all be as upset? Besides, it never said he was a reenactor, so how does that reflect badly on those of us who are? Not trying to start a war over this, merely trying to present the other side of the coin.

CHAPTER THREE September 17, 2006 11 leagues east of the southeastern coast of Florida A distant roaring woke Gray Dog. Rubbing his gritty eyes, he sat up. To his surprise, the mysterious fog was gone. He squinted into the distance, looking for the source of the odd noise. About a mile to the north something bright yellow skimmed across the water. It wasn’t much bigger than his long boat, and it had no sails, but it moved faster than anything Gray Dog had ever seen He scrubbed his eyes, thinking he was seeing things, but when he opened them again, the roaring boat-thing was still there. Panic-stricken, he dropped to the boards and covered his head. What was it? Where had it come from? If it was some magical boat, then who or what was in it? Or, was it the Devil’s boat, captained by some demon come from hell to collect him? He didn’t know, so stayed low until the roaring sound went away, praying his boat’s small sail wouldn’t betray him. When he sat up again the frightening yellow thing was gone. He sniffed the air. Something wasn’t right. It wasn’t the sulfur that had come with the fog, but an acrid, burnt-tar sort of smell. He looked up to get his bearings. The sun was still in the east, halfway to zenith. Late morning, then. But how many days had he lain unconscious? He looked to the west and his heart nearly jumped out of his chest. There it was. San Cristobal Island. Half a day’s rowing away, maybe a bit less. He gave a hoarse shout and leapt up, almost upsetting the boat. “Take that, Renaldo, may you dance the hempen jig from an English gibbet. I told you I’d find her, and I have.” Not believing his good luck, he picked up the oars and with renewed vigor started to row, wincing as the scabs from his blistered hands broke open again. He ignored the pain, his bone-dry throat, and the hunger that knifed his guts. He forgot it all every time he glanced over his left shoulder, his bloodshot dark eyes focused on that silhouette, looking just like the image he’d held in his brain since he and Crow Legs sneaked into Renaldo’s cabin. He’d find that cache, by God he would, and then he’d find a way to get himself and his treasure off San Cristobal. Someplace where that Portuguese bastard, Renaldo, couldn’t find him. Gray Dog’s life had been a long string of unknowns and bad luck. His mother had been a whore who worked the London docks. He never knew who his father was—doubted his mother had either. Didn’t know what year he’d been born, so wasn’t sure how old he was. When he was a lad, he was caught by a press gang and shoved aboard a forty-gun British frigate. Between her customers and her gin, Gray Dog figured his mother never realized he was gone. The frigate sailed along the coast of Spain, then continued down the coast of Africa and around the cape to India, to escort a returning fleet of six merchant vessels back to England. When the frigate docked in London for a refit, Gray Dog and most of the crew were partitioned out to other vessels. So his life had gone, shuffling from one ship to the next. He’d met Crow Legs while working aboard the privateer, Galliard, sailing the West Indies. Like himself, Crow Legs had been pressed into service, only he’d been caught in Liverpool. The privateer had sailed back across the Atlantic, heading for home, when the Vautour, flying false colors, overtook them. Like him and Crow Legs, most of the sailors agreed to join his crew rather than be cast adrift. Gray Dog didn’t particularly favor one nation over another, too busy surviving from one day to the next. When he realized the Vautour was a pirate ship, not a foreign privateer, he’d been furious. The last thing he wanted was to end his miserable life hanging from a gallows for piracy. He’d dared not open his mouth though, as one of the others had done so, and promptly been thrown overboard. It didn’t take him long to decide that pirating wasn’t any worse than working a British ship. In fact, in a lot of ways it was better. Gray Dog stowed his original plan to escape. But when the Vautour sailed toward the coast of Florida, Gray Dog had thought, why not find that hoard Crow Legs kept babbling on about, and hide out in the Americas? Live high for a change, instead of living half-starved and worked to the bone, with no thanks but a kick in the ribs from Renaldo’s quartermaster. All he need do is jump ship somewhere, and work his way back to San Cristobal. He had no intention of sharing any of that hoard with Crow Legs, especially after he’d flapped his jaws and got the two of them caught. Stupid sod hadn’t even tasted good. After six days of hard rowing, and with San Cristobal within sight, Gray Dog felt his luck had changed. Renaldo would not have cast them adrift so close to the island were it not for the Courage biting at his backside. Killing Crow Legs had been simple. The only thing not in his favor had been the wind. But what of that hellish fog the previous evening? He didn’t understand that, or the swift, strange boat-thing he’d seen earlier. He did understand the shape of the island in front of him. It meant freedom and life on land. It meant no more press gangs, no more wormy biscuit or maggoty meat, no more watered rum or risking his neck so some other bastard could gain the profit. To his delight, the small sail of the long boat ruffled then swelled. Gray Dog shipped his oars, turned around on the bench, gripped the rudder, and let the fresh wind, another proof of his new good fortune, push him closer to his goal.

Thank you both for your words of praise. Much appreciated. I do have a request, though. From now on, anyone with questions, comments, suggestions, please PM me. That way it won't break up the story's continuity. And I don't really think this story needs a separate comment thread. Thanks everyone!

North against the South? Hatfields and McCoys?

Leaf blowers! Loud, smelly things! Use a broom or a rake for God's sake.

The seven members of Alex’s group of the PFC sat around a large table sipping drinks of various kinds and colors. Despite their pirate proclivities, none of them were drinking rum. Spread out on the table was a large map of San Cristobal. Scuba diving was good around the island, so diving groups usually monopolized the small campground, but the PFC had managed to reserve the place coinciding with their favorite party day—the official Talk Like a Pirate Day, which was the nineteenth. They would board the ferry on the seventeenth, and stay through the twenty-third. Bill Summers pointed to a beach that curved between the two points of the roughly crescent-shaped island. The points faced west. Dangling from the southern point was a teardrop of sand and palms called La Perla, which was separated from the main island during high tide. “Too bad there’s a rule against bringing guns to the island. That beach would be perfect for setting up a few cannons. We could fire them at targets out in the water. Would’ve been fun.” Alex laughed. “How the hell would you get a couple of cannons on the ferry?” “Oh, I’d have found a way. What’s the big deal with guns, anyway? Hell, I can’t even hold a black powder pistol shoot.” “Wise move, not allowing guns on the island,” Julia Cox, the stockbroker, said. “Some of the PFCers can get carried away. Too much rum. With no way to reach the mainland other than the ferry or the island security person’s satellite phone, it’d be too dangerous.” “Besides,” Alex said, “the rich guy who owns San Cristobal hates guns. He’s afraid people might use the wildlife on the island for target practice. I also think insurance is an issue. He probably doesn’t want to be sued due to a gun-related accident.” Bill nodded. “Yeah, he’s right. A lawsuit could cost him big time.” He grinned. “I should know.” “What’s that?” Don Gilbert, one of the history teachers, pointed to a drawing of a wooden derrick. Arthur Anderson, the other teacher from a rival school, peered at the map. “I think that’s the water tower. Water from the one artesian spring is gravity fed into this storage tank, so we’ll have drinking water and simple outdoor showers.” Christa Pullman, a switchboard operator for a Boca title company, let out a sigh. “I was so relieved to read that in the flyer. I couldn’t go seven days without taking a shower.” “I’m with you, Christa,” Helena said. Had it not been for the availability of the showers, she would have stayed in Boca, working and worrying, until Alex returned. Bill grinned. “I’m sure you lasses will have more than one mate willin’ ta scrub yer back for ya.” Christa tossed the cherry from her drink at him. “No thanks. I prefer to scrub my own back.” Alex gave Bill a mock glare. “The only one to be scrubbin’ Hurricane Helen’s back would be me. Ye be warned.” “Okay, Blue. You’ve made yer point.” Bill held up his beer glass in salute. “That glass looks almost empty, as is mine.” Julia lifted her empty wine glass. “Whose round is it?” Alex winced. “Mine, I think. But it’ll be our last. Don’t want to miss the ferry.” Arthur flagged down their waitress and each ordered another drink. Don took a swallow of his micro brew, then asked, “Getting back to island security, who does it? I mean, no one lives on the island, like a permanent park ranger, so who enforces the rules?” “From what the rental agency told me,” Alex said, “a person is provided by Temp Security out of Miami, on an as-needed basis. I’m guessing that means our guy or gal will be hired just to deal with the PFC. Whoever it is will be crossing on the ferry with us.” “Will he or she have a gun?” Don asked. “I don’t think so. Mr. Ross, the island’s owner, is pretty strict on the no guns thing,” Alex replied. “Sounds like we’ll be protecting ourselves,” Julia said. “With no guns, and the island deserted but for us, what could happen?” Don said. Alex winked at Helena. “Ol’ H.H. here thinks because San Cristobal is on the edge of the Bermuda Triangle, we’re all going to be abducted by aliens.” There was lighthearted laughter among the group, even from Helena. It did sound pretty silly, now she thought about it. “I never said that, but I am worried. Just being paranoid, I guess.” “I don’t know about aliens,” Arthur said, “but I’ve heard rumors of treasure.” Don laughed at his colleague. “Come on, Arthur, every island between here and Barbados is rumored to have treasure hidden somewhere. You don’t really believe there’s any on San Cristobal, do you?” Arthur shrugged. “Just as good a chance there as anywhere else.” “San Cristobal isn’t that big. If there were any treasure on it, someone would have found it by this time,” Alex said. “The only swag to be found, will be whatever Mad Matilda hides for the treasure hunt she has planned. She’ll be doling out clues all week.” Christa asked, “Whose treasure is it supposed to be? The old stuff, I mean.” “Renaldo, Portuguese captain of the Vautour,” Arthur said. “What does vautour mean?” Helena asked. “French for vulture. The ship was French built.” Arthur smiled. “Great name for a pirate ship, although she was originally a privateer. I like to think Renaldo traded up when he took her because the name suited his sense of humor.” Bill downed the last of his beer. “Where’d you learn all this?” “Read about him.” Arthur smiled. “Pirates are my field of expertise, after all. Figured since we were going to be on his island, I should catch up on my research. I have one of the books in my suitcase. It’s all about the pirates who supposedly buried treasure along the east coast.” That’s all Alex needs, Helena thought, forty people digging holes everywhere, looking for pirate gold. The island’s owner would just love that. “What happened to this Captain Renaldo?” “Probably hung. Most of them were,” Bill remarked. Arthur shook his head. “No, actually, for awhile Renaldo was pretty successful. The last ship he took was a small Spanish galleon heading back to Old Spain from Puerto Bello, Panama. There is a surviving list of the cargo he confiscated from the El Populo — gold and silver coins, bags of gold dust, silver plate. The youngest son of a high ranking Spanish family was killed.” “That’s not unusual,” Don commented. “No, but in this case, the family still exists. They have quite a collection of artifacts from the period.” “So, what did happened to Renaldo?” Helena asked again. “The Vautour was eventually overtaken by the British ship Courage. Renaldo fought to the bitter end. Died of a musket ball to the head. His ship was burned to the water line, and the majority of his crew drowned, since most sailors back then couldn’t swim. Those who survived were later hung. Actually, Renaldo wasn’t too far from San Cristobal at the time, so rumor has it he was heading for the island to pick up his cache, but had to veer off.” “That’s convenient,” Don scoffed. “Rumors of a cache, a pirate ship with no survivors, and the captain goes down with his ship without ever revealing the whereabouts of his loot.” Arthur grinned. “That’s what makes treasure hunting so exciting. Nothing to say it is there, but nothing to say it isn’t, either.” “Quite a lecture, Arthur.” Alex stood, then rolled up the map of San Cristobal. “Come on, you lot. Treasure or no treasure, it’s time to hit your bunks. Tomorrow is going to be a long, hectic day.” Later that night Helena and Alex lay on their sides in the king-sized motel bed. With her back curved against his chest, he casually ran ribbons of her hair through his fingers. “Your hair is like silk. Did I ever tell you that?” “At least ten times this week,” she said, smiling. His hand drifted down her bare shoulder then across her left breast. “Your skin is like silk too.” She felt his lips touch her neck, then her shoulder. “How do you do it? Keep your skin this soft?” “That’s secret girlie stuff. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” “You do kill me,” he whispered. “Every time I look at you I feel like I’m dying.” She rolled over, her face close to his. With one finger, he pulled her hair away from her eyes and kissed each eyelid, then her nose, then her mouth. That last kiss became a possession, one she returned with equal intensity. Then time spun out in a whirlpool of sensations that left them both breathless. When her heartbeat returned to normal and Alex lay back on the pillows, his hands clasped behind his head, she said, “That’s about as close to dying as I want to come.” He smiled. “It still amazes me how good we are. Not just in bed, although that’s pretty damn hot, but in everything. Well, almost everything. I can tell you’re still not too thrilled with all this pirate stuff.” “I just don’t understand it. I mean, I know there are all kinds of reenactment groups, from Medieval to the Civil War, but I never paid much attention to them.” She’d tolerated his interest in pirates and this reenactment stuff, but realized she’d never asked him what had sparked the interest in the first place. “Why are you into it?” “Loved pirates as a kid. Read Treasure Island, Kidnapped. Watched all those old pirate movies on TV.” Helena cocked an eye. “Then there’s Johnny Depp.” “Yeah, he makes an okay pirate,” Alex conceded. “Doesn’t he just.” “Hey, watch it.” He gave her a teasing poke in the ribs. “Anyway, I used to dress up as a pirate every Halloween. My mom got kinda tired of coming up with new versions of baggy pants, baggy shirt, sash and eye patch.” “I haven’t dressed up since I was a kid. When I started working I was always too busy to play-act like I was Queen Elizabeth the First, or some tavern wench.” “Maybe that’s your problem. You need to chill out a little. Learn to relax.” “Easy for you to say. You don’t have to deal with eccentric artists, fussy patrons, or a boss who thinks he’s the god of the art market.” “Yeah, from what little I’ve seen of Ruben Westhouse, he does appear to be a little anal.” “You have no idea. The man is a poster child for control freaks. However, he knows the art world and I need to learn what he knows if I’m ever going to run my own gallery.” “So you can end up as anal as Ruben?” She laughed. “I hope not.” “Then why doesn’t seven days on a nice tropical island sound like fun to you?” “If San Cristobal had a Four Star hotel, with a swimming pool, jacuzzi, and a great seafood restaurant, then I’d be all for it. I’d sit out by the pool in my deck chair, have a nice man in a white uniform bring me pretty drinks with umbrellas in them, and I’d let you rub sun block on all my exposed places.” “Well, the sun block part sounds fun.” “So does the jacuzzi and the little drinks with umbrellas.” “Okay, that sounds good too, but I think you could also have fun with a bunch of pirates if you’d just let yourself roll with it.” She turned to face him. “I’ll try, Alex. I will. But cut me some slack, okay? I’m not sure I can live up to Hurricane Helen.” “I don’t know about that. A few minutes ago, things were getting pretty rough.” She chuckled softly. “That’s not what I meant.” He leaned over and kissed her, then whispered in her ear, “Come on, H.H., let’s see if we can’t work up another storm.” “Are pirates always this lusty?” “Arrrr ....”

September 2006 CHAPTER TWO September 16 Palms Motel, Key Biscayne, Florida Arrrr...! Avast! Alex gave a masculine twirl to show off his new pirate frock coat. What do you think? With a smile of amusement, Helena paused in her packing, hands fisted on her hips. I think you look like something out of Monty Python. Alex frowned. They never made a pirate movie. What about Yellowbeard or Crimson Permanent Assurance? she said, pushing back wisps of hair that had escaped her head band. Normally her hair fell almost to her slender waist in a thick, honey-colored cascade, but she had braided it to keep it out of her way. It hung over her left shoulder in a thick rope. I may not be into pirates, but I do like Monte Python. A wry, lopsided grin pulled at the corner of Alexs mouth. Permanent Assurance was just a prologue. It doesnt count. Helenas heart gave a little skip. She had to admit, once shed seen that grin, she knew she was doomed. His sandy-blond surfer hair and the six-foot soccer-player body were added bonusesalong with eyes the deep blue of a tropical summer sky. He posed, feet apart and chest thrust out. This coat makes me feel like Errol Flynn in Captain Blood. Funny, I dont remember Errol Flynn wearing a T-shirt that says Blackbeard's Triathlon: Drink, Pillage, and Plunder, while fighting the Spanish. Not to mention jeans with cowboy boots. He shrugged off the frock coat, folded it, and put it in a suitcase one of four gaping open and half full of clothes and costumes theyd brought from home. Come on, Helena, dont be such a wet blanket. Besides, youre going to be stuck with about forty people like me for seven days, so you better lighten up. Wrong. They are not all like you. Most of the guys are computer geeks who would faint dead away if they ever saw a real pirate. Its a good thing their cutlasses are blunt, or they would end up cutting off their own hands or poking an eye out. Theyre safer on a Paint Ball course. Wariness furrowed his brow as he stepped closer. With his right index finger he hooked the end of her braid and gave it a tug. And the women, Miss Hoity-Toity Im an assistant art gallery manager? What about them? She jerked the braid away and flipped it behind her. I might be an assistant manager, but I am not hoity-toity. The women you are referring to are mostly bored housewives or teenagers into role-playing games who would do anything to get away from their parents. The wariness changed to annoyance. Thats what you really think of the PFC? That were all a bunch of losers? Helena knew PFC stood for Pirates of the Florida Coast, a reenactment and history group dedicated to all things piratical. She also knew she was exaggerating. The membership consisted of writers, musicians, artists, historianspeople who came from all walks of life. In Alexs local group, based in Boca Raton, were two high school teachers who brought extra excitement to their classes, a lawyer who happened to be an expert in black powder weapons, a woman in her fifties who worked for a well known stock brokerage firm, and a young receptionist. Yes, there were geeks and role-players among the overall membership of about a hundred, but they were not the majority. No, not really, she conceded. She also knew how much the group meant to Alex, and how involved he was with their activities. With only a few exceptions, it was an involvement she had usually been too busy or uninterested in sharing. Its just, this whole trip has me worried. He looked surprised. Why? Forty people on an island with no electricity, no transportation, no running water, only pit toilets, and out of cell phone range of the mainland, and you dont see that as a potential nightmare? Not to mention the fact that San Cristobal Island is on the edge of the Bermuda Triangle. Is that what has you spooked? Youre afraid well all get sucked up in some space ship, keep company with Elvis, and never be seen again? I just think the PFC could have chosen a better, less isolated spot for their event. How would we get the real experience if the PFC held the event in a hotel on the beach in Miami? The whole point is to get away from civilization for seven days and see how we do. Come on, Alex. Frolicking around in pirate costumes and drinking rum does not qualify as the real experience. Youre going to be cooking on propane stoves, not open fires, and sleeping mostly in dome tents, not under scraps of sailcloth. He shrugged. Since this is an event not open to the public, I cut everyone some slackmainly for packing convenience. Otherwise, all the tents would be sailcloth, instead of folding chairs thered be wooden benches or old kegs, and all liquids would be imbibed from pewter mugs, horn cups, or coconut shells. Youve been to other events. Youve seen how authentic we can get. With San Cristobal, Im interested in something more intangible. Instead of strict authenticity, I want atmosphere. I still think you might have done better to lease a sailboat for seven days and pretend it was a pirate ship." And just how do you suggest I squeeze forty people on a sailboat? Rotation. Each group gets a couple of days. Wow, a couple of days, which most would spend being sea sick. Look, if youd rather stay in Key Biscayne, go ahead. Actually, if youre going to have this negative attitude, Id just as soon you flew back to Boca. That got her. She didnt much like this island idea, but she didnt want him to go without her. There would be too many young girls dressed in low-cut bodices, flaunting their assets, in conjunction with the enjoyment of lots of alcohol. It wasnt that she didnt trust Alex, but guys, alcohol and young girls were a combination ripe for betrayal. She gave him a weak smile. You know, when I saw you and your gang in that Boca Raton bar, all dressed like youd come off some storybook ship, shouting your Arrrs, and Savvys, I should have walked out. The wry grin was back. But then you saw me, as handsome a rogue who never sailed the seven seas, and it was love at first sight. Something like that. He gave her a kiss that curled her toes and sent goose bumps along her spine. Much more exciting to be dating a pirate, he said, than a lowly, entry-level architect designing fast food stands and drive-through banks. Oh, I dont know. I find him kinda exciting too. Good. I find hoity-toity assistant art gallery managers pretty sexy, so were perfect for each other. Come on, lets finish packing and meet the rest of the gang downstairs in the bar. Black Hand has promised to buy the first round. Even though she had known Alex for six months, she still wasnt used to the PFC names by which the members called each other. Black Hand was Bill Summers, the black powder expert and lawyer. At least his name made sense, because during the few events shed attended, his hands were usually filthy with black powder residue. Other names shed heard, however, she thought either dumb or confusing. Like Pirate Patty, which Helena thought sounded like a comic strip character, but who was actually a thirty year old woman who worked the childrens section of a large department store. Remember, Captain Blue, she said, closing her suitcase, we have to be on board the ferry by nine tomorrow morning. Dont let the rounds get out of hand. She cocked her head. Savvy? Alex winked one of the reasons he had been labeled Captain Blue. Better look lively then, lass, as with that smile, ya might be makin me late fer the party. *********

Time travel and, like Jill, the ability to understand any language.

CHAPTER ONE September 16, 1706 13 leagues east of the southeastern Florida coast Gray Dog stood in the long boat, pissing over the side. He figured it would be close to the last time, as he didn’t have much piss left. He’d swallowed the last drops from a water skin two days ago. His stomach felt flattened to his backbone, as he hadn’t eaten anything in three days. He’d used one of the oars to snag seaweed, but it had tasted like garbage and he’d puked it back up. Adjusting his breeches, he scanned the horizon, sealine to sealine. Not a blasted cloud in the sky as far as his swollen eyes could see. He licked his cracked lips, plopped down on the wooden bench, and started rowing again, as the boat’s small sail had gone slack when the wind died. Due west, he hoped, with only the blazing sun and cold stars to guide him. He figured he had one good day left in him, maybe two. Grinding what few teeth he had left, Gray Dog thought of Captain Renaldo — may God rot his black Portuguese heart — and the look on his face as he had cast Gray Dog and Crow Legs adrift six days earlier. He’d tossed them a water skin and a knife, laughing the whole time. “There’s to you, my spying, bilge-rata friends. Be glad I do not slit your throats and toss you to the sharks.” “T’was Gray Dog that put me to it, Captain, I ain't done nuthing,” Crow Legs had whined. “At least give us two water skins.” “Cast off, filth, you’ll be getting the one water skin and no sympathy from me. Maybe you’ll make it to San Cristobal, but I do not think so. I am hoping that British man o’ war, Courage, finds you first. I believe you would make a fine sight, swinging from her main mast. Maybe they’ll be hanging you, Crow Legs, from the crow’s nest, so you’ll feel at home, si?” “I’ll be living high on your gold before I swing on the Courage,” Gray Dog had yelled back. “I’ll be whoring and feasting while you rot in some stinking English gaol.” “Tall words, my friend, coming from a man sitting in a very small boat on a very large ocean, with but one skin of water and a spying cockroach for company.” Captain Renaldo had spit at them, laughed, then shouted to his quartermaster, “If these two are still within pistol range in ten minutes, shoot them and retrieve the boat.” Gray Dog and Crow Legs had hoisted the small sail and, to speed their retreat, rowed, watching the Vautour and Captain Renaldo grow smaller and smaller. By dusk the brig’s sails had fallen below the horizon. “You think we’ll make it to San Cristobal?” Crow Legs asked. “Well, I’m planning to,” Gray Dog replied, as he shoved the knife into Crow Legs’ chest. “Can’t say the same for you, mate.” Before his betraying companion stopped twitching, he’d hacked off fingers to use as fish bait, then tossed the scrawny body over the side. The fingers hadn’t worked. Using the cord from his breeches as a line, the first two fingers had been eaten away, with no fish caught. On the third try, a seagull snatched the finger as it arced through the sky, the cord jerked from his blistered hand. Cursing, he’d watched the bird fly off, his makeshift fishing line dangling from its beak. His only consolation was the gull meant land wasn’t too far off. He hoped. The rest of the fingers he’d eaten. He’d even sucked, then chewed the bones, while thinking he should have saved more of old Crow Legs’ carcass for eating, instead of dumping it into the ocean. He’d crunched the last digit three days ago. He’d cut strips from the water skin and attempted to eat them, but the hide was too tough, and his teeth too poor. He squinted against the glare, his eyes always searching for the silhouette that was as clear in his mind as the tribal tattoos that circled his upper arms. San Cristobal Island. He and Crow Legs had been forced to join Captain Renaldo’s crew back in February, when the Vautour, somewhere between the coast of Africa and the Canary Islands, had taken the merchant ship, Galliard, on which they’d been mates. Since then, they’d heard nothing but rumors about the island where the Captain and his Quartermaster supposedly hid their shares of the cargoes pirated from dozens of ships. Gray Dog hadn’t believed the stories at first. He’d seen no evidence of treasure on board, and the only ship the Vautour had taken after his capture was a Dutch merchant vessel heading for the Caribbean. She was full of wheat, salt, cloth, household and farming utensils, not gold or silver. They’d put her crew adrift, stripped her of provisions, burned her, then sailed south, heading for the Cape Verde Islands. From there they’d sailed west for Antigua, then northwest, to play havoc with ships coming out of Cuba and the Gulf of Mexico. In the Gulf they had taken two ships, a French merchantman, and a small Spanish galleon laden with gold and silver on its way back to Spain. The plunder had been divided up, and for a month Gray Dog had more money than he’d ever had in his life. Then the Vautour stayed for a week in Jamaica. By the time she sailed again, Gray Dog’s treasure was safely locked in the coffers of the tavern owners, or stuffed down the bodices of the local prostitutes. Back at sea, hungover and broke, he listened as Crow Legs continuously repeated the story of San Cristobal. Gray Dog hadn’t paid much attention, seeing no way to discover if the stories were true or not. If they were true, he saw no way to collect the treasure without Renaldo finding out. But Crow Legs was a persistent little rat, and convinced Gray Dog they should sneak into the Captain’s cabin and get a glimpse of the map of the island. They’d not stolen it. That was too dangerous, but Gray Dog had memorized the island’s shape and the path marked through the hills. The island lay roughly ten leagues east of the southeastern coast of Florida. By some thieves’ luck they hadn’t been caught. Never would have been, if Crow Legs had kept his gob shut. No, that slimy, son of a rabid dog went whispering among the crew that they knew where a tidy stash of swag could be found. ‘Course Renaldo heard of it and, quick as the squint of an eye, there they were, standing with their backs raw from the whip, their weapons confiscated, and, sore and bleeding, dumped into a boat. The Vautour had been running up the Keys and the southern tip of Florida by that time. Gray Dog suspected the Vautour had been heading for San Cristobal, so he couldn’t figure out why Renaldo hadn’t just killed them and tossed them into the sea. It finally dawned on him they’d been used as a diversion. The Courage had been playing cat and mouse with them for three days. Renaldo had fed them to the English so the Vautour could skip away. Gray Dog didn’t think the captain of a British war ship would be content with capturing two worthless Foremast Jacks, but in any case, the English ship never found them. He wiped sweat from his eyes, then bent to rowing again. It was awkward, in a boat designed to hold up to ten men. His arms quivered and his back ached. The whip marks, scabbed-over and cracked, still oozed. He was lightheaded, and the sunlight cut to his brain like a dagger. The breeze had died early in the morning and the sea lay flat and oily looking. He watched a huge jellyfish float by, its transparent, rubbery sail trailing thousands of stinging threads. He wondered if the sail part was edible, but it was out of reach of his oar. Cursing the lack of wind, he rowed until he was exhausted, then fell back in the boat, its wooden ribs digging painfully into his back. I’ll sleep for a bit, he thought. No use killing myself before I get to the island. He curled his body to ease his back, lay an arm over his face, and slept. A burning sensation in his nose woke him. Cautiously, he cracked one eye. The boat was enveloped in a sickly, orange-tinted fog. It stung his eyes, and smelled and tasted like sulfur. He sat up, collecting the oars. “What the blazing hell is this?” he croaked, thinking it smelled like cannon smoke, but he’d heard no firing. Had the Courage found him and fired a warning shot? “No, Gray Dog, you idiot,” he mumbled, turning to look behind him, “the English ain't going to waste no cannon shot on your worthless hide.” The strange fog was so thick he couldn’t see anything. He dared not row, lest he get so far off course he’d die of thirst before he could reach San Cristobal, assuming he was anywhere near it. The burning in his eyes got worse. His tongue felt thick and dry. With no spittle to swallow with, he coughed, then gagged. The dense foul air roiled and wavered around him, and within it tiny sparks of light winked and hissed. The simple act of breathing seared his nose and lungs as if he breathed in fire. He laughed, or the closest thing he could manage with his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. As he collapsed into the boat, he thought, “You’d best be saying what few prayers you know, old Gray Dog, ‘cause this be hell’s gate opening to welcome you. The next face you’ll be seeing will be the devil’s own.”

I am humbly submitting this novel in the hopes that you will enjoy it keeping in mind that I wrote this a year before I joined the Pub (back in 2005), or had attended any kind of pirate reenactment event. I based most of what I knew of large events on the SCA wars I had attended over the previous ten years. That being the case, you will see a few names that sound familiar. It is pure coincidence. If you want to make any comments about the story, pro or con, PM me. I can take it! Also, I will probably be doing edits as I post chapters, as I haven't re-read this in over a year, so I am sure I'll find errors. Feel free to point them out to me if you find any. THIS IS A COPYRIGHTED NOVEL WRITTEN BY ME. NO ONE CAN REPRODUCE, PUBLISH, OR QUOTE FROM IT WITHOUT MY PERMISSION. Here is the brief synopsis that was part of the query letters I sent to book agents at the time, attempting to get the book picked up by an agency. It will help "set up" the story for you. What happens when a group of pirate reenactors out for a week-long event on a primitive island meet scabrous, vicious pirate reality? I have completed an adventure, reverse time-travel novel of 97,021 words entitled Pirate Out of Time, which attempts to answer that question. Gray Dog, an illiterate, superstitious pirate, is unknowingly transported three hundred years in time to 2006. On the island he expected to find deserted, he discovers strange pirates flying dozens of versions of the Jolly Roger. While looking for a hidden cache of gold which he will kill to keep, he struggles to deal with and understand power boats, contrails, women in bikinis, flashlights, and beer in tin canisters. Helena Lindsey and her boyfriend Alex Hunter, along with members of Pirates of the Florida Coast (PFC), find out first hand that not all pirates look or or act like Hollywood movie stars. Over the course of a harrowing week, as food is stolen, members injured, two people murdered, and Helena kidnapped and nearly killed, they finally realize their antagonist is not a PFCer taking reenactment a step too far, but a man far more bizarre, unbelievable, and dangerous. The questions I asked myself, and that started this story, were: If you met someone claiming to be 300 years from the past, would you truly believe them? And how would someone from the past, uneducated, illiterate and superstitious, thrust 300 years into the future, deal with what he saw, or try to understand what had happened, especially if he didn't know it had happened, and his surroundings didn't at first make it obvious? Thus you have the plot for Pirate Out of Time.

In my life, I have had the awful experience of hitting one cat, and one dog. Both times it was late at night after midnight. The cat was white, hunched over eating from a white bag of MacDonalds trash someone had thrown into the middle of the street. I thought it was just that, a pile of trash. Right as I was about to drive over the top of the stuff (not run over it), the cat looked up...right at me...as I hit it with the undercarriage of my car. It was dead, but I was in a commercial district at 2 am in the morning. There was no way for me to know where the cat had come from. I cried all the way home. To make it worse, it was about a week before Christmas, and I felt sick thinking I had killed someone's pet as an early Christmas gift. That happened over twenty years ago, and I can still see that cats eyes looking right into my own before I hit it. With the dog, I was coming home late on the freeway at a stretch between our house and town. It was dark, no lights, no houses, just forest. Out of nowhere, a dog came running out of the trees right in front of my truck. I had no time to slow down, as there was a big rig semi tractor-trailer coming behind me. The animal wasn't a coyote. It looked more like a golden lab. It went under my truck, and then..well, with a semi behind me, you can guess the rest. What the dog was doing way out there I have no idea. So, my plea is...if you have cats, keep then indoors. They are safer and live longer when indoor kitties. I know, I have five indoor furbies, and would just die if anything happened to any of them. If you have a dog, make sure it is in a secure enclosure or yard. Yes, they get out, but drivers can't always avoid them, and if it is late at night, it is too dangerous to go knocking door to door to find the owner. I would suggest calling 911 and letting the police know the dog has been hit, and let them contact animal control if the dog is wearing a tag. They will notify the owners.

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Wishing you a most splendiferous natal day, Cheeky dear. Hope it was grand in every way.

Another belated Birthday wish, Syren. Was away all weekend. Hope your day was grand!

Welcome to Etsy! I love my shop, and it was easy to set up. Haven't sold anything yet, but it's early days. I just like the idea of having my own website, without the hassle of getting a url #, and paying those fees, setting it up, etc. Good luck. I'm sure you'll do well. I think Syren is going to set up a shop as well, if she hasn't done so already. It's fun.