A short, stout old salt strides into the pub. On his belt, opposite his cutlass, he wears not a flintlock but a battered (but well-polished) tinwhitle. He strokes his beard and casts a gleaming eye about the room.
"Ahoy, me hearties. Seamus the piper at yer service, and it's a very good day I be wishin' ye.
"Professional musician by trade, Gentleman o' Fortune by choice, I be. Organist, whistler, piper and more, arrr.
"These days, me service be giv'n in th'Hallow'd Halls o' Higher Ed, far from the briny deep, in the mountain and forests o' th' Pacific Nor'west - but to the sea me heart belongs.
"Glad to be makin' yer acquaintences, says I."