Dark figures floated above. Squawks rang out. Beyond, clouds clumped in clusters and, past those, blue bathed. But none of this concerned the man, naked, sprawled across the planked deck of a boat with name un-recollectable. In fact, he was not entirely certain of even this much until waves came nudging the vessel gently, Mother Ocean rocking her bare child to rest. He felt he could do anything but. Worse, the man seemed trusted with a task--gazing past the circling seagulls overhead saw great, massive letters spanning a sentence in the sky, ocean foam white filled within deep black borders. Strange, he thought. The man had never seen words hang in such a way--at least there was little difficulty discerning their meaning.

QUEST ACTIVE: SAIL TO SHORE

The man squinted. His eyes stung. His skin felt the sun. He knew he was up against wood, and he rose and looked down to confirm as much. Directly ahead of him laid the mast and unattended wheel, bountiful cloth billowing overhead. He stood there, salty wind kissing his body, pondering the whereabouts of the crew. The man glanced up back towards the instructions above. He surveyed the deck once more to catch the sight, sound of anyone; silence followed save squawks. Enduring breezes continued repeated romantic advances, and so the man found himself ushered below deck.

Dark was all that awaited the nudist. He fumbled for a moment until managing to pry open a porthole, blasting light straight through the cabins. The man, truthfully, expected a grisly scene. Instead he discovered a ship seemingly caught in time--the tables that denoted a mess hall were clattered with plates piled high weighing loaves of bread, meat, wine. The man did not particularly feel like sampling any of the food before him--the same could not be said for the bottle he soon gripped the neck of, sipping and swigging. He poked his head through doorways, forced brighter cabins, and found cots in various states of dress, recently poured drinks--a flickering candle in one surprising instance. The nude investigator found his investigation mystifying; moreso with every further sampling of wine. It seemed to him the ship had been hastily evacuated, and he’d just missed out. What exactly had all run from, though? He found no leaks. He discovered crates, barrels, rope, and wood--little else. Bark ran all around the ship’s guest, and he found its use vaguely disturbing. But he did not have much time to consider why for while danger did not seem to lurk throughout the vessel’s decks, it instead sailed straight towards him. Catching sight of the black flags that began to close in across the horizon, he steadied his breath, nursed and ascended.

The sails sailed closer. The clothless had neither plan nor warmth. He’d found no weapons of any kind--were they taken with? Clothes were spied but none tried or thought to have been until then feeling the wind return to its lover. No time to regret, he mused. The man stood by the railing and watched as a vessel similar in appearance drew near. Across its flag, a skull smirked. Across its deck, an eager crew groped their rails in anticipation of the closing distance. The man nude on the other ship sipped his spirit, grateful that it’d yet to dry. He also considered his own fate likely to be the opposite, tossed overboard and plunged into depths he would never escape.

The man felt grateful to be tipsy. He smiled to himself with a dumb look full of grate and liquor.

Both ships soon found themselves parallel with each other. A plank was hoisted up by the dark flagged crew, doubtlessly heavy given the number of men responsible for the task. Together they released their grips, and the crew crossed over the bridge neatly--somewhat disorganized. Nine men in total made the journey, and they looked over their new wooden prize with hunger. In contrast the nudist, their sole reception, received strange faces, and they did not say a word about him, to him, or much else. The man met their looks with equal puzzlement. He wanted to ask if they were reenactors, if their flag flew over a captain as well, but he realized an answer had already begun mounting their bridge. Sized triple any that had tread the plank, the leader of these pirates strode with confidence oozing out his puffed up flowery chest and down his stripped sleeves. While the crew each wore a piece of jewelry or two, the captain appeared more gold than flesh.

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At last the large invader came to stand before solely one--the last life left on the ship--no less than two feet dwarfing the latter. His earrings and chains blew north for but a moment. The bare man before him inexplicably no longer seemed affected by the wind.

“You stand erect in the nude, boy.”

“I am not erect,” the ‘boy’ responded.

“Hmm.”

The captain surveyed his plunder.

“Where be the rest of the crew?” he asked.

“I’m not erect,” the nudist said with a tone of uncertainty.

“Hmm. Your mates, boy. Have you any mates? And where be your drawers?”

“Got none.”

“Drawers, yes. Mates?”

There came to rest what the captain considered a thoughtful pause. He watched the nudist then gesture around the two of them with wine, no direction settled. It was this continuing motion that crept a smile up on the captain’s face. He asked if one had been drinking. The reply he received came with little hesitation:

“Yes,” the drunk admitted, “... No. Ain’t got any more for you or yours, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

He hiccuped.

“Boy...” the captain began. “Yer vessel’s the property of Cap’n Blackgill. All aboard, top to bottom, belongs to me’n me crew now, and that includes her stores and drink.” He brandished a cutlass bringing the point precariously close to the naked’s nose. “Don’t got time for drunken nonsense. Now see, I get enough o’ that from m’own boys. So I’ll have ye step aside nos, ‘ave a seat, and let me’n the lads gander at what ye got stored up here, now how’s that?”

Heat within his heart flaring up from the booze in his bosom, the man without cloth crashed his bottle against the pirate’s steel. A second later and the man corked the saber that had threatened him within his very bottle. Blackgill looked astonished. He drew the blade back but found his opponent followed forward fervently with the gesture, keeping the end of the steel sheathed within what once held drink. The golden pirate attempted to whip his blade east and west, but the effort bore no grape. He shot out a laugh of frustration and strode forward, intent on closing the distance between he and his naked adversary. But to yet further surprise, the drunk slammed the back of his bottle with a flat palm sending the equivalent of a shockwave through the steel, the captain’s cutlass flying out from its owner’s grip.

Quick on his feet, Blackgill felt the fight he’d involved himself in needed desperately ending. He drew his hand up fast reaching for the flintlock stored across his chest. The weapon rose out from its scabbard and soared through the air. Glass crashed against his face then, the man thrice the size of his men sent barreling downwards. The warrior left standing continued to hold the neck of his own weapon until he did not. He looked over the unconscious body and frowned.

“Can’t wear these.”

But the man without wear did help himself to the captain’s great black hat. He collected as well the saber and unfired flintlock, their scabbards and Blackgill’s boots to boot. A surprisingly snug fit, the nudist-no-longer felt considerably more clothed, though several bouts of the wind’s affection cut through this reality. He looked over the temporarily captain-less crew. A triumphant wipe across his face later and he addressed them:

“No dru... drunken nonsense, now... which of you knows where ‘shore’ is?”