wanderer || 'captain' jack sparrow

It’s quite a nice morning. The sky is practically cloudless today, only the slightest strokes of creamy white marring the clear blue canvas above me. There’s hardly any wind at all, it seems, when I lick the pad of my right forefinger with a flick of my tongue and hold the wet appendage to the air beside my head. With no wind, the heat is building fast upon the shore. I can feel myself start to sweat underneath the hair on my upper lip and along the back of my neck and under my arms and really, honestly, I’m starting to sweat everywhere. It’s hot. I cannot avoid my human nature. My nose crinkles up in mild disgust at the slow trickle of perspiration along the small of my back. I’m by no means the cleanest of men, but sometimes the mere feeling of becoming dirtier is too much. Being dirty is one thing in and of itself. Becoming it is another.

I shrug my shoulders languidly, letting the faded brown overcoat I wear fall from my frame to bare a thin cream colored blouse-like shirt with small ties holding together the top of it covered by a ragged looking navy vest. A burgundy sash is drawn about my waist, but even the addition of its weight is too much at present. I untie it with deft fingers and let it drop alongside the coat, followed quickly by multiple belts and the vest. A hum of relief rumbles through my chest as what little breeze there is penetrates the threadbare shirt and cools me, even if only a little. My worn leather boots are next to go, flung into the sand a few paces away as I curl my bare toes into the shore. I’m back to basics. There’s nothing but me, a simple shirt, a pair of loose navy pants (to match the vest, of course), and the sea.

I’ve always loved the sea. It’s been me and her since the beginning. My father always loved her as well. It was only natural that I follow in his suit. We lived by her side for many years together, living from her depths alone and finding solace in only the rush of her comfort against our skin. We couldn’t live in peace forever, of course. That’s not how the world works, love. Father was searching for fruits further inland when he was found. If it had been the government, he would have been taken or killed on the spot. The opposite side of the coin, however, needed all the help it could get. The resistance wanted my father for his mind, his resourcefulness, his craftiness. I was a part of the package.

District Thirteen wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. It was underground, entirely cut off from the sea. The sterility was stifling. An hour in there would have been enough for me. Six years was far too much. I had been cleaved from my heart, from where I was supposed to be, for too long. Father understood, to an extent. He’d wait, and in doing so hope to prove himself right. You see, he believed I would one day realize I would want something more than the open waters; that I would need to be a part of something bigger than myself.

I don’t believe he’s on the right path there, love. I don’t need anything other than the sea. There is nothing like her in the world. She is my all. I want nothing more than to stay by her side forever. I left with as much as I could carry on my back and tried to find my way back to her. It took a while. I’d grown my first beard by the time I’d reached her again (and my second, and third, and then a goatee, my hair could be braided, it was a long time), falling headlong into the waves in greeting. She welcomed me back like a lost child, and bore for me an entirely new gift: a ship.

She wasn’t in the best of conditions. Some of the wood looked rotten and it listed to the left a bit and the crew had given up on repairing her. Instead, they had taken to the shore to drink and eat and forget their troubles. I knew from the moment I saw her that I couldn’t give up on her. She was too beautiful to leave behind. There was something about the way her sails, riddled with holes as they were and ripped along the edges, caught the wind that resonated deep within me. That beauty would be mine and with her I would take off on the greatest journey I could ever know. And so I did. The crew was a little worse for wear and irritable, with no captain in sight, but in time, I came to lead them into the horizon with new purpose, and passion. However, not everything goes according to plan.

I narrow my already squinted charcoal-lined muddy hazel eyes at the shimmering horizon, an eyebrow raising in a mixture of disbelief and incredulity. A huffed breath passes between cracked lips and ruffles at the dark brown and severely tangled mess that is the hair falling across my face. I raise a hand to comb it back with my fingers, yanking at some of the more ridiculous tangles in frustration while trying to avoid dislodging my headscarf or messing up the more artistically tangled pieces and braids in the bottom layers. My tongue sweeps out to wet my lips, despite the instantaneous stinging. It’s a fleeting pain, nothing like the ache lodged in the very center of my chest at present. There’s nothing to be done about that pain, however. It cannot be mended. The only thing to relieve it sits far from clear sight.

There, across the ocean and far from my reach, lies my ship. My eyebrows knit together and my forehead wrinkles, eyes opening up to a normal amount again as I stare dazedly out at the water. Just a few years, and there she goes, off into the distance, without me. She looks so beautiful from here, but she would look even more beautiful if I was again aboard her, behind the wheel, sailing off to places unknown.

“… Damn. Bloody treacherous first-officers and their hidden agendas…”

I let an arm flail loosely in the direction of the ship, hand waving in dismissive movements. Turning from the ocean, I walk in measured steps across the sand, boots leaving behind uneven prints to be erased by the wind and the sea. I raise a hand to rip off my hat, throwing the faded brown leather onto the shore before throwing myself down beside it with a thump against compact ground. The sand sticks to the oil on my tanned face and sifts through the mess of my goatee as I let it mesh with the white of the beach. Groaning against the air, I roll myself over onto my back and stare up at the dusky sky, pale freckle-like grains mixing with the darker spots across the bridge of my nose and cheeks. My hair fans out about my head, circling me like a dark halo of twisted vines and matted patchwork.

My life is a farce. Surely, it has to be. There’s no other reason that it could be so comically torturous otherwise. Here I am, stranded on an island in the middle of the ocean, miles away from all civilization, and my one and only hope of survival just sailed away. I blink wearily at the sky before sitting up and tugging my long overcoat closer. Reaching a hand into the inner pocket, I carefully pull out the two items housed inside: a gun, and a single bullet. It’s an old thing, it seems. Definitely pre-Panem. It’s strange to even think of a time before our glorious country, but this gun is all the proof I need. The dark wood has held up well in the accenting on the barrel, but the curved handle looks a little worse for wear. The metal-work is untouched, though. The barrel is flawlessly smooth, as if it hasn’t seen a day in the light. One bullet. That’s all it would take.

With a growl, I throw the two by my feet and stand, marching barefoot clear across the sand and into the tree-line. I am no coward. The thought makes me pause, nose scrunching up in disbelief. Strike that. I am the biggest coward. However, that is when it comes to the care of my life by others. Should I find myself in a fight, I am by no means going to allow another to take it. Sometimes, (most times), it is simply a much more intelligent tactical move to run away. I’m very good at that indeed. It’s an acquired skill, one acquired from many years of practice, both aboard my ship and not. Not running away gets one hurt more times, it seems. I scratch absentmindedly at my right forearm, glancing down to look at the faded brand on my skin. Yes, running is definitely the better option.

I squint up at the sun as I emerge on the other side of the trees. That took maybe… ten minutes to cross the entire island. My head swivels from side to side, eyes raking over the sand and onto the horizon. There’s nothing here. I heave a sigh, raising hand to swipe at the sweat gathering on my forehead before walking forward. Damned be the man who marooned me on this island and took my ship from me! This is not how I meant to spend my life with the sea. It cuts our time far too short. Instead of years upon her waves, I’ll have days upon her shores at this rate. I kick at the sand in frustration, strolling forward in lazy steps interlaced with colorful curses and bursts of flying sand. Every so often, I send a stray coconut flying instead. They thud into the sand with hardly a sound when I do, except for the last when I have the care to bump away from me. It lands some distance away with a hollow noise and keeps rolling.

“Now, that’s very strange indeed…”

Slowly, I walk towards where the coconut landed, bending down once I’ve reached it. The sand is thin here, just barely covering what seems to be several planks of wood. I wipe at the layer in quick, aborted snaps of my wrist, uncovering a small, iron handle upon the edge. When I pull it up, the boards creak and reveal what they hide underneath. Ah, blessed be the gods of this island. I drop haphazardly into the small room, running a hand over the barrels that line the walls. Rum. Sweet heaven above, it’s rum. I could last a lifetime on rum and the ocean alone. A few glass bottles are stacked unevenly against a barrel at the end and I lift one up, blowing the dust and sand off of it. It opens with a pop and the smell that emanates from the thin mouth of the bottle is enough to intoxicate me alone. I take a swig from it, relishing the burn as it goes down, and glance about the room. Rum, rum, more rum, some braided rope, extra clothes, a sword. Not a bad little island after all.

With a smarmy grin, I climb back out of the hole in the ground, rum in hand and rope over my shoulders. Perhaps I can make a canopy somewhere within the trees. If I’m going to live and die here, I might as well do it in what little comfort I can manage. I trace my way back across the island to the location I dumped all of my things at, drinking from the bottle in hand in large gulps. There’s nothing like rum to change your perspective on things. Not even halfway down the beach towards my things, I see a sign. It’s as if it has been sent from above. I’m not dying on this island, not while that rotten first-officer has control of my ship. One more mouthful of rum gives me the boost I need to start moving, throwing my clothes back on messily and setting off down the beach.

Time to rope me some sea turtles.