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It was one of those rare, balmy nights in the Caribbean that weren't unbearably warm. The sea was calm, the winds were light. The soothing sound of the waves crashing onto the nearby beach was pretty much the only sound, apart from the distant noise of the harbor taverns.

The moon was high in the sky, bathing the scene in its pale blue light. The ship's lanterns did not cast their light up to him. He sat in the crow's nest, as he liked to do on nights like this, and thought. His thoughts drifted unguided from one topic to the next and back again.

They had come to this port to stock up on provisions and to celebrate.

The old captain had finally decided to hand over his coat to the next one. It was about time, he was already over seventy years old. It was rare for a captain to survive so long in these times, and the crew had insisted on celebrating the captain's departure properly.

He had laughed and watched them launch the dinghies and leave the ship. As they had rowed towards the harbor, he had waved after them, because he had stayed behind, the hustle and bustle in the taverns was not for him. Too loud, too stuffy, too many people.

He had already celebrated with his captain the previous night.

He looked longingly out at the open sea and thought back.

He was now 45 years old. He had spent well over half his life on this ship. The Flying Seagull was his home, more than that, it was his safe haven, it was where his soul found peace.

It had not always been like this.

He remembered the beginnings, when he had come on board as the captain's cabin boy when he was not even twelve years old. He had been excited back then, the adventure of sailing the world's oceans, of seeing foreign lands, had belied the dangers that came with sailing. Much to the chagrin of his mother, who had desperately tried to talk him out of it and had even locked him in his room in the end, he had finally run away in secret and signed on with the first ship in the harbor. In retrospect, he had been damn lucky to have boarded the Flying Seagull. He could have been infinitely worse off.

He had quickly learned that life on board a large ship was no walk in the park. At least, as the captain's cabin boy, he had been protected from the abuse of the crew, unlike the other ship's boys, some of whom had told him bad things. For the most part, he had been spared the rituals that the young sailors had to endure in order to be recognized as worthy by the rest of the crew; he had only had to overcome a few tests of courage, and climbing to the very top of the yards for the first time and undoing the reefing straps on the outside had been a challenge that had demanded everything of him. Diving under the keel of the Flying Seagull, on the other hand, had been a piece of cake.

It was a good thing that they had only told him afterwards that they had been sailing in shark-infested waters.

Today, he looked back on that time with a smile and a tear in his eye. It had been beautiful, but also challenging; and not everything he had remembered fondly.

The captain had been a real sea dog, even back then. Tall, broad chest, beard, wooden leg, the whole nine yards. He always boasted that he had lost his leg in a heroic duel with a great white, whom he had stabbed in the eye with his cutlass up to the crossguard. Few knew what had really happened, that he had saved the life of a young sailor when a sail had torn loose from the mast in a storm and parts of the rigging had fallen onto the deck. The captain had pushed the boy away and the debris had smashed his leg. They had had to take it off. This young sailor was the first mate on the Flying Seagull today and probably the most loyal soul on the whole ship.

The captain's voice was like thunder and he always drove his crew and his ship to peak performance. Even in the roar of the storms, when waves piled up into dark green mountains and threw themselves against the flanks of the ship with loud thunder, the winds howled, the ropes sang and the hull of the Flying Seagull groaned under the force of the storm, everyone on the ship could understand his orders clearly.

He remained stoic and calm, a rock in the surf, always.

His crew loved and hated him for it in equal measure. Life on board the flying Seagull was hard, but the wages were considerable. There were few merchant ships that paid so well.

When he had first come on board, the captain had taken him under his wing and slowly introduced him to the duties of a cabin boy. At first it had been unsettling to watch the captain go about his daily routines, then it had been unsettling to help him, and later it had been unsettling to take over some of these duties completely. Even after thirty years, he had not gotten used to some of these duties, others had become second nature to him, others... he had taken a liking to some of them.

While the crew kept themselves amused below deck with all kinds of sometimes macabre activities and made the brothels in every port unsafe, he had withdrawn with the captain. They had found their own form of regeneration that they were both happy with. In the beginning it had been card games, or they had cleaned the captain's weapons together, carved on a new wooden leg, later other games had been added. Tea later became rum, and instead of the wooden leg, he polished other things... They always found ways to occupy themselves and make the time worthwhile. Over the years, their relationship had grown far beyond that of a superior to his subordinate.

Over time, sailors had come and gone, ship's boys had come, some had stayed, others had stayed at sea, others had left again. Most sailors rarely stayed for more than one tour. They signed up for a certain amount of time and were paid accordingly. Once the contract had been fulfilled, it was up to you whether to sign on again or look for other opportunities. On a ship like the Flying Seagull, which usually crossed the Atlantic again and again, there were many sailors who took the opportunity to move from one continent to another themselves.

The only constants on the Flying Seagull had been the captain, the first mate and him. And now the captain would be handing over his position to a successor.

He had asked him if he wanted to retire with him, but he had said no. He had pledged his soul to the sea. The Flying Seagull was his home, there was no home port he could return to.

And what a fine home this ship was. The Flying Seagull was not a very big ship, but she was fast. She had been launched in Holland as a fleute and had always sailed under the Dutch flag. They usually transported spices, sugar and cotton from the Caribbean to Europe and all kinds of other trade goods back across the Atlantic to the New World.

The crossing was not entirely without danger, as the Atlantic could be unpredictable, and even if you had survived the pitfalls of the big pond, the waters of the Caribbean were dangerous for other reasons. Privateers, pirates and not least the locals could be quite intrusive.

The Flying Seagull was not a warship and the rather meagre armament of the merchant ship would not stand up to prolonged combat. But in the thirty years he had already spent on board, the cannons had never once been fired in hostilities. Sometimes he wondered whether there really was powder in the powder kegs or whether the captain was smuggling other goods in there.

The captain was also the reason why none of the pirates had ever attacked them. Every time one of the small, fast ships had appeared on the horizon, he had headed straight for it and hoisted the parliamentary flag. After the pirates had come on board, they had greeted each other warmly, like old friends, they had drunk together and then the goods, which the captain had had set aside especially for these cases, had been handed over and the pirates had gone their separate ways. No bloodshed, no hostages.

It had been very nerve-wracking the first few times, but over time you got used to it, and he had even learned that some of the pirates were actually really sociable people.

He stared out at the calm sea, whose shallow waves moved the ship only slightly. His thoughts turned back to the future, a future that was not entirely certain.

What might the new captain be like? He wasn't sure if he would like to continue being a cabin “boy” if the new captain was different from the old one.

Of course he would be different from the old captain, no one would be the same as he had been.

The duties of his position would change, there was no doubt about that, and that wasn't a bad thing, it was the benefits that had come with his position that worried him more.

As a boy, it had been these duties and benefits that had particularly disturbed him, later, when he had taken a liking to them and later still, they had become a large part of their very own relationship, a part he did not want to miss, but one that required a captain who had the same inclination as his old captain and that was rather unlikely.

He leaned against the mast and took a deep breath. He had no direct influence on who the new captain would be. In fact, he had no influence at all.

Over the last thirty years, he had theoretically risen to something like second mate. Of course, there had never been any official promotions or commendations. It would have been unthinkable, a cabin boy couldn't rise that far, even after so many years of service; but basically, he had taken on these duties over time, automatically; and the crew had accepted it. Many of the newer sailors no longer even knew that he had once been the cabin boy. That would probably change now.

Slowly, he turned and looked towards the harbor. The rest of the crew would certainly be partying into the early hours. It was rare for them to return from such a celebration before sunrise, and then they were usually out of commission for at least another day. He had to smile. He couldn't say how many times they'd had to release crew members after they'd misbehaved while intoxicated, but it had been many over the last thirty years. In the same way, they had had to pull many drunken crew members out of the dock when they had staggered out of the tavern. He had to smile at the thought of the laughter this always provoked.

He looked down at the lantern-lit deck of the Flying Seagull and all was quiet. They were anchored about three hundred meters from the harbor, as the dock was not deep enough for their ship.

Some harbors in the Caribbean were not yet developed enough to moor ships like the Flying Seagull to the key. This was a little inconvenient, especially when it came to loading and unloading large quantities of cargo, but there were worse things. As they were only anchored here for provisions and to say goodbye to the captain, it wasn't a major problem. As soon as the crew was back and had slept it off, they would set sail again. They would set course for the old world.

One last great crossing under the old captain.

He would hand the ship over to a new captain in Rotterdam and retire to his homeland. At least that was the captain's plan.

Somehow he didn't really believe it yet. He was still of the opinion that the captain would die at sea at some point. He would stand on the bridge until the end, his telescope in his hand, his gaze fixed on the horizon, looking at some distant target that only he could see... and then just fall over at some point.

He couldn't imagine the “old man”, as the crew called him, in a rocking chair on the veranda of a small house somewhere in Holland. Perhaps with tulips in front of the windows and some kind of kitsch. No, the captain was a sea dog, his skin was tanned by the sea, he had lost his heart to the sea. He would never be content to simply sit on land and wait for death.

He leaned back against the mast and closed his eyes. Maybe he should get some sleep. When the crew came back on board later, they would probably have to carry the captain to his cabin and it would be his job to get him to bed somehow. Not that he minded, quite the opposite, but he would prefer to find a captain who wasn't completely unconscious.

When he opened his eyes again, awakened by the loud singing of his crew, he blinked into the dawn that was creeping over the horizon. Before he had fully come to his senses, he turned around and looked into the harbor basin, where he saw the three dinghies slowly heading towards the Flying Seagull, filled to the brim with noisy sailors. They were all drunk as a skunk, there was no doubt about that. They were singing old songs and couldn't hit a note.

He shook his head and stretched. It would be a little while before they arrived at the ship, more than enough time to descend from his vantage point in peace. As he swung himself into the yards and slowly climbed down to the deck of the Flying Seagull, he could hear the jeering shouts of his comrades, who once again called him a monkey for being able to climb so nimbly.

More than once, the sailors had asked him if he would rather take one of their posts than play chambermaid to the captain, as he could move so quickly and safely in the yards, while some of the new sailors often fell.

He had always refused. They didn't understand that there was so much more to his job than helping the captain, although that was true in more ways than one. In the meantime, they were content to mock him. He knew they weren't serious, but the jibes still hurt now and again. He had more than enough opportunity to get back at them in some way, but he never did.

It was part of life on a ship packed with ravenous sea dogs that things got a little rough from time to time and you definitely couldn't be soft-spoken to survive in this raw and all-male situation.

By the time his feet landed on the deck, the dinghies were almost alongside the Flying Seagull. His comrades were singing “Fifteen men on a dead man's chest” and each boat was trying to sing louder than the others. It was a wonderful, albeit bizarre croaking, as most of the sailors were already quite hoarse by now. He shook his head again and slowly approached the railing. Below him, the dinghies came alongside and hooted loudly. Some of the sailors threw him ropes, which he diligently fastened and then lowered the ladders. His mates praised him for his prudence in staying on board, but also regretted that he had missed out on all the fun.

Slowly and at times with a fair amount of bumping, the sailors climbed up the ladders made of wooden beams and rope, one after the other. Once on deck, the merry chanting about the men on the dead man's chest continued and the wish for more rum was shouted loudly across the bay.

As the deck slowly filled with life, the dinghies emptied at the same rate. The captain was the last to climb up the ladder. The night was in his clothes and he looked tired. The characteristic thumping of his wooden leg on the deck's planks accompanied the singing of his crew like a slow rhythm. He walked slowly between his sailors, conducting them like his own personal choir. Despite his fatigue, he seemed happy and exuberant, but as they finished the last verse of the song, he finally raised his hands and quieted the wild pack. It took a moment, but gradually calm returned and by the end only the lapping of the sea could be heard again.

The captain nodded and pressed his lips together. It had been a memorable night to celebrate a memorable occasion. They would be making their last crossing and he could not think of a better crew for this, his last, voyage as captain. He gathered his crew in front of him and nodded again.

As he raised his voice, there was sadness but also anticipation in it as he thanked his crew for their faithful service and for a night he would treasure for the rest of his days.

It was a short speech, full of praise and little side-swipes, but when he came to the end, he reminded them all that he was an old man and that his bedtime was well past and that they all belonged in their bunks too. He would leave at the next sunrise, until then they would rest and get the ship in shape.

With that, he turned to his cabin boy, the only one who still seemed to be halfway sober, and instructed him to give each of his sailors their ration of rum, they had earned it, and then to help him get his battered body into his bunk.

When all was said and done, the cabin boy followed the captain to his cabin. His night was not over yet...

Concept and Idea by

El Poyo Diabolo

Writen by

El Poyo Diabolo

Characters by

El Poyo Diabolo

Edited by

El Poyo Diabolo

Published by

El Poyo Diabolo