The morning sun crept lazily over the horizon, casting a golden shimmer across the calm sea. The tide rolled in with a gentle hiss, and the cries of distant gulls punctuated the otherwise peaceful dawn. For a moment, it felt like the perfect morning to wake up slowly, stretch, and ease into the day.
Kyle did none of that.
Instead, he struggled to sit up on the coarse sand of the beach, every muscle in his body protesting as if he'd been used as a punching bag all night. His head pounded like a drum, and his vision swam in and out of focus. He blinked hard, willing the blurriness away, only for the world to reveal itself in the form of—
"Ora Ora Ora Ora Ora!"
"Muda Muda Muda Muda Muda!"
Two human hurricanes were already wreaking havoc on the tranquility of the beach. Roger, the grinning lunatic with a cutlass in hand, was trading blows with Jabba, the equally unhinged axe-wielding giant. They weren't fighting for survival. No, this was apparently their morning exercise—a thunderous clash of steel for no reason other than to get the blood pumping.
The clang of sword on axe rang out again and again, echoing through the air. Each strike sent tiny shockwaves rolling across the sand, kicking up grit that stung Kyle's cheeks. The sound drilled straight into his skull, ruthlessly battering his already fragile nerves.
"Good morning, Kyle! Sleep well?" Roger called out cheerfully mid-swing, his sword flashing in the morning light.
"Good your head…" Kyle groaned, clutching his temple. He felt like his brain had been shaken into a pot of tofu pudding—soft, unstable, and ready to spill.
"Hah! Young people these days recover so slowly," Jabba rumbled, parrying a blow and swinging his battle-axe in a wide arc. Even while exchanging brutal attacks with Roger, he found the leisure to shake his head in mock disappointment.
A sudden, rich aroma drifted on the breeze, cutting through the chaos like a lifeline. Coffee.
Kyle turned his head to see Rayleigh sitting beside the remnants of last night's bonfire. The First Mate was the picture of calm composure, leisurely brewing coffee in a small pot over the dying embers, completely ignoring the two maniacs who were turning the beach into their personal training ground.
Rayleigh looked up and raised a wooden cup toward Kyle. "Care for a drink?"
Kyle practically scrambled on all fours to reach him. "Bless you," he muttered, taking the cup as though it were a sacred relic. The first sip sent warmth trickling down his throat, soothing his foggy mind and restoring some semblance of sanity.
He let out a contented sigh. "Speaking of which…" He tilted his head toward the shore, where a small, pitiful boat sat half-beached on the sand. "We really need to talk about transportation. If we try to cram Mister Jabba onto that thing, I'm pretty sure it'll sink on the spot out of sheer protest. You might be fine, Rayleigh, but me? I'm going straight to the bottom."
Rayleigh glanced at the vessel, then nodded in agreement. "It's fulfilled its mission."
"Hey, hey! How can you say that?!" Roger's booming voice interrupted from behind. The duel had apparently ended—though judging by the glint in his eye, it was only a temporary ceasefire. He stomped over and slapped the boat's side with exaggerated affection. "This was our first companion when we set sail! How could you just abandon it?"
The boat groaned loudly under the impact, as if expressing its own suffering.
"Exactly!" Jabba chimed in, crossing his arms. "The value of a ship lies in the dreams it carries, not in how new its planks are!"
Kyle stared at them both with the dead-eyed look of a man whose patience was on its last legs. "Gentlemen," he said slowly, pointing to the cracks in the hull that had been stuffed with seaweed and mud, "its soul might be reporting to the next world any moment now. And with Mister Jabba's… build, plus those two axes that weigh, what, a hundred catties each? Are you sure the thing won't split in half before we're even out of the harbor?"
"Kuhahaha! A minor matter!" Roger waved his hand dismissively, puffing out his chest. "A true pirate can cross the sea on a single plank if need be! These little challenges just make us stronger!"
"I don't want to train those skills!" Kyle's shout echoed across the empty beach, startling a seagull into flight.
Unfortunately, his argument met its end in a crushing "two to one" vote. Rayleigh, sipping coffee, abstained entirely from the decision. The final verdict: they would "temporarily" use the old boat until they could afford a bigger one.
Kyle could only watch in silent despair as Roger and Jabba began loading their supplies onto the boat. Barrel after barrel of wine thudded onto the deck, followed by crates of dried meat. Each new load made the hull groan in misery and sink just a little deeper into the waterline.
By the time it was Kyle's turn to board, he stood at the edge of the boat like a man about to step onto the gallows. He placed a hand gently on the weathered side of the vessel and murmured, "Old friend, I know you've done your best. If… if we sink, please sink slowly. At least give me time to grab some driftwood…"
"Kyle! Quit dawdling! We're setting sail!" Roger's voice snapped him back.
Taking a deep breath, Kyle climbed aboard. The wooden plank beneath his foot let out a sharp Gaa—zhi—ya—! followed by a lurch that nearly sent him toppling into the sea.
"See?! I told you!" Kyle shouted, clutching the railing with white knuckles.
"Relax! It's just saying hello!" Roger said with an infuriating grin. And just like that, the small craft pushed off, leaving the beach behind as they drifted toward the open sea.
The peace lasted less than a minute.
A sharp BANG! came from the cabin, followed by a burst of seawater shooting up through a crack in the deck—right into Kyle's face.
"Ahhhh! The boat's leaking! It's where Roger smashed it when moving the wine barrel!" Kyle sputtered, wiping saltwater from his eyes.
"Oh, small problem." Roger casually plucked a cork from an empty barrel, sauntered over, and stomped it into the hole with a thud. The leak stopped immediately.
"See? Fixed."
Kyle stared at him in disbelief. "That's like… putting a band-aid on an open chest wound…"
Before he could finish his rant, Rayleigh's calm voice drifted over. "Roger. The sail won't go up."
Everyone turned to see him pulling on the halyard, only for the frayed rope to snap with a twang. The massive sail dropped like a curtain, draping over Jabba and swallowing him whole.
"Mr. Jabba! You okay?!" Kyle called, alarmed.
From under the canvas, a bulge appeared, followed by a massive arm giving a thumbs-up. "I'm fine! This is good material! Very sturdy!"
"Kuhahaha! Perfect!" Roger roared with laughter. "Jabba, you can hold it up yourself!"
And so, for the remainder of the voyage, Jabba became a human mast, standing proudly with the sail stretched between his arms like some bizarre piece of ship décor.
Kyle was too numb to even protest now.
"Hm?" Rayleigh suddenly frowned at the helm. He lifted one hand, revealing a broken chunk of wood.
It was the tiller.
The steering wheel of the ship was now… half missing.
"…" "…" "…Oh dear," Rayleigh said mildly. "That's a bit of a problem."
"Interesting!" Roger's grin widened. "A broken rudder! This voyage just got exciting!" He turned to Jabba, eyes sparkling. "Hand me your axe!"
Jabba's grin matched his captain's. "Aha! I see what you're thinking!"
Moments later, Roger stood at the stern, dragging a massive axe blade through the water like a paddle. The boat began to zigzag in a ridiculous S-shape.
Kyle just lay on the deck, letting seawater splash over his face. "I'm on a floating mental hospital," he muttered to no one in particular.
"Yo ho! Sing, lads!" Roger bellowed.
"Bink's Brew, we'll deliver to you…"
The cheerful, off-key chorus of three pirates rang across the waves.
Kyle just covered his face and prayed to every sea god he knew—not for a safe journey, but for a quick one.
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)