Arr, pass us that cup o' grog, me boy, for I be amain dry, and
when I've wet the swab, I'll spin ye a mighty yarn of a fateful
trip that started from this tropic port aboard a tiny
ship. Ahem. Arr.
Our crew were small but of stout heart, a mere half-dozen, who
set sail under the command of Mister Alamo; and the Master of the
Ship was none other than the Notorious Jolly Roger himself. We
sailed to the Isle of Angels, we did, for to seek hidden treasures
there, and indeed none what we sought did stay hidden, though we
were right blow'd by day's end.
Nonetheless, we bade farewell to the Isle with light hearts and
heavy pockets, wi' a wannion, and returned to our own shores near
girl-giddy with our success.
So it were that when Mister Alamo did hand me a wee treasure to
secret, that we might remember our cruise, right glad were I to do
it. And right amused were I to find a letterbox nearby, by the powers,
and so may ye do an you do come here.
But it waren't long afore some scalawag gave me treasure a
burial at sea, by the pow'rs! But now thar be a new treasure chest
here, well battened down, and ye'll likely be needin ta unmoor it
-- the numbers be the year o' Blackbeard's death. The chest be
better now for holdin' small booty of a pyratickal nature, and I've
left the treasure seekers a handful o' doubloons, and I do
recommend ye trade pyratickally, do ye come here in search of it.
But be ye warned, though the chest be sturdier than before, there
be hauseholes in it, so if ye wish to leave booty that mislikes the
wet, ye'll want to shield it according.
And of course, as before and for always, all who do tell of
their findings herein in the most pyratickal palaver will surely
get the wishes of our fine crew for
FAIR WINDS, AND A FOLLOWING SEA!
Arr, by the pow'rs,
wi' a wannion, an' all.