Pirate Dreams: There Is No End

More about Pirate Dreams: There Is No End

People talk about the end as though it were a respectable harbor where you surrender your boat and somebody gives you slippers.

I have no intention of docking there.

There is always a profit to profiteer from. A privateer is a pirate whose government answers his letters. A pirate is what the fellow across the international boundary calls you when you arrive for his gold.

Move the boundary and you become a naval officer.

I have been getting older, which is something my body took up without consulting me. In the illustrated history of my life, all the little bald fellows are still there: the baby, the boy, the man who believed his knees were permanent. They stand together in a field, looking as though they are waiting for somebody to explain the admission price.

The oldest one has a boat.

Put me in an electric wheelchair aboard it. Leave me the movement of one thumb. That will do. Empires have been managed with less coordination.

I will roll up to your yacht with a cannon beside me and a blanket over my knees.

“Good morning,” I will say. “I’ll have the gold.”

“We don’t carry gold.”

“What have you got?”

They will consult one another. People with yachts are always surprised to discover that the question includes them.

There will be batteries, tomatoes, binoculars, a decent pillow. Someone will bring out a tin of biscuits they were saving for an occasion.

“This is the occasion,” I will tell them.

One morning a girl in a pirate hat will meet me on a sea so still it has forgotten which side is up. A little bird will sit above her ear. Behind her, a woman made of disappearing colors will hold a golden palace in her hands.

I will ask whether the palace has wheelchair access.

The girl will say it has everything.

“Then we’ll need a bigger boat.”

She will look at my blanket, my thumb resting on the control.

“Are you still a pirate?”

I will have to think about that. Somewhere inside me, a seven-year-old will be trying to climb the rigging. He has never cared much for questions asked by grown-ups.

“Have you got anything useful?” I will ask.

The girl will open her hand.

There will be a small brass key.

“What does it open?”

“I haven’t found that part yet.”

I will put it in my pocket beside the biscuits and make room for her aboard.

We will leave the palace where it is. Gold is heavy, and by then the bird will have spotted something farther out.

I will move my thumb.

“Let’s have a look, eh?”