Arr, that reminds me o' me first trip 'round the Cape o' Good Hope.
Our rutters where lost durin' a fierce sea storm, and me nautical gear
disapeared on a brief stop in the Jamaican isles. Never could remember
what i did with 'em.
The Cape were shrouded in cloud that day, and lightning crashed to sea
like a Buddha from a catapult. I'd been holding the wheel for 3 weeks
straight, tryin' to avoid the bad weather, and by now both me feet were
gangrenous and smelt like burnt chodes. I could see the mother of all
storms aprochin', so I had me bosun saw me off at the knees and nail me
to the deck. For 3 days I fought the fierce storms, 'til we broke
through and found ourselves bearin' down on the isle o' Doom. The ship
beached itself on those desolate shores, and I knew there was no way the
crew could survive. Quick as a flash, I grabbed a prying bar and lifted
up the planks I were attached to (that, by the by, is'n how I got the
name Cap'n Plankfoot) and slaughtered the crew with me trusty cheese
knife. Using their corpses and what I could'n drain from the bilges,
I fashioned me self a crude raft.
Took me six months to sail back to old Blighty, and by then I'd eaten so much o' the raft that it were nothin' more 'n a set of false teeth with the first mates nut bag as a sail.