Tales from the Grand Piratical Council
Monte Rio
Sept. 18, 2004
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On the return trip from Peter & Emma's new
place up near Monte Rio, we traded
Jen for Kindy and rowed downstream
(the motor had given out earlier in the day) towards
the folks' place. Somewhere past the bend in the
river, after we'd stopped to jump off some rocks
and play on a tire swing, I pointed out a secret
cove on the right bank. What happened there? Em
asked. Nothing in particular, I told her.
"Oh, c'mon, Dad," she admonished me. "You can do better
than that."
"Well," I said, scratching my chin, and descending into
the particular sort of madness that makes one talk like
a pirate. "Nothing much since
the days when the Grand Piratical Council used to meet
there every year! Aarghhh... when every pirate on
the river would gather there once a year! Settle their
differences, they would ... Aarghhh!"
And so we rowed on, swapping tales and singing songs about
what might have
happened there, long ago, as we drifted on
toward the ocean
in the sharp light of a late summer afternoon.
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