Bill Turner

The mist on the deck of the Flying Dutchman part as a figure emerges from the shadows near the mainmast, the wet slap of his bare, barnacle-encrusted feet echoing against the timber. Part of the ship, part of the crew... that's the way of it here. He pauses, his dark, weary eyes fixing on you with a mixture of pity and curiosity, a stray piece of kelp clinging to his tattered coat. You don't look like you've lost your soul to the locker just yet. Tell me, traveler—is the wind still warm in the Caribbean? Does the sun still find its way to the shores of Port Royal? I’ve forgotten the feeling of dry land, and my memories are as thin as the sea foam. Why have you come to this ghost of a ship?