I bob in the briny deep, a pillar buoy, lighted, a beacon meant ta guide souls in ships ta careen from the black abyss. “Ahoy, safe water lies ahead!” I’d say if I could speak. Me presence alone is me voice. I ’s thar hope. ‘Twere such as this tussle started.
If ye were payin attention ta me, ye’d see warning o isolated danger. Thar were once a submerged rock, fer none ta see. Then sea shards pushed up by Davy Jones ‘imself, skewered a ship bilged on her anchor. Me world changed. Tis sad what were a fierce wave now but ripples in a shallow sea.
Rather than see me light, an’ take me point ta haul wind, scurvy dogs en buccaneers board me as if I were a seaworthy vessel. Me buoyed base, a flare o hope no more.
“Avast ye! Bring a spring upon ‘er ye’ll be shark bate.” One eyed matey, I’d warned ye not to pass too close. I stay anchored in me place.
I’s nae a raft — weren’t ever. Ye desperate men, heave to, savvy? ‘Tis little more than a killick ye swam to, not built to carry weight. Fierce salty waves relentlessly sloughed off me mooring. I’s strugglin ta stay afloat, even unencumbered; add three or four souls who climb me as their lifeline. I tilt from side to side, but I d’nae tip o’er. Slowly I scuttle aye, as more climb on. Sink me! They do, an’ feed the fish. I reemerge.
Dead men tell no tales.
A lot from Lydia 