I am locked in the hold, a tiny porthole my only source of light and air. I, who sailed the vast blue sea aboard my own stout little boat, now languish, locked in the dark, dank hold of the infamous Wishbone. Yet, my prison is also my salvation.
The fearsome pirates scratching about on deck above me are generous enough with food and water. I am grateful to be alive. And I have found paper and pen stowed here, so I can pass the time by writing.