Darn You Scaliwag

Darn You, Scaliwag

Ever wonder what it is like to sail the Seven Seas or use a sword to cut your dinner? I don’t wish for any of this because I don’t have to. This is my life and I am writing it to fill your head with my many adventures and sadness. I’ll start with the day I became a pirate.



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Chapter 1

As I packed my last doll into my new room on the ship, I cried a single tear and—yes, I know, that’s so cliché—I gathered my dress into my hands so I could carefully walk up the wooden steps and escape the must and dustiness of my new room. I then stuck my head out of the doorway and took a long breath of salt water air. My father called to me, “Francesca, come over here, will you?”
“Yes, father,” I replied, feeling homesick already.
He plopped a black hat with a skull on it over my bonnet—totally colonial, dude.
“Daddy,” I shrieked. “Are you insane? I don’t wish to worship the devil or go to the bad place below.”
He only smiled and said, “Have fun!”
Sometimes I wondered (and still do) if my father’s head contained a brain or if he was as bone-headed as the skull on the hat that still remained on my head. Out of anger, I took the hat and flung it in the water. I wasn’t going to let my father, or any one for that matter, force me to become a Goth. Prouder than any seven-year-old could be, I skipped around in a little circle celebrating the chucking of the hat.
“Francesca! Hurry get over here!” cried my father. His tone of voice sent a shiver down my spine and I knew that I had to hurry and get to him before anything else happened.
“I am coming Father!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. My short and thin legs helped me to scamper around every obstacle in my path. But when I reached my father, I wished that I had never listened to him. There, on the floor of the ship, my mother lay silently. She had a strange object, which even now I don’t know the name of, had gone right through her left thigh.
“Darling, get me the First Aid kit from the top shelf underneath the ship.”
I knew that my father knew that I hated going underneath the ship but this was an emergency and I knew that the task that I was terrified to complete was worth it. At that time, my mother’s life was in my hands.
I nodded in agreement to my father and just before I turned my back to him he expressed to me, “Francesca, I know you would rather not do this and even I would be scared to do it, so I want to thank you for being so brave. With that said and done, I smiled a small smile and began to scamper my way down the cold dark stairs that led me to the room beneath the ship. I have had very bad experiences in this room.
Once when I was about five years old, I locked myself down here. It was with my best friend, Lillian. We were playing truth or dare and I was dared to lock the door and keep it like that for ten minutes. I thought it was a stupid dare yet so did Lillian. I then walked over to the door and slide the lock through the slot and left it there. It was heavy and rusty and rough and dusty. When I let go of the lock, I saw a spider crawl across my hand. At that young age, I wasn’t afraid of bugs, I just liked to play with them. But this spider was just flicked off my hand. As the tip of my foot tapped the bottom step, I heard my dad yell, “Girls! I have pizza!”
Lillian and I giggle in delight and slowly walk up the stairs. Of course, I get to the top of the stairs first. I toggle the lock and ask Lillian to try. She nods in agreement and tugs harder than I did yet the lock still doesn’t budge. I then put my hands on top of Lillian’s hands and we tug on the doorknob together. Still it doesn’t budge. I saw fright start to fill Lillian’s eyes. I too, was scared. I yanked the door lock with all my might but it still didn’t budge. Two tears rolled down Lillian’s cheek and I began to sniffle.
Then Lillian screamed, “HELP US!!! WE ARE LOCKED IN THE BASEMENT!!!!!!”
My father must have been very close because he was at the door in what felt like seconds.
“Girls are you alright?” he asked nervously.
“Yes and no.” I responded in a calm voice so that my dad wouldn’t worry.
“What do you mean yes and no? What kind of— (this is where she said the first curse word I had ever heard before out of her mouth) is that?”
I was 5 years old and I had been exposed to this language thanks to my dad’s version of Teletubbies (South Park). Even though they sensor it, my dad’s pals were always drunk and filling in the bad words. Because of that my dad had to cover my ears even though sometimes he would forget and I would end up hearing the immature men curse anyway.
This was rather surprising because her parents were so polite. Anyway, she said the “s” word.
“Lillian!” I gasp. “What motivated you to say that?” (Yes, I know, I was only 5. Not all 5-year-olds are, well, not very intelligent!)
“Being locked in the basement!” she replied. And with that, she sat down on the step and began to cry.