(September 19, 2009 is National Speak Like a Pirate Day, therefore it was boat rule that all conversation aboard the vessel must be carried out in Pirate jargon. In due response, this entry shall conform to those standards.)
Y’argh the blarney tide be slippin off yonder and me mateys and I be droppin traps fer the buggers that be crawlin 'long Davey Jones locker in Netarts Bay. The three of us be handy racin up the lanyard an riggin sails an plunderin boats, but we be newbees pullin crustacean from the deep. Pete the master baiter on board be settin the traps with bottom fish and fowl while scallywag Pyle be swabbin the decks. I be mannin the riggin. Ay the traps be tossed, we pillage and plunder the bay be eyein the wenches and drownin the swill.
Shiver me timbers, the first round o' pots be bloddy empty and the crew be drownin the sorrow with swill. It be lookin like another eve burying rum on an empty belly fer the crew. Even we pirates be suffrin the rampant reseshen.
With less than one turn o’ the hourglass, we sail south yonder our ferthest pot and be pullin a full cage o crabbys. Takin cue, we toss whatever chum an traps we got handy, lookin forward to a feastin. At days end we be scramblin with five buggers over ten shillings each. The day be endin with a plank walkin as deck swab Pyle be traitin flags tryin to run home crab in hand ignoring to the traditional feastin to be had after a day at salty sea. Tis be a watery grave… couldn’t swab the deck clean anyways the blasted popper.
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