A Pirate’s Life for Me

Friday, August 20, 2004

Page 15

AT THE SIDEBAR (Column)

A Pirate’s Life for Me—And You!

By J’AMY PACHECO

A curious e-mail found its way into my inbox a few days ago. Oddly enough, this one wasn’t a pitch for a new mortgage, generic Viagra or hot housewives who—oh, never mind—which makes me wonder how it managed to get through to me in the first place.

This one made mention of an upcoming event called “Talk Like a Pirate Day.”

After some exhausting research (nice to know the Google people aren’t too busy counting their money to run a quick search for me), I learned there are these two guys who, according to their Web site, started talking like pirates one day while playing racquetball. They had so much fun they decided a holiday was in order, enlisted the help of syndicated columnist Dave Barry and then started selling t-shirts and thong undies emblazoned with slogans like “Dead Men Tell No Tales” and “Saucy Wench.” I think that’s how it went.

(My initial thought upon reading this was that it’s too bad the Arbor Day guys didn’t connect with Dave Barry. If they’d had a syndicated funny guy in their corner, we might all take time to talk like trees one day each year, and wear t-shirts and thongs that say things like “Rustle Rustle Rustle” and “Make Friends With a Squirrel: Climb in My Branches and Act Like a Nut.”)

In any case, racquetball-pirate guys Mark “Cap’n Slappy” Summers and John “Ol Chumbucket” Baur declared each Sept. 19 “International Talk Like a Pirate Day,” and encourage us to use phrases like “Aye, mehearties” and “Ya stinkin’ scurvy bilge rat” all day long.

Now, there’s an idea I can get behind.

It may come as a surprise to you (I suspect it will to my mother), but I have some experience in this area.

I was once a pirate. I even helped commandeer a public transport vehicle to a small island. I participated in the takeover of a fort, and even held the ends of the Jolly Roger flag whist my cohorts hung it from a pole using the red bandannas with which we’d covered our heads. (Ah…11 years I’ve been looking for an excuse to use the word “whilst” in a column…)

It took place a few weeks ago during a treasure hunt in which I and my wee lassie offspring were enlisted to help find the owner of a mysterious, jewel-encrusted book. At one point in our search, we encountered evidence that a legendary pirate had absconded with one of the book’s pages, so we did the only thing we could think of—we donned pirate garb to blend in with the local crowd, grabbed swords, captured a raft and set off for the island.

I should probably point out that it all took place at Disneyland, and was over in about half an hour. Oh, yeah, and we had a uniformed “Discover the Magic” tour guide with us—without whom we’d likely have been immediate candidates for long-term incarceration.

But we glared with realistic ferocity at startled guests around us, emitted guttural “Arrrggghh!” sounds at them, and kept a wary eye out for Captain Hook’s men while— I mean whilst—we sailed to Tom Sawyer’s Island and used our treasure map to find out where Captain Hook stashed our last clue—and a chest full of treasure.

Being a pirate was some of the most fun I’ve ever had. Being a little pirate’s pirate mom was even better. But that’s not the limit of my pirate-ish experience.

Years ago, when Disneyland refurbished its Pirates of the Caribbean ride to make it more politically correct, I rewrote the words to the ride’s famed theme song. Although they appeared in this column, a lot of water has slogged through the bilge since then, and have no idea what’s become of them.

I do, however, remember the opening lines:

“In the olden days, when men could be men

and a wench was still a wench,

a pirate was free to pillage and loot,

then drink rum, his great thirst to quench!

Yo ho, yo ho, it’s a pirate’s life for me.”

Although it probably loses something with the whole middle left out, I also remember the ending:

“Yo ho, yo ho, we’re still pirates—just P.C.”

For some reason, my version of the song never quite caught on. But “Talk Like a Pirate Day” can, methinks.

So, mehearties, get yerself a pirate name (mine translated into “Butch the Wicked”—go figure!), swill some grog, and spend Sept. 19 talking like a pirate.

And if that doesn’t work for you, there’s always Arbor Day.

Isn’t there?