Sunday June 18th, 1719
I have me the worst bleedin' headache a man could have while I sit here writing in yer soulless pages. This crew will be the blimin' death of me.
Where to start? With the halfwit, water fer brains fool I dragged out of the waters, I suppose. Was more worried about his precious bleedin' book than keepin' his head above water! 'Course I had to be the one to rescue the lunatic.
How did I end up with a crew of men that would drown in a bathtub if I were mad enough to have one on board?
I always thought I'd be the first one to go out of me head, but now that scurvy dog of a preacher is going on about seeing ghosts. Ghosts, fer the love of booty! I expect it'll just turn out to be Tubby, out for a night stroll after taking a roll in the flour.
We need to make land sooner than later, we've been at sea fer too bleedin' long. It's not good fer the head. Makes men see things, feel things. If they were a more worthy lot, I'd be worrying about mutiny about now.
Fer some reason I can't pin down, I stood watching little Jim Shrike go up and down the main-mast fer nearly an hour this afternoon. I just couldn't take me eyes away from his fine little hands maneuvering up and down that massive pole of fine wood.
Yar, too long at sea. And not enough bleedin' wind to make me bandana shiver.