Tom Mason

Day 759… Outskirts of the village of Eagle River in County Vilas, territory of Wisconsin. We departed from the Island of Madeline after two raids, one very successful (in the village park), and the second a little less so due to a deluge that threatened to divide us from our devoted crew. Methinks Zeus, the god of rain, had intentions of protection when he heard we were playing at Tom’s Burned Down Cafe and sent a torrent down in the precise moments of our performance to ward off a possible reoccurrence…

Day 755... Village of Ironwood, Territory of Michigan the Upper. On the arrrrduous journey from Eagle River to the Apostle Islands we came upon a large individual who, thanks to his stature and joyous disposition, has convinced us to alter our course. Upon completion of upcoming contractually obligated plunderings across the colonies, we will return to Powderhorn to pursue a future as Alpine Pirates. Prepare to be snowboarded. .

Day 672, May 1, Bay of Beltane, Territory of Tennessee. Hooray hooray, the First of May! The ship is festooned in Dionysian glory. The crew has turned the mainmast into a maypole and have fashioned ribbons from the sails and are dancing around it with seaweed in their hair singing “Pirates of the World Unite” and celebrating implementation of the 8-hour watch. Thorneycroft has been chiseling away at the figurehead, transforming Neptune to Aphrodite, a change cheered by all. Freebooters Local 615 has…

Day 626 The banks of the River Cumberland, County Davidson, Territory of Tennessee. I awoke this morning from a deep winter’s sleep and stepped out on deck to see a world transformed. The once barren trees have begun to sprout green buds, and birds are singing in all directions without the slightest tinge of dissonance. I took a stroll through the village and heard songs coming from every window and door, even where there were no people stirring. As I turned onto Long Street I heard a woman in a garden…

Day 614. The slightly frozen almost flooded swampland of the territory of Tennessee, where the sun is shining on the encroaching banks of the Cumberland, suggesting an inland sea. We scrambled to hilltops fearing another 100 year flood counted out in gnats’ years. The river had risen to a startling level, overtaking the footbridges and hiding the docks on the wharf, threatening to turn kudzu to kelp, squirrels to otters, and sparrows to gulls. Now the sun shines laughingly, having spared us of blizzards…

Day 595, Somewhere betwixt the rising waters of the Cumberland River and the murky waters of the Love Canal. As I set about this morn to careen the ship, ready my bloodthirsty crew, and recruit others to join us on coming raids to ruthlessly steal the hearts of music lovers from sea to stormy sea and the great lakes between, I notice a difference in the air, a sweetness not there before. What yesterday was wretched cacophony coming from the village is today a soothing symphony. In the taverns and the…

Day 577 The village of Big French Lick on the Cumberland River, territory of Tennessee. A miraculous event changing the course of my life occurred on Saturday morning. We had performed the night before at the Old City Pirate Fest in the Colonial Quarter of St Augustine, a bacchanalian bash attended by the most joy-loving pirates imaginable. There were the local St Augustine Swashbucklers, revelers from the Carolinas, Panama City, Cedar Key, Belgium, the Great Lakes, the Lesser Antilles, The Even Lesser…

Day 90, The Port of Nashville Tennessee, careening vessel in preparation for journey to Panama City, Florida on Oct 6. ... My crew narrowly saved me from steering our brigantine in entirely the wrong direction. I’d been studying my palindromes (starting with “A man, a plan, a canal, Panama” through “We panic in a pew”), getting ready for some tugboat diplomacy, writing isthmus cards, and shouting “Bully!” port and starboard, when the crew informed me that we were to sail to Panama City Beach FLORIDA,…

Day 88, the banks of the Harrrrpeth River. With our ship resting on the bottom of the Harrrpeth and the Pilgrimage Festival disappearing for now into the mists that give our past a beautiful glow, we have been forced to take positions as dance instructors for the Arrrrthur Murray Dance School in the village of Franklin. Our second lesson, skillfully mastered by this couple on Sunday, is the Pirate Polka, which we composed with the self-assuredness that it would win every award in its category, should…

Day 87, Harrrlinsdale Farm, Franklin, Tennessee. Upon being marooned on the island of song that is the Pilgrimage Festival, I chose to channel my inner Twyla Tharrrrrp and teach some of the younger pilgrims the Pegleg Jig, a dance I created with the famed choreographer John “Ol’ Chumbucket” Baur. After a disturbing amount of disciplinary measures they mastered it, as seen in this kinetoscope.