The Cap'n sanctions a port visit

14:30UTC 14/08/07 33'27.0N 16'19.0W

Discipline on board this 'ere pirate vessel is a finely balanced parrot, if ever there was one. The threat o'the cat o'nine tails and the promise of a share o'the plunder is usually enough to keep the crew in line, but as'ee all know, familiarity breeds contempt and the wise privateer captain uses every means at his disposal to keep the crew just on the right side of mutiny and the wrong side of fear and trepidation.

So when wind and weather present an opportunity for ol' Cap'n Ward to appear magnanimous, it must be seized with both hands and a claw. We've been running down the trades for a week now and the beer has begun to run low. Regularly, this is no problem for the scurvy bunch we call crew can survive on water for a few days at least. But in Plymouth we made the dastardly mistake of shippin' aboard a new hand who seemed harmless enough but has turned out to have a influence that frighten's the bejeebers out of even this hardened seafarer. Manda, she's called, or 'the reader' as the crew have termed her, somewhat worried that her ability not only to read them strange books, but to read at least two a day, is a sign of a cunning and dangerous intellect. She seemed harmless enough, but as the white wine supplies have run dry, things have turned nasty and there's a strange 'fluence floating over the ship and the crew.

So as the island of Madeira hove into view this morning, the crew, call them foolhardy or brave in equal measure, dared to suggest a raiding party on the fair town of Funchal. Instead of dismissing them out of hand and ordering a round of lashings, I saw a chance to gain on many fronts. It was time to think about the weather. Stepping out onto the poop deck and sniffing the air, it was clear that Seaman Price should have resisted the hot peppers we'd plundered from a Polish merchant. Moving to the foredeck, the smell of the breeze, direction of the swell and the latest weather file from saildocs.com told me all I needed to know.

The wind would die to almost nothing until Thursday morning when a fresh northerly breeze would spring up to whisk us onto La Palma. Until then, we could drift slowly past the Madeiran Archipeligo with a near mutinous crew gazing longingly at the verdant island shores, or heave into Funchal, have our way with the Portugese town and make merry until Thursday. At a single stroke we would be able to please the crew, gain fresh supplies and avoid many tedious hours of light winds, yet cost us little in delay to La Palma.

My only concern is that, this being the worst pirate crew that you have never heard of, they tend to depart a port raid with less gold than they arrive, but try we must.

Madeira beckons on Wednesday morning.

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