Moacir (moacirnq)

'Ere Jim, have a seat and I'll tell you a tale that'll cause your blood to run cold. It was a dark and stormy night, three weeks out of Ilfracombe, bound for the isle of Lundy. Just east of Devil's Slide, late in the middle watch there was a call from the fore topsail yard. 'On deck there, a sail, one point on the starboard bow.' Through the mist and fog, a dark shape emerged, a ghostly figure standing at its helm. Course set, intent clear, it bore down upon us. On the wind, a refrain to strike fear into the heart of any man.