I have been pondering the sea. While it is not an unfamiliar thing to me, especially since becoming captain of the Revenge, it hasn’t exactly become something I feel I know. 

I know the way my sword feels in my hands, against my fingers, the weight of it across my hip. I know how it bends against the slightest of winds, how it shrieks across flesh, how it balances across two of my fingers. 

I know how to train, to bury my head in a goal, to look down and focus on what is at hand. I know how it feels to crush rocks between my fingers to strengthen my wrists and grip. I know how to dance with the stars to build speed and dexterity. 

I know the path of revenge and how little it pays. I know how it feels to have hatred consume my body and soul. I know the relief and sudden dread that rises in the heart once revenge has been accomplished. Dread of realizing I had never thought past this moment and now that it has come, what is the point of anything else? The dread of realizing that I am still not happy, not really anyway. 

But when it comes to the sea, all I seem to know is the sun against my neck, the thirst in my throat, and the taste of limes against the back of my teeth. I seem to have forgotten how the ship sways against the waves though it made my mouth green and legs quiver in the beginning. 

I am learning to spot angry clouds on the horizon. I am learning when to hoist sails and when to let them fly. I am learning about the wind and how to utilize them against the canvas. I am learning how to read nautical maps, how to get from point a to point b. I am learning how to be a captain. 

I am learning what it means to be the Dread Pirate Roberts. I very rarely have to do anything, really. The reputation speaks for itself. In the beginning, I had to prove my worth with the blade. That wasn’t hard. Pirates are sloppy competitors, their style is not refined in the fire that taught me. The style is taught and learned through rain and sea water. The grit of sand between your teeth and the hunger in your stomach. It is a style I do not envy but one I am beginning to learn.

I think of the sea and how it is a harsh teacher. I have been upon it for months now, nearing a full year, and yet I have so much to learn. I do not feel the storms in my toes the way my crew seems to. I cannot differentiate the waves. Every coastline looks the same. Every ship spotted looks like the last. If it were not for the flags, I could not tell a French ship from an English one. 

I do not know her the way I know my blade. I have a feeling I will never truly know her, the sea. I am beginning to wonder if I want to. I can see the sea in the blood of the crew who serve me. The stars reflect in their eyes and the wind stays in their hair. They seem to have been born with the salt caked beneath their nails and clinging to their skin. They spot things in and on the water I cannot see. They are happiest when our masts are swaying with the waves. 

I was not born this way. I do not see the glory in a wooden leg or missing eye. I have a hard time seeing the honor in plunder. The reputation is nice but it seems that as the days are sewn together in a cycle of salt and rain, that is the only nice thing about it. The sea does not see me as one of her own, her salt is not in my veins and her sand is not in my hair and beneath my nails. 

I am beginning to wonder if the sea is my calling. It was filled with so much adventure a year ago. The open ocean, unexplored islands, gold and precious gems and maps to get to large Xs in the sand. But I grow sick of the taste of limes. I have more gold than I ever thought possible, but what am I to do with it all? 

I catch myself dreaming of the mountains, pine-filled forests, the smell of fresh bread. I catch myself humming lullabies, dreading my cold bed, fiddling with ribbon and twine. I catch myself plotting courses to land--to Spain. 

I do not think I am cut out for the sea.