Dollars, Doubloons and Dreams

The sun poured over Alex’s outstretched limbs as if it were a sentient being. It grazed the corners of his assortment of haphazardly-strewn books, their spines contorted and their once vibrant and relevant highlighted passages now dull and lifeless. Ambivalence hung in the air. A window was open; perhaps a subconscious remedy for the stifling atmosphere of the room.

He was a promising, passionate scholar. He had realized his love of history on his many voyages with his late father- a revered explorer. What troubled Alex today was his financial insecurity. He had been promised an inheritance when he was young, yet the passing of his father had complicated matters. The scholarships he had applied for could cover a small portion of the cost of his program, but his hope was waning.

The sunlight waned in tandem with his moments of lost hope, a dance that exhausted him. If only he could find a moment of respite amidst the uncertainty- if only the momentary closing of his eyes could bring him to a different place upon reopening them.

The reopening of his eyes proved difficult.. what reality awaited him this time? He had been oscillating between hope and despair. If only it were as easy as closing your eyes to secure your hopes, and opening them to find something has conspired in another dimension to shift your reality.

Close.

Now, open.

One moment could change everything--

There was a sudden assault on his senses, but his eyes remained shut. He smelled the overwhelming scent of saltine air and musky wood. His bed seemed stiff and scratchy, and he no longer felt the familiarity of his fortress of books. He felt around some more with his hands.

Wait, there’s one of them.

All of a sudden, he heard the faint chanting of what sounded like a group of men. He surmised that what he heard was a—

An old sea shanty?


This moment was peculiar, and he was unsure if he was ready to experience it with all 5 of his senses.

He opened his eyes.

A ship?

He was below the deck of what he recognized as a 17th-century wooden ship. He was on a ragged beige blanket, underneath a stream of water dripping from the decaying wood above his head. The book he was holding wasn’t one of his own, but a small, black notebook.

“WHO BE YE?” belted a commanding voice.

He held his gaze on the smooth black cover of the notebook, in fear of this voice materializing into something real.

“What is thy purpose?” it inquired, sounding very real.

Alex had read enough books to know a pirate when it stood before him. Unsure of how to proceed, he realized that even his historical essays hadn’t prepared him for this moment.

“What year is it?” he asked, at the risk of appearing ignorant to the bearded mass in front of him.

“The year is 1664,” the man answered. Flustered, he then asked a second time, “Who be ye?”

Now, Alex was familiar with the Golden Age of Piracy. If he did not state a clear purpose for being aboard this man’s ship, he was sure to be forced to walk the plank and banished to the sea. He hoped to avoid such a fate by consulting what he knew of pirates in the 1600s. His first task was to string together a name consisting of an Old English surname and an absurd-sounding nickname.

“Alexander ‘Below Deck’ Boatwright.”

Not his best work.

“Of the Boatwright merchants of New England?” the pirate questioned.

“Arr,” offered Alex.

This barely passable dialect he produced was second to his concerns about how and why he was suddenly in the 17th century.

He closed his eyes- and subsequently opened them. He was sure this was a dream. The natural law sure favoured this explanation.

“Very well then," said the enormous man before him. “The name’s Captain Brewster Heywood, but they call me Broadbeard. Welcome aboard”.

Captain Brewster ‘Broadbeard’ Heywood, huh?

The captain carried on with whatever it was that he came below deck to do, seemingly unconcerned with the mysterious circumstances under which they had acquired a new passenger.

“We’ve been months at sea, and are to disembark and pate over to the nearing island. There, we should’st find the treasure that belonged to Benedict Digby, descendant of the late Captain Digby. Doth thou hast any distinction that thou use to help us on our journey?” asked the Captain.

Alex had little experience with Old English, but decided to overcompensate with a flamboyant display of treasure-induced inebriation.

"AYE," he shrieked, with an accompanying jig. “Mine navigating skills should’st be of help towards the island." His Old English was passable, he then decided.

“Allow us to chart our journey to shore, along with the others. We were under siege from a time long hence; time hath seemed endless toward the sea," the Captain lamented as Alex tried his best to follow along.

They abandoned the dark recesses of the lower deck and began to slowly ascend the rickety stairs into a vague brightness. A swift breeze sharpened Alex’s senses and made him question their validity. The sun shone brightly in his field of vision, obscuring his surroundings. The water gleamed for miles; a cerulean and turquoise portal leading the eye far into the distance where the aforementioned island manifested. He guessed they were somewhere in the Caribbean. The floor of the old ship creaked with every step as they drew closer to the bow.

The crew of pirates was unremarkable compared to what he had imagined while reading old stories. Half of the men looked younger than him, and the other half looked like they had spent all their days drinking rum in the unforgiving sun. After a brief introduction- and explanation of his (imagined) navigational expertise- they welcomed him into their crew.

They sailed on, the distant island growing larger and more tangible as they traversed the glistening waters.

Alex then had the sobering realization that he had just agreed to lead a team of pirates to the treasure they had spent months a-sea to find.

If this had been a dream, he would wake up amused and in better spirits. If it wasn’t: there’s no telling what would happen once he'd inevitably lead the crew aimlessly through sweltering heat on an uncharted Caribbean island, no treasure to reward their efforts.

They reached the port with alarming speed, and the crew filed out and off the ship in what felt like mere minutes. Alex grabbed what he could from below the deck, followed the captain, and took in the vastness of his new surroundings.

“Boatwright!" The captain’s voice pierced the silence. “I beseech thou to marshal us North and towards the Sherry Cove”.

Sherry Cove.

This name struck Alex as familiar. He had read a great deal of 17th-century literature, which led him to realize that he could string together the locations of treasures he had read about to get an idea of where this one might be.

Though he was no cartographer, he did have the advantage of a historian’s hindsight.

“I hast a better imagining,” he began, the sudden heat of the land slightly obscuring his coordination and slowing his pace. “Thou men pate North and I shall construct us a map”.

Small black notebook in hand, Alex hoped this would buy him the time he would need to devise a plan. The unrelenting rays of the sun were magnified without the reprieve of the windy sea. He looked around at the small village, seemingly abandoned. They traveled past what looked like a blacksmith's workshop and what may have once been a fruit stand. This display of business’ past felt odd given how barren the land was over by the port.

Armed with his notebook and a quill he had pocketed while leaving the ship, he began to write down whatever facts he had about 17th-century pirate voyages. Memories of epic battles, distant travels, and hidden treasures led him to a series of locations to which he might bring the group. Alex guessed that Captain Heywood had been here before, as he had known about Sherry Cove. It then dawned on him: a breezeless Caribbean island surrounded by turquoise waters, once home to an array of small businesses- they were on what was soon to be discovered as the lost island of Pamapa. He remembered a story in which merchants hid their belongings in their workshops to avoid detection while the island was pillaged.

He ran inside the abandoned blacksmith’s workshop, much to the confusion of the onlooking crew. There, under tattered sheets of linen, laid a small chest. He opened it with ease as the lock was too old to remain secure.

Inside were piles of golden coins, their edges alive and reflecting the power of the sun into his unsuspecting eyes. Not knowing their worth, he was unsure of what to make of his findings. Was this a valuable find? Could he even spend this, given that he had no idea what reality he was currently inhabiting? Did he now have to become a full-time pirate?

He surrendered the collection to the captain, whose patterned teeth gleamed with joy as a smile overtook his face.

"Thou hast found a treasure, and thou might not but hast a share of the reward," said the Captain. "It hath been a pleasure travelling with thou, Boatwright. Thou are entitled to 50 doubloons for thy help”.

Alex focused on a coin in his hand; its visibility growing less and less, the sun’s heat growing more and more. The trees around him circled, working with the sky to create a mosaic of colour. One by one, he lost track of his senses and allowed the impending darkness to engulf him.

__________________________________

Alex awoke, a calming breeze bringing him back into the familiarity of his bed. He was acutely aware of his surroundings this time. The books around him were more vibrant than he had remembered, the contrast between the words and pages making them feel alive once again. He felt a soothing presence among the pages of these historical texts, their past wisdom speaking to his present. He grabbed an open book from under the window, noticing that it was devoid of the small, orderly font his books usually contained. He stopped and stared in awe at its contents.

The small black notebook was in his hands, inscribed with the words he had written in his dream.

Surely, this was not the same notebook he had used to help him find the treasure in 1664. No book was that resilient- was it? He set the notebook aside and went to get the mail. The day had passed him by, and the least he could do was leave the confines of his room.

A letter had come addressed to him, with no return address. Intrigued, he read its contents. It said:

Alexander Jones,

Thank you for taking the time to apply for the Historians of 2021 Scholarship.

Congratulations! It is our pleasure to award you the sum of $20,000 towards your education. The competition was intense, and we commend you for your innovation, academic excellence, and persistence.

We encourage you to apply yearly for our various scholarships and bursaries, as there is no limit for applicants.

Sincerely,

Dean B. B. Heywood.

Alex then closed his eyes- a state of calm washing over his tired body- eager to soon embark on a new adventure.