Pirates of Identity

My passion the seas

Many accounts had been written on the sighting of the floating island, though many had contradicting points, for example; the brief history written by the French explorer Jean Du Pont, whose exploits had been known by most of Eastern Europe as successful, read of a cloud with vines draping from it, but upon further observation they realized that the cloud was in fact a giant island but by the time they came to this notion, it was too late and they spent their final energies and efforts chasing the ever-distancing island which soon crossed the horizons and left Jean Du Pont with an internal void which would disrupt his sleep for the rest of his slumbers.

An even older account of a sighting of a floating island, though it is merely my assumption that it is of the same one, was of a band of Scandinavian Vikings, told of their abrupt awakening in their venture west on a still night, where the water was seemingly crystal in its tranquility but were soon shaken by a series of unprecedented waves which came in a rippled fashion. It was written that an island had crashed into the ocean from above and in its sinking and subsequent floating to the top, shook many of the Vikings off the vessel and into the disturbed waters. It was also written that there was such chaos that by the time the fallen Vikings were helped onto the boat, their sense of direction was completely scattered and in their quick, or rather insufficiently quick recollection, the island had risen up to the clouds and into the stars, or so the manuscripts say. 

The Morse, upon hearing of this occurrence, navigated the nightly seas with the stars as their guides, having a profound knowledge of astronomy, not to be confused with astrology, and sailed in the same conditions, or at least in their attempt in recreating said conditions which the Vikings wrote of, but to no avail. 

Now a group of more recent voyagers of the seas all wrote that on a cloudy day though with persevering heat and humidity, far off the shores of Portugal, those were the closest shores as to give a reference, all said to have been washed from above by a sort of sticky, sweet liquid which was collectively thought to be mead, as the sailors were all fond of the drink as their other tales suggest, and as they looked to the midday sun, they found it was eclipsed by an object far closer in appearance than the moon and showering with mead, and in that precise moment the sailors all heard commotion as if a celebration were afoot. Needless to say it passed and none were able to see well from the momentary blindness caused by their looking into the sun. 

These of course were just a few recordings of such an event, a few amongst the many. But what appeared strange to me was that these links were never formally acknowledged and that nobody had ever noticed the shared coincidences of these distant stories, distant in time and not in place, I mean. 

No Nation

I was Brazilian born and up until recently I thought I would die in Brazil, but it seemed fate had kept me in my bubble so that my final experience would be my greatest. My identity is a strange one, I would argue, as I have no real walls to lean against in a sense of country and nationalism. On my father's side are some of the first founders of Brazil, as they would often remind us, being amongst the first Europeans to set foot on the South Eastern shores of this newly named nation. Whereas on my mothers side, those of which mostly hail from Bahia, all descended from African and Native people which as history will one day rightfully say were stolen peoples, slaves, though in today’s age these writings are mostly omitted from propaganda, though it isn’t a question of education but rather of hatred because all know of the country’s torturous history. 

I was allowed an education because I could pass as a white man due to my barely tanned complexion, which would seem an effect of the sun’s burns. My features were also mostly from my father's side and those of my mother only resonated internally, something I can suppress when necessary. However much this pained me. 

As I was subtly and unofficially made an outcast on my father's side from having African and Native blood, I could not attach myself to my European ancestry as they would never claim me, more so if I ever wanted to go to Portugal. My mother's side was certainly more forgiving though I was often looked upon with cautious and fearful eyes. Certain topics were never discussed in my presence, Which is why I opted, in my youth, to study the seas and its stories, those of which belong to no man or woman and whose desert-like features and monstrous waves discriminate no man and in doing so unite them. At least those who have fallen to its waters. 

A Shared Disgrace Turned A Shared Madness

Now as fate would have it, an esteemed man of great wealth, an acquired wealth which is worth its mention, returned from a trip to Portugal in complete indignation as his rank in the National Forces was removed due to his mix in blood, a mix identical to mine. Joao Riveira Amado returned with a boat of recently demoted and discharged Brazilian men, all demoted from their ranks for the same reason, all found themselves with no walls to lean on, much like myself, and fell into addiction and despair. 

The bars and corners of the port city of Salvador were almost plagued with men of this distinction and with the coming of months I soon found myself fallen to the same traps, sitting alongside Joao Riveira Amado, drinking away our identities.

Child! Exclaimed Joao, before our official introduction of course. Come here and accept a drink from myself in exchange for your company. He looked at the barman, who had a look of disgust towards Joao, and said; Pour myself and this new friend a drink and I shall bring you my debt tomorrow morning with the interest promised. The barman poured the drinks reluctantly and looked at me almost as to warn me of this drunkard’s words, then left us to be. I joined Joao and we exchanged a few unimportant words. Until I anxiously brought up the topic of our shared roots, as to have somebody to identify with. We spoke for hours until the words became more and more slurred with each cycle of filling and drinking the cups of mead. 

It seems we have much in common, I said whilst trying to subdue the urge to hiccup. It would seem so, he replied. Tell me Joao, the mead of Bahia, though expensive, is quite sour and I only say this now that we have been speaking a while and I previously dared not mention, but it seems that there are many more affordable and arguably better choices of drink. I do say this with all respect, sir, I muttered with an attempt to not seem feeble from the drink. He looks at me and with independently shifting eyes, he focuses his vision to meet my own and nears to my face, almost sending my stomach into hurling from the combination of smells, and whispers into my mouth; I’m searching for a special mead, each night I try another and each night I try a new bar. He leaned back and returned to his slouch on the bar. What’s so special about this mead you look for? I asked. He seemed not to have heard me and left me in suspense. He arises from his almost sleeping state with a rush of energy and says, come for a walk with me, child!

I accompanied him on a walk through the dimly lit streets of Salvador all the way to the port, where we passed many ex soldiers who would look upon Joao with subtle acknowledgment. They were my mates aboard the Maria Santisima, he muttered. Then continued speaking, the mead I search for came to me aboard her, my old ship. Maria Santisima and I, we navigated the seas for our Portugal. Now we can only love each other from afar, Maria and I. He spoke for some time before reaching the point which had me in suspense, but finally he made his way to meet my curiosity. 

The mead rained from above, from a cloud from which came cheers and celebrations. It was the glory they spoke of in the holy texts, though I no longer subscribe to such “holy books” he said with clear animosity, I saw, well we saw a strange cloud above us, along with the passing of a feeling of incredible liberty which brought us all to tears, men whom had never since their childhoods, shed a tear in company. It was heaven, or glory or the only place I belonged. When I was rejected by my Portuguese authorities for having mixed blood, I felt the chains of my anchors lose all tension and like a lone strand under the weight of a whale, snapped and I spent months navigating with bursts of screams and uncontrollable cries, those of my own and of my mates. Until we found ourselves under a cloud of mead. A bottle fell with the sprinkles of this sweet nectre, and it hit my fellow companion on the head and killed him, but the bottle did not break and we all shared in a cup of the sweetest mead, most divine it was, and now in vain I drink in these bars. 

He then fell to the ground almost unconscious and I, in a trance of adrenaline, shook Joao in an attempt to wake him so that he may finish his story. I dragged him back to my house where my parents forbade me from bringing him any further than the front gate, and he slept at the foot of the house. 

Blossoming Uncertainty

The morning came with a barrage of questions from my behalf and I invited him to a drink at the local cafe, as I was not to bring home anyone of such vice, and we spoke of my readings and his experience with the floating island, of our shared identity, of the forgotten words of the night before, which ignited in both of us, a need to find once and for all, this legend of an island. It had never crossed my mind that he was insane nor did he question my sanity.

He gathered what was left of his former mates, at least those who were in conditions to travel, and prepared a heist, to take his beloved Maria Santisima, the ship whose hull’s creaking he could hear from even in his deepest sleep, far from the port. 

Against the advice of my parents, I walked onto Maria Santisima and never looked back. 

After such a long, empty existence I found a man, and men who had nowhere to lean on.

Joao and I became the most dangerous of partners in adventure. When two men of rejected identities come together with a shared ideal, nobody can stop them, and such it was, nobody did. We sailed the nights with my knowledge of Astronomy, which I had learnt from the Morse texts, and with Joan as Captain of Maria Santisima, the sea became ours and the skies were like infinite arcs without beginnings. The seagulls would advise us of nearby fish and the winds would guide us, the waters had become home. 

Most, if not all of us aboard Maria Santisima were of similar origins, outcasts or disgraced men, abandoned men, both of European and African descent, a few even strongly possessing Native features, though much on this topic was never spoken with the others, only the drive of our shared obsession. Each man had his story of the floating island and each told it differently but with a few identical details and with those stories, I calculated, with aid from my many books I brought aboard, the possible conditions needed to realize this encounter.

A Rotten Flower

When the lack of food along with sickness was crushing the spirits of the men, myself included, I became unable to tell the stars from my own delirium and eventually lost direction. We were all ridden with headaches and could no longer man the sails nor pull the ores and we were left adrift, many became violent with sudden rebellion, shouting the falsehoods of such crazy stories and eventually, those who opposed in argument yielded to the rotting flower our idea had become. 

Joao and I were the only ones who were still curiously driven, though it was never spoken but acknowledged through infrequent moments of brief eye contact during those times of conflict amongst the men. It became almost like a battle between Joao and myself to see who would break first, or even to see who would at least admit it. We both might have been lost at that point, it could have gone any way, depending on who and how one was to admit defeat.

Though we both stayed strong, we could see hints of disbelief in our eyes filled with obvious doubt and questions, until he broke silence and asked; What have we done wrong, boy? I replied with haste and frustration, Please whisper, if you lose your way you will be ripped to pieces by the men. Your doubt will bring chaos. He looked around and whispered; You’re right, I’m sorry. But what have we missed, child? I had been pondering the same for many a day, or even weeks. I thought I had read every book, every account, heard every story possible to recreate the exact conditions in which the island appears. Was it all coincidence? I don’t know, Joao. All the stories had points which coincided and I thought I had recreated them all down the winds which were beyond my control. He grabbed my hand and pulled me in as to whisper something even quieter, they must have all been in utter despair, just like us, and with that said he fell onto his back and seemed to have fallen asleep. But it was true, all of these stories had coincided with despair though I never noticed it, at least not consciously, I did not believe it to be relevant. When Joao seemed to be breathing his last moments, I too felt like I was dying. But in that moment where all men had begun to breath heavily and with the acceptance of death, the full moon began to turn crescent and we all looked with as wide eyes as our delirium permitted and faces all scrunched up, up at the night sky, whose stars were beginning to disappear along with the moon, to the sounds of celebrations and cheers, and the cold refreshing mead began to rain down, and vines began to drop, and the men chanted and cheered, those with the strength to do so carried the sick and fallen, up to the promising darkness and I tied Joao to my back and grabbed ahold of the quickly-swinging vines and we were rapidly dragged far from the boat until it was gone. The cold but revitalizing winds gave us the strengths to climb, and climb until we were atop of the magical island. And atop we drank the sweetest mead and Joao with smiling eyes and lips, washed down cup after cup and it was like the glory of the pagan stories. Eternal celebrations. Until I looked down at the waters and there we all were, lying adrift on a ghostly boat. I looked at Joao sitting with the others in celebration and I couldn't bear to tell them the truth. Even as I now was among my own, patriots without papers and citizens without a nation, I couldn’t help but feel the sorrow of never having actually found my place in the world and that eventually, my body would sink to the bottom the ocean, where I, along with the others, could finally have an identity, a dead man amongst dead men. 

As I was being poured a glass of mead, I felt as if I was being wrapped in a cold, wet blanket, weightless. I looked at Joao and he held my arm tightly, a skin piercing grip, and he said; I can’t hold on any longer, boy! And I shook his arm from mine, I opened my eyes and through a rippling filter, slowly lost Joao’s face in the quickly darkening waters. 

A sailor’s final chant

With our eyes we said our last goodbyes as in the ocean I fell, 

becoming one with the beasts of where the wild things dwell, 

As the I hung onto your arm which bared witness my final plea, 

the one I sang whilst drowning in mead,

I feel comfort in the form of a wave,

 You did not want to drown,

your body I’ll save,

 Now I follow the cold sea which makes my skin shiver,

 I have become the force which moves the mass of the river,

 Now I found my identity in a symphony of pain,

 waiting in my dessert for the warmth of your rain,

 now I have not a home but two for I was born once more,

In the midst of a storm which allowed us to sore,

 you gifted me a new life and for that I must smile,

 for that was to be my gift to you, if only for a while,

 at least in the sea we are not alone,

 a sea from which came our new home,