Adventures of a Pirate Girl: Hitchhiking the High Seas

By Davina Menduno

This is a swashbuckling (mostly) true story about a woman who decides to untangle her dual dreams of finding a partner and circumnavigating the globe. After many years of entwined devotion to her boat and her man-well... a string of men-she resolves to pursue one-half of the dream, the sailing one, despite

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wildgeese Communications
• Release date: Aug 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737132714

Davina Menduno

Having avoided patriarchal indoctrination as best she could, Davina's education has been unconventional. Instead of the prescribed college degree followed by a steady job, she chose psychedelics; hardcore travel with very little money; deep dives into meditation; plenty of connections, relationships and love affairs; and a life on the sea. She got her captain's license and then, when her boat sank, she got a masters in fiberglass, carpentry, electrical and mechanics. Her sailing dreams led her to Waiheke Island, New Zealand where she is attempting to grow a small human into an evolved man. Envisioning the more beautiful world our hearts know is possible is what ignites her spirit, and through extensive reading she is studying up on how to make that future a reality. Together we can change our story! Sign on as crew at DavinaMenduno.com. Follow her at AdventuresofaPirateGirl on Facebook, or Adventures_of_a_Pirate_Girl on Instagram.

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CHAPTER 1

Dreams

Boulder, Colorado

2009

This was going to be harder than I thought. Not the traveling around the world part—no, I imagine that would come pretty easy. The hard part was going to be not getting caught up by a man. My body was not to be trusted. I was 34 and my biological clock was ticking… loudly. I’d always planned on having a family. I’d been married… twice. But I was never ready for kids; I was always too busy working on the dream.

My dream was to sail the world and have an amazing man. These two things were always woven together in my imagination and in my heart—I didn’t want one without the other. Together, my guy and I would cruise the world ever so slowly: poking in and out of bays, crossing oceans and hanging out on islands, taking our time. Occasionally we would set up home for a while when a place grabbed us. We’d explore this amazing planet, following our fancy along with the wind and tides.

During the journey, after we’d mastered the lifestyle, we’d add a few kids to the mix. Their education would be a family affair. Continuing our adventure, we’d taste, touch and smell the richness and texture that all life had to offer. Our kids would learn math through navigation and money exchange, history through the major museums and historical ports of the world, languages and stories through the world’s people. They’d learn all about our mother earth, the environment, the ocean and weather, the mechanical aspects of a boat—not to mention politics and the unbalanced distribution of wealth. They’d learn what matters in life: the universality of human kindness and the spiritual connection we all share with each other and this living planet. I still can’t think of a more vibrant or interesting way to live a life and get an education.

I said was when referring to this dream because by now, 13 years after I’d first committed to making it happen, all that remained was a tattered scrap of white cloth waving limply in the breeze. Love and sailing, it turned out, hadn’t woven together smoothly as I’d envisioned. And so I teased the two strands apart, reducing that richly embroidered tapestry to just me hitchhiking my way around the world on other people’s boats: a last-ditch effort.

When I finally sold my boat and moved to Colorado to be with family, I’d dropped the sailing thread altogether, or so I thought. By then, my biological clock was no longer just ticking; the alarm was blaring at top volume. And so, with the complication of sailing out of the way, I began working exclusively with the love strand of this dream. I set my intention on finding a partner, letting the Universe know I was serious by signing up for an online dating service, inspired by the very romantic success story of a girlfriend. It had to be easier now that my future beloved and I wouldn’t have to live in a tiny, rocking tub surrounded by water with only one way to shore.

I did meet someone in Colorado who seemed like a possibility: he meditated regularly, looked very attractive in his selfie showing off the dragon tattooed across his muscular shoulders, didn’t drink or do drugs, seemed self-aware and intelligent, and once had a threesome with his long-time girlfriend and another guy. If his online profile was the label on a bottle of wine, it might say: Deep and serious, with hints of a wild side; sexy with a spiritual finish. And in my cart it would go.

We were both excited to find each other but it quickly became clear that my pesky sailing dream was still messing up the love one. Already a father, he was not willing to travel great distances. Once the remnants of my not-dead-yet dream slipped out in conversation, he pointed out how uncompromising and single-minded I sounded. Not like someone who really wanted a partner (someone with whom one should consult and compromise with), but a free and independent, ain’t no one gonna hold me back type of girl. He had a point.

So I stopped the online dating thing and pressed snooze on that incessantly buzzing biological clock. With that shut off, I returned to the sailing thread. If it wasn’t going to let me go, I’d have to just get it out of the way.

I had already done plenty of solo sailing and was well aware that the reality of setting off on my own would result in loneliness and the unanchored feeling of not having a routine. The constant state of watching my own back would wear me out. On the other hand, if I was sailing on other peoples’ boats the tension of not having my own space and the strain of not being in charge would be hard. But what could I do?

I settled on a plan to save lots of money by working for a year so I could be financially prepared. I would go about accomplishing the remnants of my dream like a mature adult.

And so, determined with my new plan, I began spinning the exciting tale of my future adventures to all my adoring customers at the Walnut Café in Boulder where I was waitressing, building my mystique with stories. But the Universe, apparently onboard with the sailing dream and totally opposed to safety nets, had other plans: Mya called. She and Brian, her husband, knew this guy and he was sailing to the Caribbean and paying for the food. They were going and I should too.

Nope, sorry, I said, solid as a rock. I’m saving money all winter, plus I have to finish my book. And I don’t want to island hop anyway. I’ll get bored with the daily happy hour of retirees in the Caribbean. I want to sail the Pacific and have a safety net when things don’t work out and I find myself stranded in some faraway place, I declared, so utterly sure of myself. I was too, for a couple of days. Until it hit me: if I am going to do this thing, then I should just do it. Fuck trying to control the details. And fuck money; I’d never traveled with any before and deep down it seemed too safe anyway. Not having money always makes for a better story. The opportunity had arisen; the Universe had spoken, with the added benefit of beginning the journey with one of my best friends.

Okay, Universe, I’ll take it!

Apparently Mya was biding her time, knowing I’d come around.

A few weeks later, I went to research backpacks. It had been a long time since I’d owned a good, travel-worthy pack. I had bought one at 18 to take to Europe. I carried that sucker for years—through Europe, across the States and into Mexico—until it got stolen on what I’d assumed was a deserted beach in Tulum. One of the major motivations to buy a boat (for someone who knew nothing about boats or sailing, back when I was 22) was that I would no longer have to lug a pack around—the pack could carry me! But now, after many years, I was returning to having everything I owned on my back, like a turtle: loaded down, but free.

I began my research at the Army Surplus store to see what was available and how much it would cost. I don’t particularly like shopping, but the salesman was good. I left the store with the very last Kelty—woman specific, baby blue, 4500 cubic inch—with a zipper up the front so I wouldn’t have to dig down blind to find my bikini by feel—pack. I immediately phoned Mya while driving home from the store, to fan the flames and keep my fire stoked.

Bad news, she informed me, Brian just got promoted, so we can’t go.

Hmmmm, good one, Universe. You got me. I’ve got the pack. It’s on.

The Universe’s Humor

And what did the Universe do, in all its boundless humor, a month before I was to leave? It sent me a man, of course!

I met him at a rooftop bar, around a few tables pulled together for happy hour beers and an eclectic group of people wanting to practice their Spanish. I’d gone alone and was happily involved in various levels of conversation. There was the older gentleman from Spain who challenged my abilities with his smooth linguistics and quick wit, leaving me not quite sure if he was making a joke with me or about me. A wild-haired Brazilian woman whose warm personality and Portuguese twists made talking with her a genuinely interesting exchange. There were also, of course, a few less fluent students who were stuttering through dialog. The warm summer darkness and cold beers helped to ease the flow and the young waitress with a very short skirt, who, every time she leaned over a crowded table, flashed us her bare ass, assured an easy topic of conversation.

I was well lubricated and chatting away with the last remaining few in our group; the Brazilian lady had left and no one else sparked my interest beyond hablando español. I was about to head out when he came over and pulled up a stool. I didn’t think much of it. He was my age, broad shouldered and fairly fluent. Somehow we got talking about paragliding, which I’d always wanted to try. He’d just gotten into it and was stoked. This led to other adventures, the conversation picking up speed like a river flowing downhill. Soon we were expressing ourselves in Spanglish, the conversation tumbling on any way it could. We discovered a shared interest in languages and, when I got up to leave, he asked for my email, saying he’d send me info about a similar group who met to speak French.

We met for that, though my French wasn’t nearly as easy as my Spanish. Next it was rock climbing one evening in the gym. As we took turns mounting the wall, balancing precariously on an awkward foot while lunging to reach the next handhold, the easy flow of dialogue continued. But this time we talked about our ex-partners, relationships, family. Standing on the blue mat, below an overhanging wall dotted with colorful plastic grips, encouraging him to make it past the place where he’d fallen before, laughing together in easy rivalry when I made it farther than he did, I started to realize that he looked good, his strong dark jaw and prominent brow, his stout arms straining, even his shiny shaved head. We didn’t have instant sexual chemistry, but he was smart and interesting, social and engaged with life.

We continued to get together, often with his Costa Rican roommate Enrique, who was equally engaging and cool. There was salsa dancing, Mexican food and a spontaneous movie. After about a month of this I wanted to know where we stood. We obviously liked each other but it didn’t seem to be progressing. So after a movie in a planetarium about the navigators of the South Pacific, me in a dreamlike state, my mind romanticizing about my pending sailing adventure while my body eased itself as close to him as it could possibly get, I finally worked up the courage. Once he’d parked his customized white truck and turned toward me to say goodnight, I started,

PJ, I want to talk to you about something.

He waited expectantly.

I, uh, I find you really attractive and I, uh…

I just want to be friends, he jumped in. I mean, I like you, I like hanging out with you. I’m just not feeling like that. Here, give me a hug.

Slightly stunned, I hugged him and hobbled out into the night.

That’s okay, I told myself. That’s good. From the first night I met him, he talked about traveling and made little comments about being stagnant in Boulder. He’d mentioned the possibility of going to the Caribbean, of learning to sail. I’d developed this whole fantasy that he’d join me. I’d started to whittle down my around-the-world intentions to just sailing for the winter with hopes that he’d come too. Apparently, the Universe was helping me stay on track with the sailing dream this time. Fine.

But then, at my going-away party, he stayed right till the end. His roommate was about to leave and he was, too, when I blocked him in the stairwell.

Stay, PJ. Just stay.

Enrique really likes you, Davina. He’s had a crush on you this whole time. I would feel bad.

I don’t care. I like you PJ. I’m about to leave. Just stay. Please.

He did. And finally, after a few months of hanging out, he leaned in to kiss me. There weren’t any lightning bolts, but I didn’t care.

Since moving to Colorado, my once-active sex life had fizzled to nil. Maybe it was because my standards had changed. That my type—the tall, blond, ocean-going, hunter gatherer who tended to be emotionally immature, not intellectually stimulating or spiritually focused—just wasn’t enough. I wanted an equal partner. Someone I could have a really good conversation with. It had been good to have a break from my serial monogamous relationships, but after a few years I was just frickin’ horny. And PJ was smart and interesting.

This was a job for Pirate Girl.

Come on, I grabbed his arm and forcefully lead him upstairs. By this point everyone had either left or found a place to crash and, sure enough, there was a dark sleeping mass on the floor of my room. I lifted the blanket. It was my cousin’s friend Sasha, so I started to shake her, knowing she’d understand. Come on Sasha, you gotta move.

Davina, I feel bad. Just let her sleep, PJ protested.

No, she would do the same to me. I have never had a guy in this room and I am not going to let Sasha ruin my chances, damn it. I said to him, then to her, Come on Sasha, move.

Bleary eyed and stumbling, she left.

We got in bed, he stripped off his shirt and cuddled up with me. I untied my bikini top (it’d been a tropical themed party), because it was digging into my neck.

Hey, he protested, you shoulda let me do that. Problem was, he probably wouldn’t have. We kissed some, but mostly talked. The fact that there was no burning passion didn’t bother me; it was refreshing to have a guy who could communicate. We’d lost the vibe, and I blamed it on the Sasha incident. He got up to leave—but we made a date for the Wednesday before my flight.

Weeks before this I had lined up my ex-boyfriend to pick me up at the airport in Raleigh, North Carolina, and drive me the four hours to Beaufort, where I’d get on the boat. Sex was not only implied, it was texted about and masturbated to. Now that things were unfolding in Colorado, this presented a slight moral dilemma.

So I called my ex, trying to figure out how I could word this gently. He beat me to it:

Ah, Davina, listen. My truck is pretty feeble. I’m not sure if it’s up for doing the drive, and actually I don’t think it would be healthy emotionally for me.

Wow, he’d never mentioned emotional health before!

Off the hook, I could follow the desires that had been growing with my nutrient-rich imagination. This was a great distraction from my pending epic journey. Never mind that I was leaving indefinitely the following Saturday. Never mind that I had a million-and-one other things to think about. Not one of them was as intriguing as a big, muscular body hard up against mine.

We had an enjoyable evening in the privacy of his roommate-less apartment, a rare thing as we always seemed to be chaperoned by Enrique. We had stimulating conversation over beers and a little smoke and watched a death-defying documentary about paragliding. He even got out his parachute and held up the harness for me so I could sit in it and get a feel for the rig. Then we watched a movie in Portuguese about a poet. Listening to this romance language while reading the English subtitles with prose like she had my member in her mouth and a vagina wet and inviting like a cave didn’t strike him as sexual, and he was surprised to find that it turned me on.

After telling me that he liked to find the topic that made someone squirm and then prod them with it, I used the same tactic, attempting to reveal his true feelings about me. He changed the subject. He kissed and cuddled me, but without desire. He even asked me to stay, kissing me till I relented and got in bed with him. But then he didn’t want to have sex. The communication was great though.

The fact that I’m just not feeling any desire seems spiritual, he said. It’s like a gift of freedom.

I could see that. I would have loved to have the same gift, but I was burning up.

I’m sorry. I said. I can respect your feelings. I can just be friends, but not pressed up against you under the covers. I left.

Whatever it was, the only thing I could think was that the Universe, although taunting me a little, was behind this sailing-around-the-world thing. I guess it was helping me stay on course—damn it.

CHAPTER 2

Getting on the Boat

Crossroads

Beaufort, North Carolina

November 30, 2009

After the three-hour flight to Raleigh, I rented a car to drive the four hours to Beaufort, where I’d get on my first boat.

Beaufort sat at the very southern end of the Outer Banks on the east coast of the United States: a long strip of barrier islands forming a pencil-thin line of land in a triangular shape, protecting the inshore waters of the Pamlico Sound. Back in the 1700s, this was Blackbeard’s stomping grounds.

Beaufort was an old signpost marking a major crossroads in my life. Back in 2000, after three years of owning and rebuilding my boat, I sailed my little purple ketch—Azurlite—up the East Coast from Key West, Florida, and into this harbor. Once I navigated the inlet with its shifting sandbars, multitude of waterways and various barrier islands, I’d followed the marked channel to where a hundred or so boats were anchored: local live-aboards, big motor yachts in slips, native charter boats, fishing boats and cruisers. Beaufort was an international port of call, so yachts from all over the world could be found sheltered within its waterway.

Having logged some sea time and garnered some technical know-how to maintain and repair my boat on the way, I had finally felt like a real sailor. But I was also lonely and felt ripe and ready for a partner. It had just seemed like the time: I had my boat and my dream, I just needed the man. He’d be waiting around the next corner, and I was keeping my eyes peeled.

It had been raining for weeks, and I was going stir crazy inside my bare boat. I had yet to tackle the projects that would make her more comfy so living aboard still resembled camping. These were the days before I had a cell phone or computer, and I burrowed deeper and deeper into my hermit world, awkward around people when I occasionally went to shore.

Finally the skies cleared and I took the opportunity to put myself out there, sitting cocked back in a white plastic chair on the patio of the Dock House Bar, overlooking the water, talking to my mom on a pay phone. Some old salt started buying me beers, and then young Sarah Joe walked in—a girl who’d just bought her own boat and spun tales of a life that seemed twice as long as the one she’d actually lived—trailing six commercial fishermen, proving that not all of her stories were tall ones. I joined their long table, accepting the beer that was put in front of me. The guys were shark fishermen from Hatteras, a couple islands up the Outer Banks. I made an impression on them when Pete Pete Repeat didn’t heed my warning to back off. He was loud and drunk and way too close to my face. Bam, I did what I warned him I’d do and clocked him one in his runaway mouth. He went over backward in his chair and I won the hearts of those burly men.

Matthew was one of the younger ones in the group with blond hair, gold-rimmed glasses and, after a few weeks at sea, the beginnings of a soft golden beard. He had an honest face. And, he didn’t get defensive when I challenged the guys by asking, So is it true? Are you commercial fisherman really killing all the fish and raping the oceans?

He responded with thought and intelligence, and we sat together for the rest of the evening. Later he walked me back to my dinghy and, before I could step in, he pressed against me, his big strapping physique slightly soft over solid muscle, cuddly like a teddy bear. He planted a sloppy goodnight kiss on my lips.

The next day the guys returned to sea and, though I didn’t have any way to stay in contact, I never questioned Matthew’s feelings. I liked him and he liked me and I knew he was coming back. But after a few weeks, I got restless and was about to sail the few days up to Hatteras to find him.

I was on my boat, which was prominently anchored in front of the Dock House Bar. You couldn’t miss it. Bikini-clad and lathered up for a bucket shower in my cockpit, I happened to see him pacing the shore. I knew he was looking for me, but I didn’t want to make it easy for him so I feigned ignorance of his dilemma and ducked into the cabin where I could secretly watch him through the porthole.

To my delight, he disappeared and then reappeared sans shirt and shoes and dove right in. Tickled by his can-do attitude, I popped back out on deck, beaming a smile like a lighthouse, waiting for him to get close enough. Then in I went, headfirst, meeting him underwater. We surfaced in a kiss.

At that moment I chose a direction, I followed the sign that pointed to Hatteras, where I ended up spending five years finishing the major rebuild of Azurlite and building a house with Matthew. In 2004, Matthew and I got married.

The path from Beaufort to Hatteras didn’t lead to living my dream—sailing around the world with the love of my life—as I thought it would. It turned out the relationship side of things wasn’t as easy as rebuilding a boat—I couldn’t just cut, glue and bolt a man into being the One. I broke up with Matthew. After another few years on the island, I started to realize that island boys tend to be small town boys, not world travelers. And Hatteras was not where I wanted to be: I found it isolating and I was often depressed there.

That’s when I sold Azurlite. It all happened fast. I went to bed stuck and depressed, had an epiphany in my sleep and the following week sold her for peanuts and moved to Colorado.

In hindsight I can see that by holding on to my vision so tightly, I’d strangled it. I couldn’t let go enough to let the natural flow of creation help me out. But I’ve learned a thing or two about the law of attraction since then. Like creating a piece of art, you start off with an idea, but once you begin, the work takes on a life of its own. You have to let go and allow it to evolve naturally in order to generate something inspired. So here I was again, back at the same crossroads. This time I was following the other sign: the one that led directly out to sea.

Meeting Troy

Beaufort, North Carolina

November 29, 2009

When you stop moving, objects collect like dust, or like leaves on a forest floor. It had only been two years previous that I’d sold my boat and crammed everything I owned into my Ford Taurus to drive from Hatteras to Colorado. But in those two years my stuff had greatly expanded and I was having a hard time deciding what to take and what to leave behind: dancing shoes? climbing gear? jewelry-making supplies? dive gear? But at least I wasn’t carrying the emotional weight of a new love affair. PJ had made sure of that.

There I was again with everything I owned in a car. I left my excessive baggage in the rental and strolled up the dock to meet the man with whom I would be spending the next month. An acquaintance of my friend Mya, we’d made all of our plans for this trip via email, so I’d never actually talked to him. He was on deck adjusting the rigging of LoneSilver. In his early 50s, he was on the shorter side, solid and fit, with dark hair dusted gray and a mustache that curved around his friendly smile. He was in worn jeans, a faded tee shirt and brand new white Velcro sneakers that added a decade to his look.

We shook hands and I told him not to laugh about how much stuff I’d brought. I had warned him in an email that I was having a hard time narrowing it down and he’d sent a picture of himself in his early 20s on his way to Colombia with just a tiny, over-the-shoulder bag. He had written a mindful paragraph about how traveling light is a spiritual practice. How you develop a trust in the Universe and get a direct experience of manifesting your life. These were sentiments I totally agreed with; after all, I had hitchhiked penniless around Mexico. But hot damn! That was when I was 19!

When I fetched my load from the car, he was relieved to see that it wasn’t as bad as I’d made it out to be… but it was still way too much.

Troy’s boat was a 42-foot ketch-rigged Pearson. Her decks and cabin top were shipshape and well equipped without the shiny teak and brass of some yachts. Those were just made to sit at the dock and look pretty like bikini-clad women in full make-up and heels. You ever try to walk down the beach in heels? We wouldn’t have to deal with that kind of high maintenance on this boat. Her sail covers were minty green, and the only woodwork was the silvered grab rails and trim around the companionway. Troy immediately started showing me around his baby, getting caught up in the story of each of his refits like a proud father. As a single-hander I could totally relate. I had spent thousands of hours and dollars rebuilding Azurlite and knew it’s mostly only yourself who appreciates just how ingenious you truly are. It’s gratifying when someone else can appreciate it too.

Not everybody would be open to this kind of instant intimacy. I’d never even met this guy, and here I was moving into his small and personal space. A little like that movie Being John Malkovich and sitting inside someone else’s head. Troy had spent the past three years outfitting this boat and not only was every piece of it him, but as the Captain he had a million things to think about for this voyage. Over the next few days we did the provisioning and all manner of boat chores, and I could see his gears spinning. Understanding how overwhelming it could be, I was trying to be supportive and helpful, not questioning the small illogical glitches. But my at-your-service, eager-to-please crew member shell was beginning to morph into the totally-competent, speak-her-mind Pirate Girl. While Troy’s shell—the world-traveling Captain with a long story that trumped mine on every topic—was wearing away.

The way he’d been open to my dietary influence and my culinary skills, the way he noticed my ability with knots and gave me the job of lashing down everything on deck, the diplomatic way he handled himself with the owner of the dock, his voiced appreciation for all of my help, and especially the way he quietly arranged my space in the v-berth while I was out, so that when I returned at night with a good buzz on I didn’t have to clear a place to lie down. All of these little details painted the picture of a thoughtful person, confident enough in his abilities, but humble enough to accept the abilities of others. At least that’s what I hoped.

The Going-Away Party

With all the chores done, the food and supplies purchased and packed away, and everything strapped down on deck, we were just waiting on weather.

LoneSilver was at a dock way down the creek, past the main township of Beaufort with its bulkheads and wooden docks, waterfront bars, restaurants and shops. Here the water washed naturally into marshy grass with an occasional personal dock jutting out over the wetland from a house built back off the water. Troy was out doing some of the last-minute chores and I was just stepping onto the boat, when I saw a funny-looking vessel passing the T-pier almost right below our bow. It was a tiny tub crowded with two women and a preteen boy; the whole vessel tipped precariously forward, one of the girls leaning over the side, paddling with her hands. They were all howling with laughter, having way too much fun in their struggle to make it across the creek.

I watched for a minute, giggling. Finally, close enough to the water’s edge, the boy spluttered over the side, knee deep, and pulled them to the grassy shore.

Hi, I called out.

They all looked up, still laughing, and called out, Hi! in unison, which only evoked more laughter.

Then the girl with black ringlet curls and creamy skin dotted with freckles, said, Hey, are you Davina by any chance?

Uhhh, yeah, a curious smile turned up my lips, Yeah, I’m Davina.

Hey, I’m Kris, a friend of Hope’s. She told me you might be in town.

I’d left a message with Hope earlier in the week. She was a single-handing sailor girl I’d met up in Ocracoke a year or so before when I’d flown out for Mya’s pirate-themed wedding. I’d Captained one of the three boats that rafted up for the ceremony, and Hope ran another one.

Hey, it’s cool to finally meet you. We’ve run in the same circle for years. You have a purple boat, right? We’re friends with Jonah. He told a lot of stories that you featured in.

"Ah, my old friend Jonah, yep. He and I were close way back when I first bought Azurlite."

I remember hearing about you, piped in the kid, who looked about 12 and had the same curly black hair. He pulled their little round craft up into the grass. Jonah called you a Pirate Girl, he said with a sly smile. My name’s Jonah, too.

He’s mine, added Kris, nodding toward the boy.

I can see that.

So what are you doing? she asked.

About to sail down to Sint Maarten and then on around the world, is the plan.

Awesome! But what about in, like, an hour? We’ve just got to get out of these wet clothes. Then we’re meeting Hope at the pub. Do you want to join us?

I’d love to!

Cleaned up and ready for a night out, I first stopped by another friend’s boat. Earlier that day while jogging, I’d run across Jay, someone I knew from Hatteras. Stocky and tan, with a mess of curly brown hair, we’d made a plan to meet later for a toke. I called out, Hey Jay, and waited for permission to come aboard from a scruffy little mutt who was barking to protect her territory. Jay emerged from inside his 30-foot sloop.

Perfect timing. I was just about ready to stop working. Do you want to pass me that skill saw, and I’ll just put this stuff away. Once we had everything stowed beneath seats and under bunks, we climbed down below and sat across from each other on the settee.

Once the small cabin twirled and twisted with curls of marijuana smoke and we’d talked boats and projects and my big sailing plans, Jay turned the conversation to our shared history.

Remember that party? he asked, while passing me the joint.

I’ll never forget it. It had been a pirate party at Springer’s Point on Ocracoke Island, right where Blackbeard and his crew would have congregated in the 1700s.

One of my first purchases after buying my boat had been a bustier and ruffly white shirt at a Renaissance fair—my pirate outfit. But this party, many years later, was the first time that the indomitable Pirate Girl spirit had completely filled me, almost as if I was possessed. Some small aspect of my personality, which normally stayed tucked away within the whole, swelled and expanded until it took over all the other parts of me and I was filled with this wily, raucous and aggressive force, as if I was channeling her from a different lifetime. She swaggered through that night, accosting innocent partygoers and making a piratical scene to the merriment of her crew. What a swashbuckling night it had been!

After both of us took turns