A pirate sailed south, but too far. The good ship's prow found harbors filled with icebergs, frolicking penguins and walruses: it began to snow inside his mortal soul. He dreamed of perfect white beaches, warm sand, sunlight, palm trees and (perhaps) a lovely French poet in a slight bikini lolling like Erato on holiday. He could taste the sun and coconut on her skin. It was only a vision, but one worthy of a quest. He preferred living dreams to dead conclusions. Many people told him he dreamed too much, to accept this landfall and be content. But cold and darkness are not a pirate's lot and contentment does not appear in the official pirate's vocabulary. Even an aging pirate holds true to course, pinned like a medal to his longing and desire. More sail, he cried, and turned the helm toward the islands of his heart, toward a landfall of warmth and color, toward hot and willing flesh, toward parrots and monkeys and blue skies. Leaving the nay-sayers in the cold, he headed the only direction a pirate can, further. - mce