The Pirate Licensing Exam
Comedy short - People think it was easy to become a pirate. There was a process
Henry Tibbens, Maritime Licensing Officer, stood at the helm of the test vessel with a clipboard tucked beneath one arm.
“Back it up, back it up,” he said.
The applicant swung the wheel hard, clipping the edge of the dock as he settled into the designated space between two buoys.
“Well,” the applicant asked. “How’d I do?”
Henry looked down at his notes written in charcoal. “Capsized a boat, sending a fisherman into the wharf. Hit the dock. And scared a seagull with the lantern.”
“Excellent.”
“You also hit The Salty Mermaid bar,” Henry said.
“Only the corner.”
“Application denied.” Henry tossed the charcoal into the sea and walked down the gangplank.
His assistant, Anne, offered a hand to help him bridge the gap. “He show promise?”
“I’ve seen better instincts crawling on the end of a wooden lice comb.”
“At least he knocked that fisherman into the water.”
“Always the optimist, my dear.” Henry gave a wide grin. “How are we looking this morning?”
“Line’s steady as ever. Lot of interest in pirating, though. Haven’t seen many privateering forms come through.”
“It’s that damn Blackbeard effect. All of a sudden everyone wants to walk around like a salt-cured fire-eater. It’s uncouth.”
“Can’t blame them,” Anne said. “Less oversight. Less regulation. More take home treasure.”
“Yes, yes. But they tell me I’m supposed to be issuing more privateering licenses. Apparently government-sanctioned piracy lacks appeal.”
Anne stopped him as they walked, taking his hand. “I know. But what do we say?”
Henry shook his head. “A barnacle-crusted hull still carries the gold.”
“That’s right,” Anne said.
“When the ghost fog settles thick and blind, ye be the lighthouse that guides me home.”
Anne smiled. “That’s beautiful, Henry. Now get back to the booth. The line’s backing up and in this heat they’re starting to smell like the wrong side of a catfish.”
They shared an embrace and returned to the licensing booth at the start of the dock. A makeshift sign overhead read:
OFFICE OF PIRACY AND PRIVATEERING
NO CUTLASS BEYOND THIS POINT
Henry pulled a sardine from his pocket and flipped it to a pelican perched atop a heavy table. The bird snatched it from the air and resumed guarding the applications. “Who’s a good boy, Peggy?” The bird cooed as the next applicant approached.
Henry looked up, underwhelmed. “Pirate or privateer?”
“Pirate,” the man said.
“Aye, have you considered privateering? Perfectly legal and has dental.”
“Don’t have many teeth, sir.”
“Also vision,” Henry said.
“Just the one eye.”
“And we’ll try and keep it that way… At half the premiums.”
“I don’t know. I’m more of an off-the-books plunderer.”
“Yeah, you and everyone else in the sea.” Henry lifted the form. “Alright, name?”
“Wick Stool,” the man said.
“Middle initial?” Henry asked.
“Is that relevant?”
Henry smacked his lips. “It is.”
“Middle initial’s R.”
Henry began writing. “Wick R. Stool.” He stopped. “Wicker Stool? Application denied.”
“Damn it!” The man threw his hat to the ground and trudged off.
Henry turned to Anne. “Imagine sailing the high seas alongside Wicker Stool?”
“Oof. One strong wind and he’d end up in a sunroom,” Anne said.
“Aye. A rattan nightmare,” Henry replied. “Next!”
Ahoy!
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See you soon,
—Ricky C.