What Stays on the Beach

Friday. Caught a prisoner at the door with a camera round his neck. He said he only wanted a picture of the treasure. Everybody only wants a picture of the treasure.

Into the locker it went, with his telephone and his wife’s watch, which had been telling her to stand up more. Lockers are free. The shanty is a place for eyes, not screens, and I will not have the captain’s secrets turning up on the internet, apart from in this journal, which is different.

The no-grog rule is the other one. A gentleman tried to come in fresh from a long lunch, very cheerful and very sure of himself. The gamesmaster sent him to the lobby to be cheerful there. Nobody plays after a few rums. Not even me, and I have been offered more rum than any man alive.

And nothing in here is forced. Every lock opens with the right answer. I have watched grown men try to open a chest by sitting on it. It does not work. It has never worked.

The captain asked why I am always by the lockers. I said guarding them. Which is true. I am guarding them for the prisoners.