This is by far the hardest RobZerrvation I’ve tried to write. I have four different drafts in the hold, three never to see the light of day.
When I was in Florida, I came upon a really strange phenomenon, one I hadn’t seen before. I can only refer to it as the Pirates of Kumbaya. Here’s how it works. A bunch of ordinary people come together at a Civil War fort in Key West every December. There, they pretend they are living back in the times of pirates (pre-civil war). For four days they live la vida pirata in harmony.
It’s all crap, of course. Because these Pirates of Kumbaya all don’t love each other. Some actually despise one another. I know, because they’ve told me so. But in the spirit of the moment, just like Woodstock, they gather together and pretend they are all lifelong friends, or in their vernacular, “pirate family.”
Gag.
If I sound a bit sour I’m not. For four years I even pretended to be a Pirate of Kumbaya. Yes, I infiltrated their ranks. Laugh if you want, but I tried to climb into that small box (no, that’s not an ex-wife sex joke) of re-enfakement for four long years. It’s been chronicled elsewhere here so I won’t provide a recap of my misadventures at Fort Taylor, those years of trying in vain to keep Pussy Galore happy.
Suffice it to say that I was able to make it through the love fest. I was pretty good at faking my way through being a Pirate of Kumbaya, even though I would have rather rubbed gunpowder into my eye sockets and set them ablaze. It would have been far less painful.
It has taken me some time to put my finger on why I can’t be a Kumbaya Pirate. I admit. I am spoiled. I had the rare pleasure to be trained by the all-stars of piracy three decades ago. Combined, these guys had been performing as pirates for something like 600+ years. They knew all the tricks of the trade, bringing a pirate’s persona to life, walking a fine line between what is appropriate and what’s not and drifting over that line with aplomb.
I liken my training to being able to play on a major league ball club right from the start. I only served in the minors one year, serving as a candidate in the Seafair Pirates. After the year was over, I was voted into the majors, which meant full membership in this very elite organization. Over the last 63 years there have only been 183 members in the organization. As I said, very elite. Hard to get into, easy to be bounced from.
The vast majority of the Pirates of Kumbaya holed up in the fort right now would have never made it into the majors. I can only think of three, maybe four. The rest are minor leaguers, destined to remain in farm clubs throughout the U.S. Like any minor leaguer they can pretend to be a heavy hitter, but those who have been in the majors know they aren’t and worse, they may never be.
And therein lies the rub. I simply can’t put much work into forging relationships with those in the minors. I’m sure most are wonderful people, but pirates? Not so much.
Harsh I know. But I simply can’t change the way I was trained as a pirate. I didn’t come from Kumbaya. The world I was raised in was a work hard, play hard place. We were tested, weighed and measured. Those found wanting were marooned. Those remaining were true to the general pecking order of real pirates. You put the group above all, your crew mates next in line, then you. The weakest link in the chain could destroy the tight knit group. There was no room for Kumbaya, all doors open in welcoming love. To put it simply. I was baptized under fire and I earned my stripes. They weren’t given to me. I didn’t just one day buy a pirate costume and think I was everyone else’s equal.
To paraphrase Tom Hanks, “There’s no kumbaying in pirates!” In the world of piracy, a pirate meeting another pirate from another crew would happily hoist a drink with them in the bar, but out on the open sea, they would just as likely slit their throat if they were after the same prey.
I could just see how this would have played out if these were the fort’s Pirates of Kumbaya. They would happen upon one another aboard their prize. They would hug and kiss, say how much they missed one another, lie to one another about how great they looked, then readily divvy up the spoils, let their hostages go and sit around on the beach afterwards playing Joni Mitchell songs on their “period” instruments.
This is, after all, what happens inside the walls of Fort Taylor the first weekend of December. A merry band of minor leaguers gather in a Civil War fort that never actually saw any action in the Civil War, let alone had anything to do with pirates. They eat their “period” food, make fake battle plans, fire blanks into the air, take a tally of pretend casualties, show lots of false bravado and then retire to the pub to drink rum and sing “authentic” sea chanteys. They all slap one another on the back and tell one another how amazing they all are and how things would be perfect if they didn’t have to entertain the public during daylight hours. Then they head off rum soaked to beddy-bye in their Civil War tent, convinced that they are masters of their universe.
Looking back, I realize that I was totally insane to think that this was for me. It runs so counter to my pirate DNA. I have been to the “big show.” I could never go back to playing Class D ball in Dubuque because I never had to in the first place. Playing for a Yankees farm team doesn’t make you a New York Yankee, sorry.
Hate on me if you will. I’m not saying that I’m right. I can only explore the world within my own framework of life experiences. I’ve been a pirate entertainer for the last 30 years. I’ve gotten away with murder, lived life big, made legendary mistakes and survived, have been fairly unapologetic for my actions and have met some amazing people in equally amazing places. They just weren’t in a Civil War fort in Key West.
In the Emerald City, a pirate through and through, but not one of Kumbaya,
– Robb