I write these words as one Captain of the Flying Dutchmen, paying respect to all her past captains, honoring all her currant captains, and warning her future ones.

For centuries the nymph Calypso, daughter of the titan Atlas, was worshiped, loved, and feared; by sailors, and pirates, all around the world. She was known as the goddess of deception and trickery. Captains from all round the world sailed in search of her island, hoping to capture her heart, and rule by her side. All of which, ended up enslaved by her. All but one. She is said to, one day, having fallen in love with a captain called Davy Jones. He, of course, loved her back. To stay close to him she bestowed upon him the duty of leading the souls of those who die in the sea to the next world. And to help him carry on his duty she made him the immortal captain of the Flying Dutchmen.

He sailed the seven seas for ten years at a time, carrying out his duties. Allowed only one day on land, every decade, he dreamt of reuniting with her. The love of his life, Calypso. However, being as unpredictable as the sea itself, sometimes calypso would come, and sometimes she would leave him waiting for another decade. Feeling hurt and betrayed by her abandonment, Captain Jones decided to retaliate. He gathered the kings of pirates and showed them a way to capture Calypso and bind her in a human form. That way the pirate kings would rule the seven seas instead of her. And they did.

Jones, then, couldn’t bear with his guilt, and yearning for her. So he cut out his own heart, and put it in a chest; hoping never to feel anything, ever again. And he never did. Since then, the legend told that whoever finds the chest, and stabs Davy Jones’s heart, would kill him; and relieve him of his suffering. However, Jones’s killer must put his own heart in the chest, become the captain of the Flying Dutchmen, and carry on Davy Jones’s duties. He must guide the souls of those who died in the sea to the next world. He must do that for ten years before being allowed one day on land. He must do that forever. Or at least until someone kills him.

Being a writer is like being the captain of the Flying Dutchmen. It all starts with an uncontrollable love for fiction, then becomes an endless pursuit of the truth. For decades we tell stories of people, bringing peace to their souls, and helping them move on. Then, when we get one day to rest, and to look around us; most of the time we find ourselves alone. We are, most of the time, misunderstood, underestimated, and scrutinized. We are sometimes outlawed, ridiculed, feared, and criminalized. Nevertheless, we are never truly appreciated, satisfied, or fulfilled. The only way we have out of this life, is death.