The chart is spread, the riddle clear,
To choose the path we hold most dear.
South is a cage of calm and tide,
Where restless ships just drift and hide.
North is a gale, a wall of gray,
But the only way to win the day.
The Narrative: Chapter 15, Post 2 of 4:
With the map glowing, the reality of the transit hit home. Sage knew the ‘Real McCoy’ was Bill McCoy the legendary prohibition era rum runner out of Barbados. He looked at Hatter jaw tight. "Buddy let me explain this as best I can. We’re going to Barbados. Hatter smiled “Oh, that’s not too far”.
Sage: “Um Yeah, Listen. If we swing South, we lose the wind and get pinned by the current. We’ll be swept toward Jamaica before you can say Rumplestiltskin" Hatter nodded. "And the North?" Sage exhaled. "It’s a hammer. We’ll be clawing into the teeth of the trades at 65 degrees. It’s going to be wet, it’s going to be violent, and it’s going to beat the hell out of all of us."
The casual observer might see a simple southward cruise, but Sage knew the truth: a 32-gun frigate wasn't built for a dead upwind slog. It meant relentless spray over the bow, the constant groan of the rigging under impossible tension, and hours of grueling, bone-jarring labor just to make a few miles of progress.
It was short in a straight line, barely 100 miles, but they would need to sail 300 nautical miles. It would be a dose of the same hell they’d just endured from the BVI but this time on steroids. Hatter looked at Sage.
"The South has no wind,I guess to the North we go. Sage replied ”Brother, this is not going to be fun; it’s going to be a battle." Sage grimly barked for Clark. "Commander”. Clark asked “Are we sailing North?” Sage replied “Ring the bell & gather the men. We’re going to war with the sea."
👉 Tactical Update: The Loquacious is turning North. We’re heading straight into the teeth of the Atlantic trades to reach Barbados.
💬 When you know the road ahead is a brutal fight, do you warn your crew or let them find out for themselves? ⚓️
#TheRealMcCoy #BarbadosBound