Pirate Roberts

Pirate Roberts was a man of the water, though the "pirate" part was mostly a state of mind. And the state of his mind was often very much in question. 

Even more questionable than his mind, was his vessel—a rickety little sailboat, just larger than a bathtub. With this, he travelled his kingdom, and the vast expanse of Lake Nipissing and the winding river that fed into it was his sea. He sailed these waters from dawn until dusk every summer, muttering pirate nonsense to himself and any passerby unfortunate enough to cross his path.

His boat, named The Black Squall, had certainly seen better days, but that didn’t matter to Pirate Roberts. In his eyes, it was a mighty ship, and he was the captain of it—no matter how many times the mast tilted dangerously or the sail flapped lamely. 

Pirate Roberts could always be found  wearing a tattered bandana, his shirt open to the wind (and the blackflies), and a deep scowl on his face that said he was the fiercest pirate who had ever sailed. At least in his mind.

Pirate Roberts walked with a swagger, his legs stiff and his arms occasionally making sweeping gestures as though commanding a crew he didn’t have. His voice, when he spoke, was a gravely drawl, filled with “Arrr!” and “Avast, ye scallywags!” Whether anyone was listening or not, he’d shout out orders to imaginary sailors or offer colorful threats to the trees on the shore.

“Arrr, ye filthy landlubbers!” he’d call to the ducks paddling by. “Ye best be makin’ way for Pirate Roberts or I’ll have ye walk the plank!”
The locals, to their credit, were patient with him. There wasn’t much harm in Pirate Roberts. He didn’t steal anything, never raided the village and seemed to be overall extremely harmless. 

 It was bad enough that his own name was, in fact, Roberts, but he was convinced there was some deep familial connection between him and I—perhaps we were long-lost cousins, but I really hoped not. It was bizarre. 

I dreaded every encounter with him, he would give me a hearty slap on the back and call me “Matey. Aye, ye’ve got the blood of a pirate, I can tell, Roberts!” he’d say, giving me a knowing wink.

One day, while I was walking down to our dock, Pirate Roberts pulled his tiny boat up to the shore and hopped off with a flourish. He was wearing his usual getup: a large, tattered coat that hung far too large for him and a broad-brimmed hat perched on his head.

“Aha! Found ye, Roberts!” he shouted, his eyes wide with excitement. “Ye be comin’ aboard the Black Squall today, aye?”

I shook my head, cringing.

“I’m not much for piracy, Pirate Roberts.”

“Arrr, ye be sayin’ that now,” he said, stepping closer with a dramatic hand on his hip, “but I can see the pirate in ye. Ye’ve got the spirit of the high seas in yer soul!”

It was his usual speech.. As harmless as it all was, I couldn’t help but chuckle. Pirate Roberts was just a clown—an eccentric man who lived out his pirate dreams in the most harmless, least piratey way possible. He wasn’t going to conquer anything or plunder treasure—he was merely a character in his own, private, ridiculous play.

He gestured to his tiny boat with pride. “Come now, ye’ll be part of me crew for a day, eh? We’ll sail across the lake, and I’ll teach ye the ways of piracy. Arrr!”

“I’m busy today,” I said, laughing. “But if you need some extra crew for a real adventure, let me know. I’m sure you could use more than just yourself.”
Pirate Roberts gave a dramatic sigh. “Aye, a pirate’s life is a lonely one. But fear not, Roberts. The sea—err, the lake—calls to me, and I shall answer. I’ll sail on, forevermore!”

And with that, he turned, swaggering back to his boat. I watched him cast off into the water, the tiny sail flapping weakly as he sailed away, shouting pirate threats at the wind and imagining himself the scourge of the seven seas. I smiled and shook my head. He was harmless. More of a clown than a pirate, really. But he did make the summer a little more interesting.

One spring, as the ice finally gave way and the waters of Lake Nipissing began to thaw, something unusual was discovered. A small boat, once known as The Black Squall, had been found in a small bay, half-submerged and covered in layers of muck. The little sailboat, which had once sailed the lake with all the swagger of a true pirate, now lay on its side at the bottom of the bay, waterlogged and forgotten.
It was a strange sight, and the few fishermen who saw it while out on their morning rounds couldn’t help but gossip about the disappearance. The Black Squall had been Pirate Roberts' pride and joy for years—his tiny floating kingdom. His own Never Never Land. 
Where had he gone? Why had the boat been abandoned, left to sink into the mud?
Nobody knew for sure, and Pirate Roberts, as always, remained an enigma. The local gossip swirled with theories. Some said that he had fallen into the lake during one of his grand adventures. Others whispered that he’d been spotted in Toronto, strutting down the streets in a crisp suit, a briefcase in hand, and a serious air about him.
With all good rumors, eventually the local gossip found new things to address and keep occupied idle minds. People stropped talking about Pirate Roberts and his likely demise. Life moved on. Gossip followed suit. 
And so, with his boat at the bottom of the bay and no more sightings of him on the shores of Lake Nipissing, Pirate Roberts drifted into legend. The man who once walked with a pirate’s swagger and called himself a terror of the seas was now just a story from the past. 

Many years later, I was grown and out on my own. Spending a quiet evening on the couch. I found myself mindlessly clicking through channels, the hum of the TV filling the background noise of life. But then, something made me pause—something familiar in a way I can’t quite put my finger on. A lawyer, talking seriously into the microphone, his voice steady as he answers questions with practiced calm. The name on the screen catches my eye: Roberts.

I lean forward, drawn to it. His last name—but there's something more. Something in the way he speaks. The sharpness of his gestures. The confidence in his posture. And then it happens—the smallest flicker, the briefest twinkle in his eye as he shifts the conversation. It’s subtle, but unmistakable. It's the same glint from years ago. 

Could it be? Could this be the man who disappeared all those years ago, the man whose boat sank into the bay and whose name became a ghost story whispered among locals? The thought dances at the edges of your mind, but you can't quite grasp it. 

As the interview ends, I sit there, still uncertain. But deep down, I wonder. Maybe? Could it be? Some legends, never truly die. They just change form. And maybe, just maybe, you’ve found the man who never truly went away. For after all, the truth is often stranger than fiction.