Bermuda March 1895It was a bright, clear morning after a very stormy night as James Silver stared contentedly ahead to the island of Bermuda. A self-proclaimed pirate, though never deliberately resorting to violence, he relaxed, letting the early sun dry his sodden clothes. His long yellow-grey hair flowed over his shoulders, blowing manically in the fresh wind. In his late fifties, he cut an incongruous figure in his red turtleneck jumper at the wheel of Calypso, a fifty-two foot sailing schooner. The waves increased in tempo and size as they approached the notorious Bermudian reefs, which had accounted for the demise of many ships over the last four hundred years. Silver, or ‘Quick’, to his colleagues was not concerned, as he knew these waters like the back of his hand.
Calypso was his
