Pirates are like Texas. Everything is bigger: hair, frock coats, weapons, amount of leather in a boot... and lust. Everyone aspires to a lustier (and bustier!) swagger. Voices boom, beards billow, rustling skirts are as loud as canons, enticing the randy “sea dogs” (and “sea dog-ettes”?) with invitations to pleasure found within. A pirate gathering is a bawdy carnival of (apparently) heterosexual display which somehow also serves as a venue created for family entertainment. It’s like a Renaissance Faire without the Queen and her court, and a lot more blood curdling oaths.
I wanted to get up close and as personal as possible to the Pirate subculture and so, last Saturday, I attended the Northern California Pirate Festival. I was also one of over 2,000 people who attempted to set a new world record for the largest gathering of pirates in one place. The Guinness people had strict requirements for those participating in the record-breaking attempt. A pirate wanna-be was expected to show up with at least a “pirate hat or bandana/kerchief, eye patch, pirate accessory, like a sword, hook, musket, pirate flag, or parrot (no live birds, please), pirate shirt or at least a striped or white shirt, and pirate pants like pantaloons, tatty trousers, or rolled up pants.” Each participant would be inspected and registered at the gate.
I rummaged through the family closets, rich in costume elements, and commandeered an old red felt hat (once a school play prop) in order to appear suitably piratical. I felt pretty good about my appearance until I saw some of the other costumes at the fair: pirate finery costing more doubloons than I make in a month—or three! The boots! The corsets! The brocade and velvet frock coats from Samiah! I felt sore ashamed ‘o me few tattered rags. Still, I passed muster enough at the gate to get me official armband plus a commemorative black pirate hankie and an eyepatch! Arrrr!
I have to hand it to parents. I saw enough tiny “Captain Jack Sparrows” to fill a couple of classrooms at least. However not everyone who attended the festival conformed to pirate costume regs. I’m unclear on the origins of the Pirates vs. Ninja debate, but I did spot a lone Ninja slinking with mysterious purpose through a crowd of swashbuckling ruffians. Unlike many of the pirates, it was not pushing a stroller or talking on a cellphone. The Ninja’s presence I could understand, but can someone please explain to me the mysterious purpose of the Pirate Tiger Furry?
Save a Ship. Ride a Pirate.
In my secret role as an undercover pirate sexologist I made one stunning discovery. I’d like to know what demented mastermind created the giant inflatable Kraken with inflatable tentacles (animated by maritime breezes) softly stroking the inflatable mast of a 35 foot long inflatable ship? This was far too large and brightly colored—not to mention kinetic—to be read as subliminal, even if it was ostensibly a ride for children. Call me sick-minded, but I live for these moments.
However, I was at the fair for pleasure as well as purpose. And so I was entertained indeed by the singing of the Seadogs during a humble meal. I had Greek food and the children sitting next to me waved giant roasted turkey legs with greasy abandon. And when The Pirates Charles rock band played the main stage, I made a practical piratical discovery: if you boogie with pirates, watch out for the swords. Even when sheathed they can trip you up. I am not saying I personally collided with weaponry—I am far too artful and nimble for that—only that it was a clear and present danger. Bouncing out of a corset is another.
Mostly I wandered through the crowd with me mates and pondered pirate merchandising, pirate parenting, and pirate sex—in no particular order. There were no buggery booths to be had among the vendors nor mast lashing demos in the food court. The stocks were stocked with dummies, not miserable sods. Sex toys based on the Pirate XXX films, decorated with skulls and crossbones, were nowhere to be found (though they are obtainable online). Of course, this being a family event, I would not have expected any of the above. In fact, the closest any of us got to any form of torture was (1) sweltering in the long, slow lines at the ATM and (2) vain attempts to keep our flowing costumes from trailing in the muck of the port-a-potties. Don’t ye dare laugh! This is almost impossible to do!
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