I was buzzed. Somehow, I didn't think ghosts could get buzzed.
It was the earthquake that had done us in. The earthquake and the smell together. But the captain was determined and so onward we sailed, sailed to the Sea of Gibraltar. And when you're dead and so you cannot even escape with death and you have a detrmined captain who won't even let you stop sailing to properly enjoy your death and you have no choice for the rest of eternity you can only do one thing:
Clearly, you can only drink.
And it wasn't necessarily because we wanted to escape, though that was certainly why we'd drunk when we were alive. Now we drank for the habit, for the ghost of a taste we could feel on our tongues, for the memories of what used to be.
The Mary Celeste had been doomed and none knew why and none knew how but the ship had certainly been cursed.
We hadn't sunk. We hadn't caught the wrong end of a sword.
No other ship had taken us.
And yet not a one of us had survived.
It was curious. Curious, indeed.
If we drank enough of the rum and gin we had left--not enough to last us a century, certainly, but the habit of drinking was hard to break--we could get a slight buzz off what once would have us puking our innards over the side of the sweet Mary Celeste.
It was a refreshing feeling, in the face of an eternity.
I was buzzed.
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