Captain's Log, May 7, year of our lord 2007, off the coast of Wildwood, New Jersey. Me and my men called to port on this day amid great treachery. Wilbur, my first mate, ate too many of the Swedish fish and had fallen ill. It is not known what happened next. Some, including Brottigan, say he accidentally fell to sea. Others, Jimmy included, say that someone, perhaps Mitchell, purposefully thew him overboard. At any rate, Wilbur is dead for some reason we know not. A woman's heart is a deep ocean of secrets as they say. Well, sometimes the ocean is a deep ocean of secrets. At any rate, upon learning of Wilbur's demise, we had no choice but to head for land. Granted, we were already docked, as my men and I are too afraid to actually sail to sea, but throwing another anchor into the harbor (we already had 6 firmly planted) provided much needed comfort.
We are undeterred in our quest for cumin (and other spices), though. Wilbur would have wanted us to press on. The night before he fell or was pushed to sea, Wilbur and I were sharing a Brandy, reminiscing on our days sailing the Indian Ocean (which actually never happened as we were both too afraid to actually sail to sea), and Wilbur said that the search for cumin (and other spices) is the only thing that gives life meaning. Then, I'm not sure why, I remembered I had a stash of the Swedish fish, and offered some up to Wilbur, who gratefully (and a bit rudely) ate the entire bag. If I had not remembered my stash of fish, Wilbur would not have fallen ill, and then perhaps he would not have accidentally fallen overboard, or been in a state in which he could easily be pushed, depending on which version is actually correct. I cannot help but feel that Wilbur's death is my fault. Curse the gummy fish of Sweden.