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The
moonlight lies on the Pearl like a wet wool blanket, thick and heavy and
cold. It's a pale imitation of the sunlight that suffuses her decks with
warmth during the long Caribbean days. Sunlight pours like molten gold over
the salt-scrubbed wood, blurring the hard edges and sharp angles into a
soft, easy haze of perfect beauty. During the day, the Pearl is always warm
and the planks of her decks feel smooth and almost soft underfoot. But it's
night now, a clear summer's night with a full moon, and the moon bleeds
silver onto the ship. Moonlight stabs through small holes in the sails,
turning each minute tear into a mortal gash. The cold white light picks out
every stain, throws every line on the Pearl into sharp relief, and she is
all harsh corners in its glare. Underfoot, she feels cold, and thrusts up
enough splinters that Jack has pulled his boots on to spare his feet. The
boots make it harder to keep his footing in the soapy water that puddles and
runs over the deck, and he slips frequently as he stands at the helm and
scrubs and sobs for his beautiful Pearl, knowing he can never make her clean
again.
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