![]() ![]() One day unbearable calm, the next storms that tear my sails apart. The salt of the sea is etching into my gaping wounds. Weeks of putrid water, moldy rusks and now and then a tiny chunk of salted meat – scurvy gnaws at my limbs, and I’ve almost got used to the relentless feeling of hunger. All because of this box that Morgan supposedly buried here. With a pack of murderers, robbers and cutthroats on board. I’ve been at sea for weeks now, somehow to get to this cursed place. Who knows what else is lurking for me in this tropical h**l.įull broadside! It takes a lot of patience to get your ship correctly positioned. Slowly and carefully I put one foot in front of the other. I want to scream about the bloodthirsty worms in the swamp and the damn mosquitoes that target my arms, back and face. I can feel it, the box with the gold and the precious items of rigged Spanish noble daughters must be very close here! My heart is pounding with excitement, sweat stands on my forehead. ![]() ![]() I can only be a few hundred meters from the place where Henry Morgan buried his pirate treasure 30 years ago before rum struck him in Jamaica. ![]() Man, how I hate them, those leeches! With the scribble of a hastily scribbled map of the island in my hand, I feel my way through the swamp and feel how these disgusting creatures cling to my calves. ![]()
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