Pirate Rum Quotes

Char chuckled. “If I didn’t know better, I might think you wanted my judgment to be impaired. I told you rum was my weakness in confidence.” “In my defense”—he leaned in closer, his voice for her alone—“I am a pirate.

Jack Sparrow: [empties bottle of rum] Why is the rum always gone? [stands up and staggers drunkenly] Oh... that's why.

Lord Cutler Beckett: [Jack is about to light a cannon that's pointed at the mast] You're mad. Jack Sparrow: Thank goodness for that, 'cause if I wasn't this would probably never work. [fires the cannon, which catapults him onto his ship, landing safely on his feet behind his crew] Jack Sparrow: And that was without even a single drop of rum.

rum-drinking pirates, strong-willed women, courtly manners, eccentric behavior, gentle words, and lovely music.

These, then, were the images in my mental gazetteer of Savannah: rum-drinking pirates, strong-willed women, courtly manners, eccentric behavior, gentle words, and lovely music. That and the beauty of the name itself: Savannah.

In Treasure Island, Savannah is the place where Captain John Flint, the murderous pirate with the blue face, has died of rum before the story begins. It is on his death bed in Savannah that Flint bellows his last command - "Fetch aft the rum, Darby!" - and hands Billy Bones a map of Treasure Island. "He gave it me at Savnnah," says Bones, "when he lay a-dying." The book has a drawing of Flint's map in it with an X marking the location of the buried treasure.

Astronomers who were recently sifting through thousands of signals from Sagittarius B2, a big dust cloud at the center of our galaxy, found a substance there called ethyl formate, which is the chemical responsible for the flavor of raspberries, and the smell of rum, the drink popular with pirates. Therefore, our galaxy tastes a bit of raspberries and smells of rum, which is nice.

Lorraine insisted on cooking us something to eat, so while she got on with that we found an old cement bucket and made a big bowl of punch. Blackbeard the pirate used to drink rum and gunpowder, as did most of his men, so we figured a little bit of cement in the punch wouldn’t hurt us. Probably take some of the sweetness away.

There was a sound in their voices which suggested rum.

Why would you go on a pirate dinner cruise?” He had to know. Her jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me? Why wouldn’t you go on a pirate dinner cruise? There’s pirates and dinner. And you get to say ‘argh’ and ‘matey’ while drinking lots of rum without anyone looking at you funny.” Her breath caught. “Maybe one of them will even have a real parrot!” Perhaps he’d overestimated her—just a little.

Were you ever going to tell me?” “About the Grail?” He returned to the couch and handed her a glass. “I wasn’t planning on it.” She knocked back the rum and swallowed, setting the empty glass on the table. Impressive. She met his eyes. “So even if we had slept together last night, you were going to keep telling me you were descended from a pirate, not an actual pirate.” He took a swig, his gaze locked on hers. “Would you have believed me?” “No.” She shrugged. “Just wondering how long you would have lied to me.” “I could ask you the same thing.” She rolled her eyes. “I played you. There’s a difference.” She shrugged. “Besides that, was before our no lies between us deal.” “I see this as more of an omission.” He finished off his drink and placed the glass beside hers. “In my defense, I’ve never told anyone who I really am. You’re the first.” She raised a brow. “Are you saying I should feel…special?” “Aye.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve never taken a bullet for anyone either, not even my crew.” “Thanks for that.” A reluctant smile curved her lips as she met his eyes. “Pretty heroic for a pirate.” He chuckled. “It’s less heroic when you’re certain you won’t die.” “But you knew it would hurt.” He nodded slowly. “True.” She pinched her fingertips close together in the air. “It might’ve been a tiny bit heroic.” Her dark eyes sparkled with the mischief he was growing much too fond of. “Not bad for a pirate.” He admitted.

From time immemorial, symbolism and poetry have been inseparable. Like a pirate and his rum.

So are you Order of pirate then? Do you transform into a one legged man with an eyepatch, a hankering for rum and a pet parrot?

To ruin me would take just one word: witch. A whisper from one man to another. A curse upon my name, to be passed about the ship like a bottle of rum. A rumor that would surely end with my dead body being tossed into the sea.

Til my heart ceases to beat, Til my boots cease to wander, Til my breath comes no more, I will search for her. Tis not gold nor silver, Tis not jewels nor coins, Tis not rum nor whiskey, She’s more precious than those. Through the oceans, Through the stars, Through the battles and wars, She’s worth facing those foes. Give me the strength, Grant me the will, And I will love her, I will love her still.

Is this seat taken?” she asked him again, tapping on a chair at the table. “That’s where my Rum is sitting. He is my guest!” “But the bottle is in your hand, and not in this chair,” she spoke, pointing out the bottle. “So, it is!” he answered, looking at his Rum. Then, looking back at her: “But he was invited to this party.

You'd be as rich as kings if you could find it, and you know it's here, and you stand there skulking. There wasn't one of you dared face Bill, and I did it--a blind man! And I'm to lose my chance for you! I'm to be a poor, crawling beggar, sponging for rum, when I might be rolling in a coach! If you had the pluck of a weevil in a biscuit you would catch them still.

The lyrics, though, are pretty symbolic, " I venture. "From time immemorial, symbolism and poetry have been inseparable. Like a pirate and his rum. " "Do you think Miss Saeki knew what all the lyrics mean?" Oshima looks up, listening to the thunder as if calculating how far away it is. He turns to me and shakes his head. "Not necessarily. Symbolism and meaning are two separate things. I think she found the right words by bypass­ ing procedures like meaning and logic. She captured words in a dream, like delicately catching hold of a butterfly's wings as it flutters around. Artists are those who can evade the verbose." "So you're saying Miss Saeki maybe found those words in some other space-like in dreams?" "Most great poetry is like that. If the words can't create a prophetic tunnel connecting them to the reader, then the whole thing no longer func­ tions as a poem." "But plenty of poems only pretend to do that." "Right. It's a kind of trick, and as long as you know that it isn't hard. As long as you use some symbolic-sounding words, the whole thing looks like a poem of sorts." "In 'Kafka on the Shore' I feel something urgent and serious." "Me too, " Oshima says.

Avevamo, poi, due formidabili alleati: il rum e il clima. Per quanto riguarda il primo, pur essendo lontani quasi un miglio, potevamo sentirli urlare a squarciagola e cantare fino a notte fonda; per quanto riguarda il secondo, il dottore si giocava la parrucca che, accampati nella palude, e privi com'erano di medicine, nel giro di una settimana la metà di essi si sarebbero ritrovati stesi.

Sono stato in posti caldi come la pece, dove i compagni mi stramazzavano intorno per la febbre gialla e il terremoto faceva sollevare la maledetta terraferma, che sembrava il mare: che ne sa il dottore di paesi così? E ho vissuto di rum, ti dico. È stato per me cibo e bevanda, pane, moglie e marito; e se adesso non posso avere il mio rum sono come un povero relitto arenato sottovento e il mio sangue ricadrà su di te, Jim, e su quello zuccone del dottore.

He retrieves a fluffy white robe from the bathroom and drapes me in it. Then he sits next to me and opens the black folder. Inside, there’s a single sheet of paper, covered in words and symbols. There’s a rough square in the center of the page, surrounded by wavy lines. Is that supposed to be water? Inside the square, there are small symbols: cliffs, mountains, an oval lake. The symbols are labeled. The Pillowy Mountains. Shipwreck Cove. Bathtub Lake. Pirate’s Lookout. Rum-un Cliffs. There are three fancy Xs on the map, drawn with curlicues and shaded in. One in Rum-un Cliffs, one in the Pillowy Mountains, and one in Pirate’s Lookout. “Is this a treasure map?” I ask, tracing my fingers over it. “Did you draw this? It’s so cool.” He nods. “X marks the spot, see? You have an hour to find the three treasures and bring them back to me.” A treasure hunt? He’s made a treasure hunt for me? A n4ked treasure hunt? “Pirate treasure?” I ask, blinking up at him. “Uh-huh.” I can play pirates. I have the perfect thing.

Colin hid a grin. His stare, keen despite the deceptive softness of his lavender-gray eyes, settled on his admiral as he held the girl so tenderly in his arms. Sir Graham loved women, yes, but never had Colin seen him treat one with the sort of obsessive, worshipful devotion he’d bestowed upon Maeve Merrick from the moment he'd brought her aboard. He’d made a bed for her on the sofa tucked beside the starboard bulkhead, bathed her damp skin, and braided her hair to get the hot, heavy mass off her neck. He’d flung open all the stern windows and gone into a rare fit of temper when the tropical breezes had dimmed and the air grew sultry, hot and still. His demands had sent the harassed Dr. Ryder running for the escape of a rum bottle, a midshipman into tears, and the company into hushed and strained eagerness to obey every order relayed through the lieutenants’ speaking trumpets. And to top it all off, Sir Graham had had a blazing argument with Maeve’s formidable lieutenant, Enolia, over who would get custody of the convalescing Pirate Queen.

Are you sure you can’t just…maroon him on a remote island with a bottle of rum?” Etta asked, only half kidding. “Make him walk the plank straight into a shark’s mouth?” “Maroon him? Walk the plank?” To her surprise, he actually laughed. It felt like a reward to hear it. “Why, Miss Spencer, I believe there’s a pirate’s heart in you. I wish Captain Hall had stayed, if only so he could have told you some of his stories over dinner.” “Too bad,” she agreed, relieved that a small bit of the tension had finally eased. “Do you know any good ones?” “I’m not as good in the telling as he is,” Nicholas said. “Perhaps you’d be interested in hearing the charming tale of pirates who disemboweled and cut out the heart of a British officer, soaked it in spirits, and ate it?” Her jaw dropped. “Spirits? As in, alcohol? Was that supposed to make it taste better?” “I’d imagine few things could improve the experience,” he said. “But anything is possible with enough rum and courage, I suppose

Look at that ship. That clipper cost me a queen’s ransom, even with the Kestrel thrown in the bargain. But it was the fastest ship to be had.” He took her hands in his. “Forget money. Forget society. Forget expectations. We’ve no talent for following rules, remember? We have to follow our hearts. You taught me that.” He gathered her to him, drawing her hands to his chest. “God, sweet, don’t you know? You’ve had my heart in your pocket since the day we met. Following my heart means following you. I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth if I have to.” He shot an amused glance at the captain. “Though I’d expect your good captain would prefer I didn’t. In fact, I think he’d gladly marry us today, just to be rid of me.” “Today? But we couldn’t.” His eyebrows lifted. “Oh, but we could.” He pulled her to the other side of the ship, slightly away from the gaping crowd. Wrapping his arms around her, he leaned close to whisper in her ear, “Happy birthday, love.” Sophia melted in his embrace. It was her birthday, wasn’t it? The day she’d been anticipating for months, and here she’d forgotten it completely. Until Gray had appeared on the horizon, she hadn’t been looking forward to anything. But now she did. She looked forward to marriage, and children, and love and grand adventure. Real life and true passion. All of it with this man. “Oh, Gray.” “Please say yes,” he whispered. “Sophia.” The name was a caress against her ear. “I love you.” He kissed her cheek and pulled away. “I’ve been remiss in not telling you. You can’t know how I’ve regretted it. But I love you, Sophia Jane Hathaway. I love you as no man ever loved a woman. I love you so much, I fear I’ll burst with it. In fact, I think I shall burst if I go another minute without kissing you, so if you’ve any mind to say yes, I’d thank you to-“ Sophia flung her arms around his neck and kissed him. Hard at first, to quiet the fool man; then gently, to savor him. oh, how she loved the taste of him, like freshly baked bread and rum. Warm and wholesome and comforting, with just a hint of spice and danger. “Yes,” she sighed against his lips. She pulled back and looked into his eyes. “Yes, I will marry you.” His arms tightened about her waist. “Today?” “Today. But you must let me change my gown first.” Smiling, she stroked his smooth cheek. “You even shaved.” “Every day since we left Tortola.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I’ve a few new scars to show for it.” “Good.” She kissed him. “I’m glad. And I don’t care if society casts us out for the pirates we are, just as long as I’m with you.” “Oh, I don’t know that we’ll be cast out, exactly. We’re definitely not pirates. After your stirring testimony”-he chucked her under the chin-“Fitzhugh decided to make the best of an untenable situation. Or an unhangable pirate, as it were. If he couldn’t advance on his career by convicting me, he figured he’d advance it by commending me. Awarded me the Kestrel as salvage and recommended me to the governor for a special citation of valor. There’s talk of knighthood.” He grinned. “Can you believe it? Me, a hero.” “Of course I believe it.” She laced her fingers at the back of his neck. “I’ve always known it, although I should curse that judge and his ‘citation of valor.’ As if you needed a fresh supply of arrogance. Just remember, whatever they deem you-gentleman or scoundrel, hero or pirate-you are mine.” “So I am.” He kissed her soundly, passionately. “And which would you prefer tonight?” At the seductive grown in his voice, shivers of arousal swept down to her toes. “Your gentleman? Your scoundrel? Your hero or your pirate?” She laughed. “I imagine I’ll enjoy all four on occasion. But tonight, I believe I shall find tremendous joy in simply calling you my husband.” He rested his forehead against hers. “My love.” “That, too.

What’s your favorite part of the trip?” “I don’t have one.” “C’mon, there must’ve been something.” “I took a weekend trip to Caño Cristales. I liked seeing the different colors of the river. It was like a liquid rainbow.” Many of the students had spent their time traveling around Colombia on the weekends. No one had a car, but we could hop on a plane for fairly cheap and fly into different areas such as Bogotá, the country’s official capital city, or Cali, the salsa-dancing capital of the world. Amanda had even convinced me to fly with her to the seductive, sizzling city of Cartagena. We climbed the fortified walls that had once protected the city from pirate attacks and watched the sunset. The entire city had a Miami-style skyline and, after the sun went down, infatuation seemed to bloom into fever and take hold of the city. At night we could hear the clink of rum bottles and mojito glasses in cafés on almost every street as moonlight picked out the silhouettes of softly swaying couples. We walked for hours along the coastal city streets. Candle flames beckoned from the dimness of nearby baroque churches.

Though the pirates’ emotions were entertaining, to say the least. How one could feel deep and undying romantic love for rum was beyond me.

They are men of simple pleasures. I, too, enjoy a good flask of rum from time to time, but I also take pleasure in longer-lasting rewards. I spend my earnings on good clothing and face paint. Appearance is important. I pay for information on big players on different islands. I enjoy meeting new people and learning their stories. The really interesting ones become members of my crew. But ultimately I always seek to win my father’s approval, to solidify myself as his heir and become the queen of sea thieves. I can’t imagine anything more fun than humbling stuffy land nobles as they cross the ocean. My ocean.

And what ‘role’ would I have here, captain?” my eyes fluttered. “I’m sure we could find something for you,” his voice was quiet and wispy as he pressed his lips into mine slowly. I closed my eyes and let him embrace me, his hand weaved its way into my hair, and he pulled me closer. I put one hand on his shoulder and with the other I reached behind myself to grab something off of his desk. Clunk. The sound the rum bottle made as it collided with his head was uncomfortably loud.

I did that about ten months ago for Captain Hook!” We all could figure out exactly who he meant by that—except Alexander, who reacted slowly. “Captain Hook?” he asked. “Joshua,” Zoe explained. “Ten months ago, he had a hook instead of that mechanical prosthetic. And without an eye or a leg, he looked kind of like a pirate.” “He did, didn’t he?” Orion asked, with surprising friendliness for someone whose home had just been infiltrated. “I kept expecting him to say ‘Arrrrrr, matey’ or ‘Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.’ Are you guys friends of his?

EDWARD TEACH (OR BLACKBEARD, AS HE IS MORE COMMONLY known) was reported to have tied sulphur fuses into his beard, which he would set alight before going into battle in order to give himself the appearance of the devil. It is said he liked to drink a burning mixture of gunpowder and rum, and that, after he was killed and decapitated by the Royal Navy, his skull was fashioned into a silver chalice.

So when Morgan returned from Maracaibo on May 16, 1669, some things were the same as always: A significant percentage of the town’s populace was going wild at the dockside, their shouts interrupted by the throaty salutes of cannon. The tavern owners were pulling the barrels of Madeira from their basements and buying every drop of rum they could get their hands on; the whores’ prices were rising by the minute, as 450 nouveau riche buccaneers would soon need servicing; the merchants readied their scales for the gobs of melted silver the pirates would soon be bringing in and slamming down on their counters with their filthy hands. In short, Port Royal was humming. But there was one face that was missing in the revelry: Modyford’s.