We meant well. It's just that, well, we didn't know.It's another beautiful July day in Seattle, blah, blah, and we ran out of things to do at home, so we decided to head out for a morning at the beach. Instead of the usual quick trip down to Lake Washington, I suggested that we head over to Alki in West Seattle. Better sand, salt water, marine air...and the pirates were coming ashore today.
Pirates?
Pirates. It sounded like fun. Summer around here means Seafair, a series of events, connected I-don't-know-how into a "fair" of sorts that seems to last most of the summer. We've experienced the events on nearby Lake Washington for several years--like it or not--since it's so close to home. Massive crowds gather for hydroplane races and the air show, featuring the Blue Angels and forcing the daily closure of the I-90 bridge (it's an interstate, and they close it) for about an hour to accommodate...something.
But then there are these pirates. I've read about them, seen them on TV (before we chucked it). They seem to be a group of fairly normal adults who dress up once a year as buccaneers and act like utter twats. We had something similar in St. Louis, where I grew up. The Veiled Prophet organization gave local businessmen a kind of annual costumed release from the bondage of their khakis and needlepointed belts. The big VP event was the debutante ball, at which the masked, heavily bejeweled (and presumably sodden) veiled prophet would welcome young, wealthy, white women into "his court of love and beauty." Not a joke. I went, several times. A willing participant. Filthy, sodden fun. Humiliating. Embarrassing.
These pirates seem less sad, somehow, and less evil. Drunk, yes, but they're pirates, so you expect that. And, to bring us back to the beach, they were scheduled to come ashore--raid the beach--this morning. We're early people these days, so when we arrived, there weren't that many folks around. Vendors seemed to be anticipating big crowds, though, offering ice cream, kettle corn, face painting, and pirate gear--tons of pirate gear. As we walked toward a sandy spot away from the band and the out-of-place pole vaulting competition (more medieval than pirate), Brooke asked "so what do these pirates do when they come ashore?" Good question. "Looks like they sell stuff."
I've heard the pirates used to be pretty out of control, and that they've reined it in a lot recently. A family event, and all that. I don't know how bad phony pirates can be--pretend pillaging?--but I'm kind of sorry to have missed out.
We found a spot in the sand with a view of the gathering "armada," several sleek sailboats flying the skull and crossbones, positioned about fifty meters offshore. The crowd on the beach was much more impressive--thousands of people with kids, dogs, coolers, umbrellas, blankets...and pirate gear. If it were pirates versus spectators, the pirates wouldn't stand a chance. Several of the more convincingly outfitted pirates milled around, making friends. I snapped a photo of Aussie-accented swashbuckler and a gregarious, hirsute Russian guy looking menacing a black hat-and-flag ensemble and Tony Soprano potbelly. In this photo I particularly like the disembodied hand flying the Motley Crüe sign--a gesture with inexplicable longevity.
At this point it was clear that we had made a gross miscalculation. It was a mistake to be here. We should leave. Zoë was behaving poorly and Elliott was tired, hungry, and poopy. We were unprepared. But the pirates were going to do this storming the beach thing and we've been in Seattle for seven years and not ever seen it. All these people were here to see it. It was going to be cool. Worth staying for. We would stay and witness this tradition.
The armada was growing, though it was unclear that these ersatz pirate ships would have the wherewithal to come ashore, much less storm anything. To the east, from Elliott Bay, came some cannon shots. The sloops moored before us had been firing rounds all morning, but these were louder. These explosions were coming from two mid-sized landing craft, steaming toward us loaded with pirates. Here it was. The attack! Everyone on the beach stood. Kids stopped misbehaving and ran toward the landing zone. Parents yelled at their kids to come the hell back, then ran off after them. Small-time thieves moved in to grab beach gear and wallets abandoned by parents chasing kids. The landing craft eased into the beach right in front of the giant inflatable pirate island cum kid playground. And I mean it eased in. Backed up. Re-approached. And the ramp...lowered...and...some...pirates...walked...ashore.
This was by far the worst pirate event I've ever attended.
Feeling duped and frustrated, we packed up our hungry kid and our misbehaving kid and walked down the busy boardwalk to our hot car. Along the way, I passed a sad-faced young woman with a bandana on her head and pirate makeup on. She was standing sullenly against a wall next to a similarly-costumed young man. She frowned and said to him: "I thought there would be cool stuff here. All I've seen is a bunch of angry parents."
Yup.
