Sung or'Hung

(The Sea Before Kalaupapa Valley, 2009)

It's like watching a ship go down, those final last breathes of a captain and his lady bubbling up to the surface, and the bubbles burst with sounds of screams and cries. I would like to say his last words were I'll never be a legend, or I'll be back (in a half-gurgling sound). He was a friend, and now that he is gone, and the crew and I were on the ship of our captors, there was this void feeling of loss, mixed with the bitter taste of defeat. No, we're weren't "pirates", atleast not in that romantic notion so saturated in modern cinema of the twenty-hundreds, we were Filipino robbers and thieves, that happened to have a neck for ships and maritime, roughnecks that really cut throats, and were criminals. Juan has four counts of murder under his belt, and how he escaped prison with nothing but his one arm, and rotted teeth alludes me, I think the captain picked him because he reminded him of how wonderful Rick Allen of Def Leppard is at drumming.
Carlos was a ladykiller, he really killed them, but he also was a good-looking gentlemen, he was just messed up in the head. And Lif, the newest member of our crew was twelve, and knew how to tie a knot that would rip a man's flesh with the slightest amount of struggle, and he was the only one of us that learned how to disable the technological advancement of tanker or freighter's secruity system.
Sure, we were wild, wild and scary men, that the rest of the world feared, but what we were up to in those seas, what made us who we were, and what accounts of this and that such crime was our passion. The world looks at Napoleon and his manifesto, Che and his journey, and that guy from Catch Me If You Can with dreams, and wishes of their own. Everyone's a sucker for the romantic notion of leaving the rest behide, and becoming wild, and free, whatever that freedom is or was. We were dirty, we were sick, but most importantly, we were free...up until an hour ago, and now awaiting to be hanged (I still argue hung sounds better), by the people we robbed from, the people we'll never see, and only a hand upon a hand will be the last of our accounts at our journey, from when we were young, when we first stole fruit and bread to eat, then moving up not down, stealing bigger and better, and all for survival until it was too rich in our blood, it was in our spit, in our eyes, in everything we longed for, we were thieves of pleasure, like a magician alluding his audience in mystery.
And where do all my last words go, when I am gone, when I am longer, who will speak of my legend, of the places I have seen, the people I have stolen from, or even put to waste, there is no author of my immorality.
I would like to think one day, my story to serve as a lesson to those of my hometown, of fear and shame, to never step foot in the shoes of Vincent Santos, for you will be HUNG to death.