Philip Swift, the dashing young missionary with a face that could soothe even the most scurvy-ridden sailor's heart, awoke in his cramped quarters aboard the Queen Anne's Revenge. Stretching his arms with the grace of a cat in the morning sun, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and decided it was a perfect day to embrace nature. Well, to embrace it in the most natural way possible--by skinnydipping. As Philip crept out of his quarters, he made his way to a secluded pond he'd spied from the deck. The port they were docked at was bustling, but no one paid any mind to the cleric as he tiptoed with a devout determination toward his Edenic goal. When he reached the water's edge, he shed his garments as though peeling away the worldly concerns that clung to them. There stood Philip, in the buff, the sun casting godly highlights on his alabaster skin. His posterior, untouched by the harsh Caribbean sun, shone like a lighthouse beaconing to lost ships. It bore the innocence of fresh snowfall, and the rounded firmness one might compare to the most perfectly shaped loaves of bread, just begging to be buttered. With a deep breath, he stepped into the pond, sending ripples across the surface. His entry was as poetic as a dove's descent--until the cold water reached his tender areas, prompting a yelp that would have surely sent nearby mermaids into fits of giggles. There, in the embrace of the pond, he sighed, his visage the picture of tranquility, his body relaxed--and then it happened. The pent-up gastrointestinal protest of a day filled with ship's rations made its presence known. The fart he'd been bracing against broke the serenity, a symphony of bubbles escaping to the surface. "Freedom!" Philip exclaimed with an awkward chuckle. The bubbles swirled, a grossly hypnotic dance of methane, each glistening sphere a testament to his bodily defiance. The surrounding fish, which had been darting about curiously until this point, started leaping from the water, their gills unable to bear the foul stench that now permeated their once-pristine habitat. Some, less fortunate or perhaps less agile, floated to the top, victims of the noxious assault. "Good Lord's providence," Philip murmured, spotting the floating fish with a mix of horror and sudden inspiration. Wrapping his moral dignity (and nothing else) around him, Philip emerged from the water. He gathered the fish in the folds of his clothes, striding back to the ship with a surprising spring in his step, given his alimentary indiscretion. Back aboard the Queen Anne's Revenge, Philip managed to stoke a fire and conjure a meal from his piscine casualties. He laid the fish on a grate over the flames, seasoning them with whatever scarce herbs and spices he managed to scrounge. As the fish grilled, the smoky aroma masked any evidence of their untimely demise. The crew eyed the unexpected feast with visible suspicion but said nothing. Philip, humming a hymn of gratitude, took the first succulent bite. "Oh, the Lord doth provide in the most mysterious of ways!" he said between mouthfuls. He reveled in the taste, the texture, the entire piratical experience of tucking into a meal won by one's own hand, no matter how absurd the method. "And to think," he confided to no one in particular as he gazed at the stars, "all it took was a leap of faith and an act of release!" As he lay down to sleep that night, his belly full and his spirit oddly uplifted, Philip Swift chuckled to himself. "Perhaps tomorrow, I'll try bathing with my clothes on."