Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

PART 2: THE JOURNEY

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Through the courageous leadership of Captain Freep - er - Threepwood, the Sea Monkey was finally underway. Undaunted by their lack of navigational equipment or expertise, the crew began to plan their voyage...

The sun had risen on a day of perfect blue sky. All around the Sea Monkey lapped tiny waves. The ship rolled slightly in the faint breeze.
Guybrush had gathered the crew on the main deck for an introductory briefing. "First of all," he began, "I'd like to say it's great to be working with such a fine crew. The voyage ahead is not going to be easy. It's going to take skill, endurance, and most of all, teamwork. First I thought we'd assign some duties."
"What is it we were suckered into doing again?" asked Otis.
Guybrush drew out a small parchment. "I made a list."
"'Suckered' is right," agreed the Sword Master.
"I don't see what the big deal is with rescuing the Governor," said Otis. "She can clearly take care of herself." Guybrush, since no-one was looking at him, put away the parchment.
"The way I see it," continued Otis, "we've got this great ship..." They looked around the Sea Monkey. "Well, we've got a ship," he amended. "Why don't we kick back, tie a rope to the wheel and cruise for a while? I could use a little work on my tan."
Meathook liked the idea. "Come to think of it, I've been a little stressed out lately. I could use a rest."
"Then it's decided," said the Sword Master. "We cruise the Caribbean."
Guybrush sighed.

He took refuge in the Captain's room. The crew wouldn't have a bar of any action at all. "I'm doomed," he moaned.
He leafed through the pamphlets Stan had given him. They had titles like 'How to Get a Leg Up in Treasure Hunting', 'How to Get Ahead in Navigating', and 'How to Arm Yourself in Sea Battle'. None had any helpful hints on how to handle mutiny.
Guybrush walked back out onto the main deck. If he couldn't get any help now, he never would. His eyes narrowed as he saw the crew stretching out in front of him. Meathook was sitting down, playing solitaire, with a tankard of grog beside him. Otis was lying back on a white deckchair, sipping wine. The Sword Master was reading a novel.
"Hey guys, what's happening?" asked Guybrush, keeping the edge in his voice to a minimum.
"Beat it, Guybrush," said Otis.
"Is there anything I can do to get you guys to help me?"
The crew looked at Guybrush. "Er, excuse me," said Meathook, "you're blocking the sun."
Guybrush tried guile. "I hear the weather's good over by Monkey Island�.
Otis was unimpressed. "Nice try, Guybrush, but no banana." He took another swig of wine.
Guybrush had had enough. "I'm going to give you mutineers five seconds to come to your senses!" he barked. "Then I'm going to start kicking some butt!"
"Excuse me, Guybrush," said Meathook politely yet firmly, "does the word keelhaul mean anything to you?"
Guybrush saw the point. He was dependent on his crew, but they could go along fine without him. "Keelhaul: to haul under the keel of a ship as punishment or torture," he said as a parting shot, before returning to the dusty warmth of the Captain's room. He sat down at the Captain's desk and put his head in his hands. His left arm reached instinctively down into the left drawer, hoping to find a bottle of grog.
None. Instead, there was a small dusty logbook. Guybrush took it out and read the title - it was the Captain's log, left over from the previous sailing attempt. Maybe he would have some hints on how to get to Monkey Island�. Guybrush opened it and started reading.

Captain's log, March 10th: First Mate Toothrot and I have been searching for Monkey Island� for over a month with no success. The directions we purchased on Melee proved to be a recipe, not a map as we had believed.

Captain's log, March 12th: I wish Toothrot would take a bath.

Captain's log, March 17th: I wish Toothrot would stop snoring.

Captain's log, March 23rd: Toothrot is really starting to get on my nerves. I figure it's only a matter of time before we come to blows.

Captain's log, April 2nd: As a gesture to restore our friendship, Toothrot offered to fix dinner tonight.

Captain's log, April 3rd: I don't know how we did it, but we've arrived at Monkey Island�. Both Toothrot and I passed out from the soup he fixed last night. When we woke, Monkey Island� was sitting off the port bow.

Captain's log. April 4th: Toothrotand I filled the rowboat with supplies and are ready to set out to Monkey Island�. We are both excited at the prospect of being the first civilised people to learn the Secret of Monkey Island�.

Captain's log, April 5th: We had to turn around and return to the ship. Toothrot forgot to go to the bathroom before we left. We'll set out again tomorrow.

That was the last entry, and as far as last entries go, was a lot less foreboding as it could have been. But Guybrush was more interested in the events of a few days ago, in particular Toothrot's recipe. A recipe is a set of instructions. Toothrot had followed the instructions, and the next day they were at Monkey Island�. And if dancing steps could be a treasure map, why not a recipe?
Maybe the recipe was still around somewhere. Guybrush looked around the Captain's room, which looked a lot less impressive in the bright sun, which filtered through the wide panorama of cracked windows in front of him. There was a treasure chest in one corner, but Guybrush was disappointed to find it was empty. There was, however, a tall cabinet by the Captain's bed. It was, as luck would have it, locked up tight.
Guybrush was momentarily disappointed, but there were a lot of other places to look. Like the kitchen, for one.

To get to the kitchen, or 'sculley' as it was more probably known, you opened a hatchway next to the main mast. A set of wooden steps led down to the crew's sleeping area, which, lit far less harshly, looked a lot better than his quarters. Another hatchway led down to the storage area at the base of the ship, or you could turn a left down a short staircase and end up in the kitchen.
It was even hotter down here than in the rest of the ship, mainly because of the massive fire in the centre of the room, over which was suspended a cast iron cauldron big enough to fry a group of anthropologists in. Stan had thoughtfully got the flames going for him.
Benches the walls on both sides, but were largely empty except for a number of stainless steel saucepans. The stored food, such as it was, consisted of a number of boxes and sacks, shoved into a corner, and a cupboard suspended above them.
Guybrush opened the cupboard - it seemed the most likely place. He was disappointed, therefore, to find it stacked full of cereal boxes. Some of the disappointment went away, however, when he saw the cereal was Cap'n Crunch, one Guybrush had enjoyed many times in his earlier days, relishing the way it chewed up the roof of your mouth. He reached into the cupboard, withdrew a packet, and opened it. Maybe at the bottom there'd be a toy whistle, one those ones that emitted a 2600 Hz buzz.
No such luck. Just a small, worthless key with a finely engraved monkey on it. Guybrush was about to throw it away, when he remembered the locked cabinet in the Captain's room. Maybe, by an incredibly improbable coincidence, this key would fit. There would be only one way to find out.

As it turned out, it did fit. Easily.
The cupboard swung open, revealing its contents to be a small metal chest, which turned out to be rather heavy as Guybrush lugged it out and set it on the floor. The weight was encouraging - the chest was, no doubt, loaded to the brim with gold and jewels. Guybrush opened the chest.
Inside, there was a small piece of paper, and some cinnamon sticks.
Guybrush slowly reached in and took the paper. Maybe it was the directions to the treasure.
Nope, it was the recipe.

Preheat pot to 450 degrees. Add the following ingredients:

1 Cinnamon stick
4 Leaves of Mint
1 Human Skull (pressed)
1 squirt Squid ink
2 pts Monkey Blood
1 Live Chicken
3 oz. Brimstone
1 or more of the following: pyridoxine hydrochloride, zinc oxide,
yellow eight, mine mononitrate and BHA

Let bubble over low flame until thickened. Serves crew of four.

Reaching the end, Guybrush knew they didn't have all of the ingredients on the list - for instance, there weren't any pressed human skulls around (although there might be if the crew didn't give up its recalcitrant ways). He would have to improvise...

In a matter of minutes, having scavenged the ship for any useful substitutes, Guybrush threw the following ingredients into the cauldron: one cinnamon stick (Guybrush loved cinnamon); four breath mints; the Jolly Roger from the crow's nest (a fine looking flag - it shivered his timbers just looking at it); ink from the inkwell in the Captain's room; two pints of fine red wine he found in a trunk in the storage room (Guybrush was no enologist, but judging from the deep red colour it was a very fine wine); a rubber chicken with a pulley in the middle (it was about time he got rid of that worthless artifact); three ounces of gunpowder, also from the lower hold; a box of Cap'n Crunch cereal (he could tell this was going to taste good); and for good measure, a feather pen, his 'I beat the Sword Master' T-shirt, the recipe, the minutes, and the key to the cabinet. Then he gave the sweltering mixture a stir with a long steel ladle. It was going an off green colour. Green steam drifted up, and it smelt awful.
The soup (whatever it was) was now bubbling furiously as it heated up. Eldritch light glowed from within.
Then, as the chain reaction suddenly caught, there was a massive green explosion. Guybrush was driven back as a mushroom cloud of gas was blown over the rim. He was now breathing the stuff, and he felt suddenly dizzy. Maybe I should have opened a couple of windows, thought Guybrush as he drifted slowly toward the floor.

Overcome by the fumes and stench, Guybrush quickly lost consciousness. Moments later the voodoo spell kicked in, turning the ship to an unknown heading and off on its mysterious voyage. Their destination - Monkey Island�!

Days pass...

Waking up is hard enough to do every morning, but when you've lain in a deep coma for a week, it is positively painful. Things aren't helped much if you're lying face down on a hard wooden floor, and the room you're in stinks like a crowded abattoir on a bad summer day. Guybrush could have vouched for this.
He shook his head, propped himself up, and got to his feet. He felt awful - in particular, his head felt like a medicine ball. The fact that the sun was shining through the window on another clear morning did little to mitigate affairs.
Guybrush walked gingerly over to the cauldron and peered in - it was full of brown sludgy crap. He hoped he didn't have to eat it.
But at that moment he glanced out the window, and saw something that returned all his forgotten energy with a jolt. A flash of green.

Guybrush dashed up the stairs and out onto the main deck. The crew were here, still enjoying the Caribbean weather, but Guybrush ignored them. There, on the port bow, was the land mass of mystery and excitement - Monkey Island�!
"Holy Monkey Bladders!" exclaimed Guybrush, unable to control himself. He stared in wonder at the low jungle, the snow white sandy beaches, and the ridge of purple mountains in the interior. He looked back at his mutinous crew - surely they'd give him some help now.
"Hey look," said Guybrush, pointing. The crew looked port. "We've made it to Monkey Island�!"
The crew looked at Monkey Island� for a while. They turned back to Guybrush. "Let us know when you've found the Governor," said Meathook, "we've got an extra chair she can use." The Sword Master opened her book again.
Somehow, it looked like the crew weren't going to be much help. It looked like Guybrush was going to have to reach Monkey Island� alone. Guybrush thought that maybe he should have taken at least one of Stan's extras - a lifeboat. How could he get to shore now?
On the port side of the ship, there was a large black cannon pointing directly at Monkey Island�.
Guybrush, looking at it, had a sudden, very sharp feeling of deja vu. Yes, there was a way he could get ashore. He made his way down to the hold.

In the hold, while the leaks were getting worse, there was at least some dry space left on the floorboards. Here were the kegs - Guybrush took a large scoop of gunpowder from them. Coiled around one of the kegs was a length of rope - or fuse. Guybrush took it, but instead of returning to the deck, made a detour to the kitchen.
The object he had in mind was standing on the bench - a small pot about the same size as his head. After all, a helmet just might be handy. Guybrush left quickly, glad to get out of the noxious fumes, and was soon standing in the clear air on deck.
He looked at the cannon again, and took a deep breath. It was all in readiness.
Guybrush tipped the gunpowder down the cannon nozzle. It rolled down and settled at the base. Next he affixed the rope to the butt end of the cannon, creating a fuse which would give him a goodly time to get into the cannon. He took the pot, and squashed it firmly on his head. Dirty water cascaded down, dousing his shirt.
Maybe he should have checked the pot first. Guybrush took out a match, regarded it critically in the morning light, and struck it on the cannon. The flame caught. Bending, Guybrush lit the fuse then quickly crossed to the mouth of the cannon. Guybrush grasped it with both hands and swung out into space.
The fuse was running at a gallop.
Guybrush struggled with his grip for a while, nearly losing it, then swung his legs up, ready to somersault into the cannon.
The loudest roar that had ever existed in the history of creation suddenly switched on, as the cannon exploded and Guybrush was carried out over the sea on the shockwave. He arced into space. The pot fell into the ocean, and still Guybrush flew onward. More inventory went missing - some of Stan's brochures, other pieces of paper, the ship's log - all fluttered to sea. Guybrush outlasted them all, still propelled forward. Monkey Island� was growing close.
It wasn't going to be the easy landing he'd hoped, for even as Guybrush finally began to lose altitude, he was carried over the outgoing tide. The yellow beach sand was rushing toward him.
Guybrush met it head on.

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