What goes up, must come down. The "Hindenburg" crashed and burned in a tropic latitude, and Sterkvark was lucky to walk away with the shirt on his back. He was short on provisions, short on gear and short in general.
He made his way downslope to where through a miasmal gloom he could see an oily sea. This could only be the Swamp of Sorrows, a pestilent mire much like the bayou where his maternal Grandfather, Jean LaFait Accompli, used to bluster and filibuster in olden times.
There are worse things than being stuck on a beach with nothing to do but fish. But when all you catch is malaria it tends to lose its allure.
To make matters worse, Sterkvark was up to his eye in crocodiles.
Perhaps he had lost his nerve along with nearly all his worldly possessions. Perhaps the fever clouded his judgment. Whatever the reason, Sterkvark determined to turn his back to the sea and head inland to make his escape.
Not since Morgan took the Silver Train at Panama had a pirate attempted such a swamp romp, but Sterkvark reasoned that he had had such disastrous luck with ships that it was time to look to his feet for his deliverance. Let us hope that his little piggies make it to market, and nothing makes him squeal like a pig...
(To be continued...)