Me wee deckhand is doin’ his right best to display his pirattude. But at a mere 11 yars, it’s tough to cough up the raspy gruff of a salty sea dog. Not that this is slowin’ ‘im down a’tall. It would seem that with a plentitude of air, one can get the wee’est of voiceboxes to shiver its timbers.

The effect is a might startlin’ though. In part ’cause the volume of his “Arrrg” makes me portholes rattle. But mostly ’cause the tone lacks the fear inducin’ revenge-is-a-dish-best-served-cold timbre. It’s more of a just-cut-me-damned-fingers-off-with-me-own-cutlass cry of agony.

But despite the pain he inflicts on those in earshot, we can’t discourage the lad. His heart’s in the right place. And bein’ a pirate is all about heart, and bein’ true t’ yer own. Sail on me lad. Sail on.