LORE: Coconaut's Day Off
The Monster Coast is no stranger to dark days. Ask Seaworthy Sovereign about the day Sovereignty City was attacked by Horngold Blaque and you’ll hear a yarn of war and misery. Ask Kah Mune Deer about the night that the Willow Dreamer capsized and you’ll hear a tale of loss and woe. Ask Reef Ronin about, well, just about anything that’s ever happened to him, and you’ll, well, you get the point... But few days of the Monster Coast’s troubled history have been more chaotic, more destructive, and more unforgettably FUN than Coconaut’s Day Off.
Sailing a ship is hard work. There’s rigging to be managed, decks to be cleaned, sails to be repaired, and that’s on days where you aren’t staring down another pirate’s blade or hunkering down from opposing cannon fire. It’s all a good time, of course, but days can be long, and nights are often marked by cramped cabins and uncomfortable cots. Any good pirate knows that in order to work hard, you need to be able to play hard too.
At least, that’s what Sword Beast’s crew of Coconauts told him on that fateful day. They’d spent weeks tailing a vessel that was rumored to have a map that led to the fabled Claymore Cove, and Sword Beast insisted that the Coconauts work double and triple shifts in order to keep up the chase. Naturally, they succeeded (few engines run faster than a crew of well oiled Coconauts), but by the time Sword Beast held the map in his hand, the crew had had just about enough. Sword Beast didn’t understand why they were all clamoring for rest. The old boar waxed poetic about how working to further one’s swordsmanship doesn’t even feel like work, but the Coconauts wouldn’t budge. They wanted to take a break, and they wanted to do it right.
By some cosmic fluke, their chase had left them within spitting distance of Vacation Island and its world famous Vacation Plaza resort. Sword Beast protested, but in mere seconds the entire Bladeheim had erupted into a mad chorus of “Beach! Beach!” and “Arg-arita! Arg-arita!” the likes of which Sword Beast simply couldn’t quell. The rest, they say, is history.
Coconauts rolled off the ship and down the docks like cheese wheels tossed down a hill. They bounded this way and that, tumbling along in a tidal wave headed straight for the Vacation Plaza reception desk. The chimpanzee operating the front desk frantically tried to ask if they had a reservation, but a force of nature needs no confirmation number. The tide of Coconauts flooded into the resort, their numbers seemingly endless (Sword Beast, who was watching from the deck of the Bladeheim, could only scratch his head and try to figure out how on earth so many Coconauts could fit in his own ship).
Before long, the south side of the island was a concert of excited barks about cold drinks hanging loose, and a semi-organized volleyball tournament in which Coconauts would be both the players and the ball (and the net, somehow). All of the other resort patrons, typically pirates who wanted a bit of peace and quiet, found themselves wrapped up in the unshakable, tsunami-like grip of a good ol’ fashioned Coconaut Party.
On the north side of the island where the Coconaut Party had not yet expanded, Ba Ba Buccaneer was doing his absolute best to enjoy his vacation. A group of youngsters were singing some kind of terrible song over on the beach, and the sun was horribly bright, and the ocean breeze was incessantly breezy, but, other than that, things were passably okay. The thought of vacationing was quite silly for the swashbuckling goat, and it was only by strict orders from Doctor Croctor that he was here in the first place (he had said something to the effect of, “Listen, pal, I’m not saying you have to lower your stress levels, but if you don’t, well, I’ll be seeing you again soon.”)
And so, here he was, an untouched Arg-arita sitting on a table (next to his pipe) and not a speck of sand on his towel. He was attempting to recline in a beach lounger, but such a position is terribly uncomfortable for a goat, and as such he was half-bent with his legs splayed out in all directions. He looked like a fool almost as much as he felt like one. He didn’t need a vacation. He needed to be patrolling the seas, telling young pirates to straighten their posture and enunciate properly. This whole Vacation Island thing was a tremendous waste of time. With a huff, he made up his mind that he would find that crass Vacation Demon and ask for his money back.
He had barely gotten to his feet when his world flipped upside-down. He heard it before he saw it. A horde of squeaky voices chanting “Limbo! Limbo! Limbo!” in a frighteningly fast crescendo. When the shadow of the wave washed over his little section of beach, he saw it. Coconauts hurtling over the treeline with reckless abandon. Thankfully, Ba Ba Buccaneer was still fully clothed head to toe in his official uniform, despite Vacation Demon’s insistence that he “Put on a bathing suit” and “Chill out, broh.” He snatched his pipe and sprung into action.
Ba Ba Buccaneer clambered up the falling tide of Coconauts like it was a wobbly mountainside, leaping and prancing his way up as only a goat can. As the partying little buddies rained down on him, he deftly batted them to the side with the blunt side of his sword. He parried and wove his way through the onslaught, making his way toward the center of the island. The flood of Coconauts never seemed to end. He declined invitation after invitation to join an impromptu conga line, never wavering despite his growing fatigue. His devotion to curmudgeonry was absolute.
By the time he reached the shack at the center of the island, the hurricane had subsided and left in its wake a waist-high sea of yeehawing Coconauts. Ba Ba Buccaneer puffed up his chest and waded through the proverbial ocean towards the shack. The door took some effort to open due to the high density of Coconauts that had accumulated in front of it (and due to the extraneous effort of telling them, again, no, I will not be the bleat boxer for your new a capella group). He yanked the door shut to keep the Coconauts out.
The Vacation Demon peered over his Arg-arita and scowled when he saw the goat invading his humble abode. Nobody knows exactly what was said in that room, but the negotiation that ensued is said to be in the annals of public speaking history, right up there alongside Yo-Ho Hero’s address at the Battle of Eternity Point or the thesis defense of the young Woolliam Sheepwright. It was a battle of an unstoppable force and an immovable object. The one whose mellow may never be harshed and the one whose mere existence harshes all mellows in a 10 mile radius. However he did it (scholars assume some act of soul-selling on which Vacation Demon will eventually cash in), Ba Ba Buccaneer convinced the ever-chill resort head to abandon his chill and find a way to rid the island of the Coconaut menace.
Why did Ba Ba Buccaneer care so much as to risk life and limb (and possibly his mortal soul?) just to push back the tide of Coconauts? We’ll never know - he enjoys talking about the whole episode about as much as a snail enjoys salt. He could have just left. That is, of course, all he wanted to do in the first place. He was supposed to be lowering his stress, but wasting time away at some frilly villa on a beautiful tropical paradise was only making things worse. Did a voice from beyond the sea reach out to him in that dark hour, begging him to do what was right? Did he, even without the guidance of empathy, seek to fix what had been broken for his fellow vacationers? Perhaps, perhaps. However, this historian thinks that he just couldn’t stand idly by while an entire island was having such a dreadful amount of fun. Something simply had to be done about it.
Together, the demon and the goat hatched a scheme. Their plan was harebrained, but they had neither options nor time. Even though Vacation Demon wanted to just let nature run its course (his exact words were, “Broh, let ‘em chill, let ‘em vibe, quit narc’ing for once”), even he couldn’t deny that such an influx of Coconauts could literally sink the island and flood the resort that he worked so hard to build. And so, with only a tenuous line of trust between two pirates who were oil to each other’s water, the unlikely duo got to work.
Elsewhere, the Coconauts were having the time of their lives. They were surrounded by all of their best Coconaut buddies. They were on the most beautiful island on the Monster Coast. They had cornhole. What more could a Coconaut want? Nothing could ruin their vibe, not even someone like Ba Ba Buccaneer, who was so much of a renowned worldwide buzzkill that Bumble Smee himself made him an honorary member of the Bumble Brigade.
Then, it happened.
The whole island shook, rocking the ocean of Coconauts like a stormy sea. In the center of the island, high enough for every last Coconaut to see, a massive platform rose from the earth. Dust and sand (and some Coconauts) kicked up all around it, obscuring the platform as it rose and rose higher and higher into the sky. When it finally stopped, the Coconauts all gazed up in silence. Then, in what has been called the loudest event in Monster Coast history, every single Coconaut burst into uproarious applause.
Vacation Island’s warm waters and picture-perfect vistas are enough to lure any weary pirate to its shores. For Vacation Demon, though, this wasn’t enough. He didn’t just want the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to hang ten and shred gnar. He wanted his resort to be at the center of every daydream from every pirate on the Monster Coast. And so, it was with great pride that he had installed the Vacation Plaza Mainstage, the greatest music venue the world had ever seen.
Smoke poured from the stage. Lights of every color washed this way and that. The first chords of an impending power ballad wafted through the air, delicate and beautiful. Excitement and anticipation at the impending concert coalesced the Coconauts from a disorganized throng into a singular, ravenous hivemind. Every Coconaut chanted in unison. Every Coconaut wanted to know what Monster Coast legend was about to perform the concert of a lifetime. Heavy Metal Shanty Machine, the highest selling rock group of the Third Pirate Age? The Fury Trio, a pop group whose recent single “Fire Me Like A Cannon” had catapulted them to stardom? Perhaps the long-awaited reunion of The Hercules Hull Beatles?
The fog fell away from the stage and the Coconauts drew in a collective gasp. They got a clearer look of the hazy silhouette onstage with a guitar in his hand. Or, should I say, hoof. Standing in front of the mic, decked out in fresh tattoos and piercings, was the inventor of haterade himself. Ba Ba Buccaneer gazed out at his audience, his pipe trembling in his mouth.
Every Coconaut on the island gave a collective eye roll (somehow visible even through their goggles). Such a flimsy attempt to get them to stop partying they said between boos and hisses. The goat was probably going to play the most boring tune in the Monster Coast songbook (scholars agree that this is The Ballad of Bobby Boring, Bureaucrat of Blah Beach), to try to pacify the crowd. It wouldn’t work, they told each other. They would just ignore him and drown him out with the sound of their own party.
Ba Ba Buccaneer gulped. The fate of the island hung in the balance. More importantly, he had the opportunity to crash the biggest party that had ever happened. He couldn’t fail. Everything was riding on this moment. He readied himself to do the unthinkable. It would be the hardest thing he’d ever do in his whole pirate career. He didn’t think he had it in him, but he had to try. If he failed, he’d never be able to look himself in the mirror. He extended one shaking hoof into the air and, with the other, began to shred.
It was a shredding like nobody had ever shredded before. His hooves ran up and down the length of the guitar, making that bad baby scream like he was taking away its ice cream. The spirit of the Yggdrasea must have moved through him that day - how else could such a stiff rube have brought forth such righteous energy? Vacation Demon only had enough time to teach him the first few notes of Sea Bird, but somehow that was enough. Ba Ba Buccaneer rocked out and he rocked out hard. Every pluck of the string was poetry, every movement along the fret board was ballet.
The Coconauts watched and listened in stunned silence. They couldn’t believe their eyes any more than they could believe their ears. Every Coconaut worth his salt rim knew Ba Ba Buccaneer. He was the lamest pirate who sailed the seas. And yet, here he was, jamming out like he was all out of jelly, filling the air with the wild sound of rock and roll. It was jaw-dropping. It was electrifying. It was... It was...
It was so lame. It was like your parents dressing up in ripped jeans and a leather jacket. The only thing worse than the biggest buzzkill you know is the biggest buzzkill you know actively engaging in the thing you like doing. What is a party if not the greatest expression of piratey freedom? And how can that sense of freedom exist if the very thing pushing against it simply disappears?
In less time than you can say “take me down to the paradise island where the grass is green and the party is vibin’”, the wind rushed out of the Coconauts’ sails. It was as if the lights in the club had been turned on. They looked around. The more that Ba Ba Buccaneer wailed away, the less they wanted to be there. They all collectively shrugged their little shoulders and, with much disappointment, decided that they should probably get back to work.
The tide receded. Slowly but surely, the Coconauts all hopped and rolled and otherwise tumbled their way back onto The Bladeheim. Sword Beast, who had been busy polishing his sword collection, was blissfully ignorant of the crisis that had so narrowly been averted on Vacation Island. He cocked one eyebrow up above the rim of his glasses in confusion, wondering again how so many Coconauts could possibly fit in his ship (how big was his crew, anyways? 10 Coconauts? 100? He realized he had no idea). In the end, he decided that he didn’t really care. Claymore Cove awaited him, and his crew of Coconauts was only too happy to put as much distance between themselves and Vacation Plaza as possible.
Ba Ba Buccaneer will tell you that this entire story is a work of pure fiction. He’d never set foot in Vacation Plaza in the first place (he claims his signature in the guestbook was forged), he’d never cooperate with the Vacation Demon, and he’d never, never, never play rock and roll music. Vacation Demon, who is only too happy to sell out his comrade, swears that everything you’ve read here is nothing but the full, undiluted truth. Who’s to say what really happened? We may never know, and we’ll certainly never know what exactly (if anything) Ba Ba Buccaneer promised to Vacation Demon. If it did happen, though – if the story really is true – then this historian has only one snippet of speculation to make:
Ba Ba Buccaneer probably enjoyed himself.
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