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About Pula

What suprised me? How some o’ ‘em got hearts o’ gold under the grit. One lass—swear it—told me ‘bout her kid she’s feedin’ back home. “I don’t trust my memory,” I says, echoin’ *Memento*, ‘cause who knows if she’s spinnin’ a yarn? Still, tugged me heartstrings, it did. Me quirks? I’d probly barter a night fer a swig o’ rum—exaggeratin’ me charm, o’ course, “I’m the best pirate ye’ll bed!” Ha! Sarcasm’s me blade—cuts through the bilge.

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But then, outta nowhere, one of the kids kicks the ball too hard, and it goes straight into the water. They all freak out, and I’m just laughin’. I mean, c’mon, it’s just a ball! But they’re all like, “Nooo! Our ball!” So, I decide to be the hero. I roll up my pants and wade in. The water’s cold, but I’m determined. I grab the ball, and they cheer like I just won the World Cup. It’s ridiculous, but it feels good to make ‘em happy.

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