You can’t help but notice the boutiques and cafes and elegant houses as you stroll down that broad boulevard (it served as a death walk for so many men), straight towards the execution platform where Gold D. Roger lost his life two centuries ago. The strong sunlight there makes most people blink when they emerge from the narrow rows of buildings, pause and squint as all the vendors in the plaza set up a cry, call to you, tell you that you can have a shred of Roger’s cloak for only a few hundred belli, swear on their mother’s grave that it’s authentic.

Plenty of people buy the little glass flasks they wave in front of you with a few red threads inside. They ask whether he really died with a smile on his face, or if he was as great as they say he was. The merchants bob their heads in unison. Had it all, they say. Wealth, fame, power. One of the greatest men who ever lived and one of our own. Born right here in Loguetown.

Then someone asks about the pirate who found Roger’s treasure.

Ah, that terrifying man! the vendors chorus. His worthy successor! No one stood against him and lived! His vicious nakama and their mythical ship! And then they offer you a piece of the hull, genuine adam’s wood, swear on their grandfather’s dying breath that it’s real.

They point to the platform high above their heads. He was here once as well, they tell you, rubbing their hands together in anticipation of profit. Nearly lost his life before it even really began. And they’ll repeat the story about how he smiled in the face of death, how he called down thunderbolts on his enemies and vanished into the heart of a hurricane, his demon nakama at his side. How he could stand on the deck of his ship and reach to the ends of the world. How he carried no weapons. How he could kill you with a look. How he claimed to have fought with God himself and won. Then they try to sell you little flasks with a few drops of the rain that fell during that hurricane, swearing on their honor that it’s genuine.

And people’s eyes widen in spite of the sunlight; they look up at the execution platform one more time, shiver, and stuff the little glass flasks of thread, wood or rainwater into their pockets, glad that the age of pirates has drawn to a close.

On the west side of the island (if you care to walk that way), where boulders have tumbled from the cliff face and litter the pebbled beach, there’s a small bronze statue of a boy looking out to the horizon, clutching a straw hat to his head with one gangly arm. No one knows who cast it or who put it there in the first place, but a few old men who linger in dusty pubs say that he commissioned it and paid its weight in gold. Some have said that rubbing the tip of his nose calms the spirit and brings good luck. The best kind of luck there is, the old men will insist. The kind that gives you a purpose, brings you to interesting places. Good for everything except drowning. Travelers laugh and down their drinks and humor the old men, but a few of them brave the rocks and the wind and the waves to pass a thumb over the worn bronze, just in case. More often than not, they take a seat beside the boy, watching the horizon with him until the sun goes down and the moon begins to rise.

And those travelers say that, if you stay by his side through the night, you will feel the warm weight of a friendly arm slung about your shoulders, and the hissing of the waves against the beach will sound like quiet laughter in your ear. There’s no one there when you turn around, just the bronze statue of a boy, turned green with age and the salt air, his grin as wide as the day he was cast. But, they say, the moonlight reflecting off the water makes his eyes glitter like he was alive, waiting for his nakama and the ships to come in.