He drinks rum, when the opportunity presents itself. He likes it-- likes the way it blurs things, keeping them at arm's length and lending a degree of bearability to situations he might not otherwise be able to steer through. Sometimes he doesn't drink it but the look of it is in his eyes anyway, that strange drunk walk, the kohl-rimmed eyes glinting with a spark of something far away. He wears beads in his hair to remind him of a home once loved and then confining, and now he doesn't have a home anymore. He's rootless and shiftless and a scoundrel; and by the swagger in his gait he loves it. He's a sparrow, swift of wing, well-plumaged. He drinks rum when he can get his hands on it: but Jack is drunk most of the time-- on the seawater spray, filtered through the billowed sails as his hair flies in the wind, staring out to a horizon soon to be captured...