Editor's note: I know what you're thinking.

"How in the name of Barbossa's hat did you get your hands on Davy Jones' journal?" By a stroke of pure luck is all I can say.

I was walking down the beach one late afternoon, listening idly to the gossipy chatter of the seagulls and the deafening roar of the surf, when all of a sudden, the waves washed farther up the beach than was normal for a low tide. It gave me a fright, but when the waters receded, there lay at my feet a book. And not just any book.

The inscription on the front cover read "Davy Jones," and inside, wild tales were laid out. Deeds and places on the Flying Dutchman, days in the life of an eternally cursed crew, the terrible story of the goddess of the sea and the greatest captain ever known.

Having seen the movies and adored the character of Davy Jones, I was understandably extremely excited about my find.

But I also wanted to share my discovery with with other devoted fans, and so, here it is. I am not attempting to tell a cohesive narrative, merely to bring you episodes in the life of this tragic, doomed man. It was not easy, let me tell you--apart from having to decipher Jones' atrocious handwriting and antiquated English, the journal itself is not in the best of conditions. The very first entry is dated 1322. Some pages are too waterlogged and smeared to be legible. Others are missing entirely. I will not be able to bring you everything in chronological order at first (for the above reasons), but eventually I will reorder the chapters. The restoration efforts are proceeding slowly but surely, and I hope to bring more of this intriguing man's mind to you in the near future.

Happy reading.

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JUNE 10TH, 1693

Who is she?

She is Calypso. I know that.

Do I?

Of course, that is only one of her many names. Osiris. Pluto. Kali. Satan. She is the goddess of death, of destruction, of anarchy.

She delights, as all unethical people tend to do, in pleasures of the flesh. Her conquests are the stuff of legend. She is said to be the Dark Lady of Shakespeare's sonnets. Is it true? I haven't the slightest. She certainly never told me. Just laughed when I asked.

I was, it seems, her favorite. It pains me to write it.

Her favorite. I feel like an animal, like an obedient cur.

But I love her for it. However inexplicable it may be.

I'm wandering. Through all the years before my life began, before I met her, I heard the stories. How I heard them! They were memorized by any man who dared call himself a sailor, slurred and embellished around roaring tavern fires.

She is supposed to have flooded the whole of Earth at one point. The pious call it Noah's flood.

Another time, she is said to have parted the Red Sea for one of her most loyal priests and his followers.

I now know the truth of most of these myths. Some things she kept to herself, but most she shared with me as we walked along the beach or lay in bed together or played chess, her favorite game. She had a beautiful voice. Sometimes I wonder where she is now, but I always push that thought away. Wouldn't want to do anything I'll regret.

But something else I always ask myself, and can never disregard, is this: how can one being be capable of so much destruction and so much beauty?

It's amazing, really. I have seen truly jaw-dropping sights during my time as a captain. The busy, colorful vibrancy of a coral reef. The graceful majesty of a blue whale. Huge shoals of glittering, metallic fish, all individuals but moving in precise formation.

How can she create so much, and kill so much more?

She never told me that, either.

Perhaps she was just as clueless.

After a lifetime of knowing her, of loving her more than anything, of hating her even more, I still have one pressing question.

Who is she?