The repairs dragged on for three exhausting days, but by the fourth morning, the Black Pearl was once again gliding gracefully over the shimmering turquoise waters of the Grand Line.
Jack Sparrow stood proudly at the helm, his boots thudding against the polished wood as he rested both hands on the wheel. "Beautiful," he murmured, leaning down to give the wood a fond pat.
"I missed you too, darling."
Nearby, Bartholomew Kuma effortlessly hoisted massive crates of provisions aboard with one hand, his towering figure casting a long shadow, while Monkey D. Dragon lent a hand to several Okama, helping them load heavy barrels of fresh water into the hold.
Emporio Ivankov stood with his arms crossed, his giant purple wig swaying in the sea breeze.
"There! Ship repaired! Food stocked! Water stocked! Medicine stocked! Everything's perfect!" He surveyed the scene triumphantly, blinking his enormous, heavily lashed eyes.
"So! Which Log Pose are we using for our next adventure, Rum-Boy?"
A hush fell over the deck. Jack blinked, tilting his head in confusion. "We need to use a Log Pose?"
Ivankov's jaw dropped in disbelief. "...Don't tell me."
Crocodile pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a sharp, weary sigh. "...Here we go."
Ivankov slowly pointed a trembling, manicured finger at Jack. "You... you don't have one? Not even an Eternal Pose?!"
Jack flashed a charming smile, revealing a glint of gold. "We don't. Those filthy, rigid little glass balls are terrible for the artistic soul of sailing. Real sailing is all about trusting your instincts."
Ivankov spun around to face Dragon, who remained completely expressionless, the wind whipping around his cloak. Then, Ivankov turned his gaze to Joshamee Gibbs.
Gibbs suddenly found a passing cloud on the horizon to be incredibly fascinating.
"He read that in an old book he borrowed from Robin," Augur explained to Dragon.
Ivankov's voice shot up several octaves, reverberating across the bay. "YOU DON'T HAVE A LOG POSE?!"
A flock of seagulls took off from the nearby trees, clearly spooked.
Jack scratched his cheek, a hint of pride in his voice. "We've been managing just fine, thanks."
"MANAGING?!" Ivankov whirled around to face Crocodile, his heels clicking sharply against the deck. "Croco-girl! You've been sailing through the most chaotic sea on the planet with these complete lunatics?!"
Crocodile let out a sigh, the tip of her cigar glowing a fierce red. "...Unfortunately." She paused, rubbing her temple. There was no way she was going to explain Jack's bizarre, magic-infused compass to a Freedom Fighter commander.
"...We... mostly wing it."
Ivankov blinked, utterly taken aback. "You WHAT?"
"We sail," Crocodile replied dryly. "We hope. Sometimes it works out. Other times, we end up in completely unexpected places and have to fight our way out."
Jack nodded enthusiastically, striking a dramatic pose. "It makes for some great stories in taverns."
"It builds graves!" Ivankov shrieked.
Jack chose to ignore that comment.
Meanwhile, near the gangplank, Pintel had wandered over to a group of Okama who were waving goodbye with great enthusiasm. One particularly cheerful Okama blew him a wet kiss, batting their eyelashes.
Pintel froze, a deep blush creeping up his rugged neck. "...I think..." he whispered, eyes wide, "...I've found true love, Ragetti."
Ragetti glanced at his blushing partner, adjusted his jacket, and let out a dramatic, heartfelt sigh. "If you two ever tie the knot..."
Pintel's eyes lit up, turning around eagerly. "...Yes? A grand wedding?"
"...you're going to have to eat the wedding cake with a candle," Ragetti said flatly.
Pintel frowned, squinting in confusion. "...What? Why a candle?"
Ragetti pointed a finger. "You know. He. Candle."
It took Pintel nearly five full seconds of intense mental gymnastics. Then, the realization hit him, and his face turned a ghostly, horrified pale. "...That's disgusting!"
The Okama by the shore looked utterly scandalized. Ivankov strode over and gave both pirates a solid whack on the head.
"HOW RUDE! No respect for romance!"
As Pintel rubbed the quickly swelling bump on his noggin, Dragon strolled along the upper deck, stopping next to Gibbs. "I've caught wind of some rumors..." he said quietly, "...your captain has a compass."
Gibbs nodded, pulling out a flask but hesitating under Dragon's piercing stare. "He does, sir."
Dragon's gaze drifted toward the helm, where Jack was busy breathing on the glass of his brass pocket compass, polishing it with his sleeve.
"A compass that doesn't point north. In a sea ruled by magnetic fields, that's a recipe for disaster."
Gibbs nodded again. "It doesn't point north, south, east, or west. It points directly to whatever the man holding it desires most in this world."
Dragon fell silent for a moment, the wind tousling his tattooed face. "...That's impossible. Not even a Devil Fruit can turn desire into a navigational tool."
"That's exactly what I thought when I first saw it," Gibbs replied, leaning against the railing. "And yet?"
"And yet?" Dragon pressed.
Gibbs shrugged, a tired smile creeping onto his face. "...here we are, still alive and sailing."
Dragon observed Jack from a distance. Throughout all his years at sea, dodging the Marines, evading Cipher Pol, and constantly changing routes to outsmart the World Government, he had never navigated without solid charts or reliable Log Poses.
This pirate simply relied on a broken piece of brass. It sounded utterly insane—and yet, looking around, he couldn't argue with the results.
Kuma stepped aboard quietly, his hefty Bible tucked under his arm, and Dragon followed him to the main deck.
Ivankov glanced between Jack's compass and the vast, open ocean, shivering dramatically. "...If I end up dead because of a faulty piece of jewelry... I swear I'll haunt every single one of you drag-style."
The Pearl gently caught the wind as it set sail from the shores of Momoiro Island. Once they navigated past the jagged coral reefs, Gibbs unfurled a few fresh sea charts that had been generously gifted by the Kamabakka Kingdom, carefully laying them out on a large wooden barrel.
Dragon strolled over, casting a shadow over the charts. "You sure you can make sense of those?"
Gibbs puffed out his chest, looking a bit offended. "Before I embraced the pirate life, Mr. Dragon... I was a proper merchant sailor navigating the World Government's trade routes. I know my sea lanes, the weather patterns, the fickle currents, the trade winds, and how to keep a hold full of spices from going bad in damp conditions."
Dragon nodded, clearly impressed. "That's a rare and valuable skill."
Pintel ambled by, lazily wielding a mop. "If you're so good with the weather, then why do we keep sailing straight into those terrifying, ship-destroying storms every single week?"
Gibbs' face turned red with irritation. "Because! I was drunk!"
Pintel halted, dramatically pointing an accusing finger. "Aha! You just admitted it! Black-out drunk while reading the charts!"
Gibbs let out a heavy sigh. "Every time I have one too many... we somehow end up right in the middle of a localized typhoon. I can't explain it."
Ragetti stroked his chin thoughtfully, nodding as if he had just uncovered a great truth. "...It's almost... like a curse, innit?"
Jack, overhearing from the helm, looked contemplative as he made his way down the steps. "...You know... it does seem to happen suspiciously often. Let's examine the facts."
The three pirates immediately huddled around the barrel, completely ignoring the revolutionaries as they spun wild theories.
"What if the premium rum is what attracts the lightning?" Pintel proposed.