a gray, impenetrable wall of fog. from somewhere comes the faint sound of a little girl's voice, singing, slow tempo, almost under her breath.
the interceptor cuts across the waves. jack at the wheel; will tightens a line, moves back astern.
the interceptor, on open waters, glorious, her white sails set wing-to-wing.
with its forward momentum and the anchor down, the interceptor to turn quickly, pivoting around the anchor.
the black pearl lies at anchor, closer now to the islet.
elizabeth breaks the surface, looks around. and then, finally jack appears, sucking in air. he shows what he went after: his pistol. he tucks it into his shirt.