The summer sun beginning to bake us through the leaves, we sat on the poop deck of our mighty craft. Granted, it only had one deck, but if it was going to have any deck, it’d be the poop deck, no matter how much Lisa objected.

“Whatcha doin with the baseball?” my first mate asked respectfully.

I shrugged, not quite ready to give out all the details, “Got an idea, I guess.” Without looking up I continued my work, carefully picking at the red stitching.

“Ahoy there, good ship Doofus!” Shane was standing in the shadow or our impressive vessel and daring to be snide, as if he knew any other way to be.

Lisa stood to look over the gunwale, “We do not, as a policy, recognize your sovereign nation and thus cannot open formal diplomatic proceedings.” Poor Shane was speechless. Lisa sat back down, grinning her lopsided grin, her freckled nose scrunching with satisfaction.

“Aha,” I muttered, “now I just need your pocketknife, first mate.” I’d succeeded in undoing about half the stitches. Time for step two.