The pirate lads turned out to have brains like heavy plastic statues. We ditched them and drove on to Plymouth, Massachusetts. We stayed the night in a cozy little motel and headed out the next day to try to become as one with the pilgrims of yore. We visited Plymouth rock first.
The thing about Plymouth is that everybody is unbelievably nice. For example, if we had decided suddenly to run out into the street, the car in the background would surely have stopped for us; whereas any car here would just honk, run us over, and sue us for denting the hood.
We were saddened to discover that we weren't allowed to step on the rock itself, so we just crouched as near we could and tried to take in the aura emanating from the rock.
Next, we headed inland to the Plymouth Winery. We wanted to see for ourselves the wine that the pilgrims refused to drink (they didn't drink, right?). Outside the winery, I found a wild horse—a descendant, perhaps, of the horses that the pilgrims rode—and attempted to tame it.
The horse didn't like me much, so Sandy and I decided to hop on a boat and trace part of the voyage that the pilgrims took on their way to Plymouth. We found a pod of whales whose names I can't remember. I think one of them is Pepper.
I like to call this one "Mittens."
