Ahoy, me mateys! Draw nigh and hear the ghostly tale of the Coquimbo, who lay in Davy Jones’ locker for many a moon, until a lad found her corpse — and lost her again.
The tale commences in nineteen-aught-nine, in the heart of the tropics, in a new land not yet overrun by landlubbers. It were out amid the briny breezes, just south of where your spyglass now would find the town of the same name.
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