She used to be a blue and white sailboat. You'll find her skeleton on a forgotten island in the Pacific one days sail northwest of New Zealand. No one is old enough to know why she's there now. The boards of her hull were torn off but a raft was built of her and carried a survivor back home. Her mast and tattered sail lay proudly on the beach after weathering tropical storms and hurricanes as a makeshift tent. Her frame would've been firewood but her sailor wouldn't betray her. Her broken boom is fashioned into a memorial for those who were gone before she found this place. It's half buried in the sand now. She's lost but is mounted proudly in the sand where she made landfall. Her rudder is still attached to her skeleton and its handle is worn from obediently steering the way for those who could sail her. There has been many on her deck but few who could be called "Captain". Much of her was broken over the hard storms and windless weeks on the merciless ocean. She was always sea worthy. She never carried treasure, though she could've. She did always have something important on board. Too important for larger vessels and only a few men would get to lay hands on it. The story of this ship is told in port towns and pubs. A fine vessel. A memorial to both good and bad times. A strong hull. A reliable sail. A missing captain. A raft that found its way home after being lost for years.