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It would be hard to remember that night, were it not such a vivid scene. 

The stinking stench of unmitigated sweat and vomit permeating the air, mixed with the telltail smell of booze and water. Sea water had a distinct smell, but by the eleventh day, everything smelled of seawater. It was hard to tell if all the water seeping to the lower decks was rain or wave, but spirits were high. No pirate or wind had dared impede their journey until the last stretch before they reached Darkwater Dock. Here the seas were shallow, and the land was too wild for any sizeable corsair raiders. Their kind stayed on the islands and shipping lanes. 

The Skirmisher had just passed the tail of the Peninsula, the gateway to the Black Delta. Through Elven waters into Corsair waters, they sailed at all speed. Only now were they home free, and they celebrated accordingly. The lower decks were getting wetter from the water above, but it was warm and full of drink and song. Fraternizing on the Skirmisher was looked down upon by the Captain, but he was above deck helping weather the storm and men and women went off in pairs what private pockets they could find to rut to their heart's content. Disobeying the Captain was bad luck, but then again sailors said many things were. Still, everyone had high hopes and knew they would be docking in a few scant days.

It all went bad in seconds. 

The ship lifted. The lights swung on their hinges. A sudden sense of weightlessness and vertigo, and a lone, helpless cry from above rang out. The silence beyond it was deafening, until the ship's groaning returned like a roar. There was water and pressure, and blackness sank in as everything around the passengers below exploded, sending all into oblivion. Muffled sounds and terrible sucking of all things into the nether could be recalled, and the shadowy silhouette of some terrible finned monstrosity was the last thing to be remembered... 

Now there was sand, and heat. Stuffy, scratchy throats and dry breath, and sunburn from a harsh, unforgiving ball of molten flames far above. Consciousness gradually returned with their senses, and it was merciless. Apart from the sunburns, aches and pains and an awful dryness wracked every body that lay on the beach. Kindling and bits of the ship's foundations lay near them like the ribs of a decayed whale. Bodies of dead sailors, including one oddly without its legs, lapped and swayed in the water as the tide came in. 

The Captain, his body rough but with the possibility of life, lay along the beach just a few spans from the bodies. 

To the left, rocks piled up blocked their path. A natural obstacle that cut into the landscape, blocking crashing waves every so often. Before them lay exotic ferns and trees covered in vines. A mass of foliage where a jungle lay, and just at the treeline stood a small statue where a strange figure had been carved. It looked like a cross between a frog and a bat, sitting atop a rock and baring its fangs as if at the castaways. To the right was endless, ubiquitous beach that stretched beyond the scope of sight, the waves washing against the land and crying out every few moments. Where they were, it was difficult to tell. But they were in the land they had sought. The Black Delta, a hot, unforgiving land of primal dangers.

But first they had to get up.