Maya, all of nine years old and a self-proclaimed chicken tender connoisseur, pointed a decisive, pruney finger toward the larger of the two thatched-roof stands. A giant wooden sign, carved to look like a ship’s wheel, read:
They shuffled up the damp ramp, leaving sandy footprints behind. The menu board was a colorful explosion of pirate-themed puns and steep waterpark prices. Liam squinted up at it, reading aloud as a teenager in a striped shirt and eyepatch tapped his foot. pirates bay waterpark menu
The menu was overpriced. The names were ridiculous. But right then, with the sound of splashing, screaming, and fake cannon fire in the air, Liam decided that Pirates Bay could charge whatever it wanted. Because some moments—and some chicken tenders—were worth their weight in gold doubloons. Maya, all of nine years old and a
“Dad,” she announced, treading water, “my treasure map says it’s time for grub.” Liam squinted up at it, reading aloud as
“We’ll take two Captain’s Tenders,” Liam said, handing over a credit card as if surrendering a chest of doubloons. “One with buried treasure sauce. And a Grog’s Gulp.”