This is a tale of the high seas, in a 21^st century context-of a ragtag-by-choice band of Brown University students harboring (yes, really) a raging penchant for piracy and, since 1999, the official university funding to practice it as a bona fide student activity.

Or at least, something like it: think all the boozy, bawdy, maverick, and frequently raucous exuberance of life on the high seas, minus, well, the violent looting, and tagged (likely for lack of a better category) as an a capella group.

Indeed, as goes one old pirate in-joke of yore concerning more straight-laced singing ensembles on campus, Brown's Jabberwocks are a capella "with a fun asshole theme," and the suspendered Bear Necessities a capella with a "fun wow-we're-lame theme"- while ARRR!!! (as they are officially christened) is a pirate group, "with a fun singing-drunk theme." The crew, as they refer to themselves, may keep under theirs belts a considerable repertoire of haunting and very authentic sea chanteys, not to mention a handful of gleefully dirty tunes. It doesn't change the fact that their concerts are inevitably embellished with equal parts shouting and sword-brandishing, full tricorners-and-corsets garb, and copious onstage swigging.

Rum, of course, is the drink of choice.

Brown alums Jarrett Byrnes and Sam Kusnetz founded ARRR!!! as undergraduates for a bit of a gag in 1999, pitching their goofball idea to the University on the grounds that "Brown needed something silly"-something low-key and blithely nonsensical to keep an overscheduled undergraduate population from taking itself too seriously. It may have overstated the potentiality of ARRR!!!'s influence (at least in its time), but Byrnes and Kusnetz won their funding nonetheless, and became captain and first mate of the original ARRR!!! crew.

A dozen years later, they are by all accounts confounded by the trajectory their enduring whim has taken. "They did not see it coming," pirate alum John Sheehy '07 says, with no negligible dash of relish. Founded entirely on the absurd impulse of these two undergraduates, ARRR!!! now auditions upwards of forty people a year for six or seven places. What's more, it gets a mention on every official Brown tour, and is cited by many undergraduates as a prime reason for attending the university, an emblematic morsel of quirky living at a school that has, since the 60s, preferred to think of itself in free-spirited contrast to more dour peer institutions.

It may have begun its life as pure nonsense, but the notion of pirate has become dear to the heart of Brown University in the last decade or so. To the crew of recent years, moreover, it's become something fairly all consuming-complete with its own traditions, lore, tight-knit sociability, and a network of alums.

"It has become a way of life for us pirates," says Alex Wankel, '11.5. "It's almost like a counter-cultural phenomenon, the way we do things, the way we party, and the way we hang out-it's just very, very distinct."

And yet: "It is still extraordinarily silly," Sheehy insists. But then he adds: "It's just a joke that people take seriously."

✠

Take-for instance-the notion of the "pirate name," with which every new member (or "baby pirate") is branded at a top-secret pirate initiation early in the fall semester.

Like all things ARRR!!!, the pirate name is a silly tradition of grave importance-a performance bleeding perceptibly across the border into real life, pure provocation that requires no audience.

It may or may not be all for show.

Exhibit A: two Brown students known in non-pirates circles as Olivia Harding and Ben Jones. Harding is a senior from Connecticut, a student of comparative literature and Renaissance studies. Jones hails from Minnesota, a junior archaeology and Egyptology concentrator. Both are members of ARRR!!! (Harding was captain in Fall 2011). As such they prefer the monikers "Mad Livvy Vane" and "The Black Swab" wherever possible.

And that, mateys, is Livvy and Swab for short.

Swooping with jaunty abandon over a tall wan forehead, Jones's devil-may-care flounce of dark hair puts the name "Swab" in storied perspective. In his freshman year, he was christened with his pirate name in reverence to the notable 'do he sports. One might easily (so the story goes) tip him upside down and use those glossy locks to swab the deck.

"It means something," says Harding-whose pale face, sharp eyes, long red hair, and husky voice give her a distinctly old-timey air. In good spirits and yet deadly serious, she confides, "We have a very long process where we go through making sure everybody's names are okay. There's a group effort saying that we accept this name, we accept that it's your new identity." Then she seems to catch herself. "No, well, it's your identity, and we're-"

"Affirming it," Jones offers.

Just so. As Harding presses on, "It's more important than the name that you already have, because it's a name you picked yourself."

Like many of the Brown pirates, both Livvy and Swab claim to apply their legal names-"landlubber names," according to common ARRR!!!-speak-only with an amused tolerance, and only where absolutely necessary. As concerns the "landlubber names" of their fellow crewmates, Livvy and Swab are, like most members of ARRR!!!, often blissfully-and indeed deliberately-unaware. Thus, since arriving at Brown, The Black Swab and Mad Livvy Vane have counted among their collegiate comrades such kindred spirits as Margaret, Meredith, Harry, Rhianna, Laken, Alex, John, Zach, Kenna, Cheno, Trevor and Shana-but have always referred to them, stubbornly and with raging maverick glee (even amongst non-pirates), as Maeve the Maeverick, Smidge, Splinter-Eye, Calypso, Shillelagh, The Jolly Wank, Jonny Quarrels, Rufi, Whatsit, Lady Arabella, Flintlock Krakenspunk, and Scruffhook O'Tinkle.

To divine the point of the names proves tricky, even if you ask a crewmember point blank. Like many things pirate, the official purpose seems to have been lost somewhere along the way, on the trajectory from pure joke to something more. Is it about insider status? An all-in-jest sort of identity protection? All the cunning delights of alter-ego status?

The chuckle such questions provoke from Jones is wry and wild.

"There's not a point," he says. "Those are our names."

Yes, yes, all right. But one feels compelled to press on for the real answer, the answer one senses (or perhaps just fervently hopes, from a sanity standpoint) is lurking beneath the surface. Truly, these names are actually more important than your "landlubber names?"

Jones, of course, doesn't miss a beat.

"Oh. Yeah. Absolutely."

✠

Perhaps another explanation for the pirate names is this: that they exist in service of the social element, of close ties forged amongst this band of would-be ruffians-tight-knit in the extreme, tradition-bound to an extraordinary degree.

They rehearse together every Friday afternoon for two hours, usually while imbibing. Socializing in unofficial contexts, they have a propensity for bursting out in song, be it a bawdy eyebrow raiser or a mournful chantey, lyric and wistful. Traditions include an annual St. Patrick's Day party attended in high numbers by pirate alums (ARRR!!! parties like few else on campus-"I drank a lot on that crew," says Sheehy), while regular performances on-campus and off are an integral part of the deal, including the infamous "Dirty Show" each spring. The crew's most risqu&eeacute; performance by far, the Dirty Show features a program of deeply off-color selections from the pirate songbook-and, by the last note of the last tune, a triumphant descent by a handful of the performers into full-frontal nudity.

Yet it's the yearly Halloween Weekend in Salem, Massachusetts that is among the most reverenced of pirate pastimes. The trip includes a frigid full-crew leap into a lake, and tradition holds that they make the drive there from Providence in various states of undress. Jones relates proudly (with the eager knack for storytelling that seems widespread amongst the crew) that when his car became lost en route to Salem in 2009, he barged into a Dunkin Donuts to ask directions, dressed only in his boxer shorts and a pair of swashbuckling boots. The punch line of the tale is the Dunkin manager, who demands Jones depart the premises-addressing him in a weary, seen-it-all tone as "Sexy."

The story has proven a prime piece of "pirate lore," as the crew terms all past and present ARRR!!! tales of adventure and provocation-any story has been or seems destined to be passed down to future crews. Strung together, the various bits of lore combine to evidence an enduring passion for flouting convention, an uncompromising sense of pirate-as-identity, and an unabashed propensity for inebriation. Choice lore feature pirates who might, as well as Jones, refuse to get dressed to enter a Dunkin' Donuts: unyielding souls who don't bend ARRR!!! rules and traditions just because polite company might find it strange. The very existence of such official "lore" points to what may be the most crucial aspect of piracy, the force behind the persistent appeal-a crew-wide feeling of being in on the jokes and legends, of being, as it were, "one of the crew."

Seasoned crewmembers insist that Brown pirates are pirates in their own right long before they "ARRRdition" to join the group-that they have, in fact, always been pirates. Piracy, they say, is a quality inherent in the individual rather than acquired over time as a member. In auditions, crewmembers look not for promise but for a perfect fit. It is simply a matter of bringing pirates who have always been pirates into the official fold.

"Pirates only ever take themselves half-seriously, or should only ever take themselves half-seriously," says Wankel (aka "The Jolly Wank"). "But in our mythological view of piracy…we are pirates as we are. 'Pirate' is a layer of identity that's continuous with who we always have been."

It doesn't end after Brown. Indeed, some would argue: once a pirate, always a pirate. Many alums graduate into vagabond periods of living, working on tallships and trains and otherwise wandering the globe. They grow up to live together, to be in each other's weddings (often inviting the undergraduate crew to perform). Sheehy himself has a pirate roommate in New York City and has been a groomsman in two pirate marriage ceremonies. ARRR!!! recently heralded the birth of the first pirate baby-born to a now married alumni couple by the pirate names of Finnegan and Plunderbunny.

It's an all-pervading kind of thing that seems to spread into all corners of an ARRR!!! member's life. Wank says that even when he moved to South America for several months, he was often introduced by acquaintances there as "the pirate." On the subject of pirate-as-lifestyle-choice, he muses, "Piracy is a very intangible quality; there's no real way to explain it or define it exactly in the sense that we use it." But as for himself, he seems more certain-explaining, in a rich, reflective tone, "I have always been a wanderer. I have always been somewhat eccentric and misanthropic. I did once steal a boat. I've always appreciated these sorts of things."

✠

A pirate will drop almost anything for a pirate gathering. It's remarkable, even miraculous, when you consider that ARRR!!! is a student activity with no tangible change-the-world agenda, nor any place on an impressive resume-flourishing nevertheless on an Ivy League campus of high achievers.

"There's very, very little obligation. So when we're there, it's really just because we like being there," says Wank. "I tell you, we're just self-propelled by our own lust for being pirates."

And yet that easy-going "lust" can prove a remarkable, if not all-consuming, force, and one that even the pirates themselves have trouble explaining. Harding, for her part-along with Kenna Hawes '13 (or "Whatsit")-bolted in early spring 2010 from auditions for a production of Hamlet the two were coordinating, deferring their responsibilities on that front for a few hours in order to respond to a text message that "the flag" had been swiped from a pirate's dorm room. The theft turned out to be part-threat, part-prank-the first step in an elaborate treasure hunt involving breaking and entering, liquids tasted in thimbles (and their identities surmised), a word puzzle, a treasure map, and digging beneath an X marking the spot somewhere on the north end of campus.

The pirates rallied at Wayland Arch in the dead of night, dressed in full garb, and stormed through the set tasks in riotous fraternal glee-or more aptly, what Harding calls "bloodthirsty glee, because we were on a ninja hunt." The flag was won back, and the incident now described by Wank as "The Domestic Conflict of the Colors" is considered- whether spoken of by crewmembers with enthusiasm or with venom-to be, at the very least, a top-notch piece of pirate lore. It was, as it happens, largely spearheaded by one pirate's then-girlfriend (aka his "pirate wench," as the crew refers to significant others, both male and female)-who happens to be part of an elusive, strictly unofficial student activity known as the ninjas.

"F**k the ninjas," says one pirate with a laugh, when pressed on the matter. "They were just created to mess with the pirates."

In spring 2005 the ninjas stormed a pirate arch sing-arriving as if from nowhere in full costume, a complete surprise to the singing brigade in the archway. They departed in much the same way, leaving the stunned and half-amused crew wondering: "Is that going to happen again?" Ninjas have become a sporadic thorn in the pirate side in the ensuing years, but that night marked their first known appearance. (If you ask the ninjas, though, they'll tell you coolly that they were founded three years before… oh, the founding of the university.)

Any pirate relating the tale of the Domestic Conflict of the Colors will scoff to this day that the crew never came face-to-face with a ninja that night. Their disgust on this point perhaps best suggests the difference between the strange rivals: a pirate operates on the fly and usually drunkenly; a ninja is scheming and disciplined. Where pirates carouse and make a highly public spectacle of themselves, ninjas are an evasive breed.

Though not an official student activity by any stretch (they operate as something closer to a secret society, tapping members as they please rather than in a formalized process like ARRRditions), ninjas do, in a stoic kind of jest, describe themselves as an a capella group. "I have seen you at our arch sings. You did not applaud," one intoned to me in an interview, in the trademark ninja tone-half severe, half bored. The a capella joke lies in the fact that traditional "ninjas" are of course, in the historical sense, a silent company-coming and going (both by nature and rigorous training) unseen and, more importantly for the joke, unheard. "We may pass from Pembroke to Keeney without be seen," declares one stealthy Brown ninja. The group has come to adopt a sort of passive-combative, weirdly removed brand of humor that finds them executing such projects as "recording" an album of "ninja a capella" as a half-joking, half-spiteful gift to the pirates-featuring ten tracks of impenetrable quiet.

It strikes the uninitiated as pure nonsense. Still, a few things worth noting for the intrigued: if you ask a ninja for information, you'll begin to receive mysterious e-mails from the account aboutthatinterview@gmail.com and eventually find yourself conveyed blindfolded (yes, really) from designated meeting point to a top-secret location. There, in answer to any and all questions, you'll be treated to a slew of elaborate myths, delivered in a collective tone of smooth reserve-think Professor Snape-level chill, only with a bit more of an oily pleased-with-oneself vibe, played to a chorus of stifled background snorts of laughter. If you ask why you have to be blindfolded (you suspect they just don't have enough ninja costumes), the reply will be: "You haven't earned anything more." And if you ask-grasping for a concrete fact, any concrete fact-just exactly how many of them are present, it will prove to be just one of many cases in which the reply comes forth, after a dramatic pause, with typical coy ambiguity, this time from a high, nasally male voice to the right: "I suspect there are seven of us here."

Long pause.

"But, there could be as many as twenty."

Right. Well, thanks for that.

You're struck by a sense that the whole charade is a bit much to wrap your head around. University-sanctioned piracy is, you know, slightly anomalous in its own right-let alone with a companionate pack of secret, adversarial ninjas thrown in for good measure. Finding yourself puzzled (once again) by what the point of any of it might be, you're tempted to brush the ninja portion of the tale aside. They're not really an integral presence in pirate culture, after all; they do their own thing; most pirates would suggest they've long since died out, or at least died down. (Some reporters would hint otherwise, of course.)

Still, the thing of it is-at least from an outsider's perspective-that the singular intrigue and simultaneous frustration of finding oneself somewhere in Providence, Rhode Island, outdoors in the middle of an early autumn's night with one's eyes covered, taking notes on a piece of paper you can't even see, flanked by at least two male and three female ninjas, and likely surounded by a creeping silent host of plenty more, has begun to seem not so tangential as might be expected, but rather quite central to this tale of pirates-of perfectly typical collegiate secrecy and exclusivity, with a decidedly atypical, and indeed characteristically weird, Brown flair.

(It's like Sheehy says: "Brown's so liberal and they let you do whatever. You could probably do a concentration on pirates. In fact I think it's been done.")

The ninjas are a weird fringe group, but deeply intriguing for what they say about pirates, exclusivity, the proud oddness and half-seriousness of Brown University, and what it is to be one of the crew-any crew. Namely: that in much the same way as the pirates started as a joke sending up traditional a capella-half friendly jab, half genuine remonstrance to the weird exclusivity of it all-and became, as it were, something much more serious, so too did the ninjas start as a prank sending up the pirates, and eventually end up blindfolding a reporter in the name of preserving their identities, one cold fall night in September 2011.

Everyone wants to be one of the crew-and in on the secret. And if they can't be in on this one, well, they'll make their own.

It's like Wank puts it: "Honestly, it is very exclusive. And the reason we can get away with it is that we're so ridiculous, that no one takes us very seriously."

Not very…

But certainly just a little bit-no?