Angry gesticulating Will Smith smashes his fists on the ancient, weathered wooden wheel of the pirate ship, his wide-sleeved linen shirt frayed and tattered, as he bellows through the misty, charcoal-grey sea fog on the high waves. The mischievous glint in his eye flashes like a spark of blue-gray quartz, as he berates the limp, porpoise-gray sails, that threaten to betray the winds and leave the crew to the mercy of the waves. A chilling, fossil-encrusted anchor juts out from the ship's hull, its squared-off edges etched into the flint-like morning light of dawn. A splintered piece of charred wood, wedged between two bloated, putrid barrels, protests in a grind of splintered grain, as Will unleashes a torrent of guttural rants, inflaming the excess passions of the crew, residues in darker, volatile recesses of human turmoil. Against this bleak and mournful backdrop, Jack's red-white multi-colored shouting shirt bursts forth, pitted into confusing breadth by telltale reflective flushes of white rising boldly against snapshots framing eternal fury with hellish courageous abandon.