Avast, ye salty swabs and ink-stained wretches! Gather ‘round the grog tub, for a cold wind blows from the North, carrying a scent of lavender and impending doom. The word has come down the rigging like a falling mast: the legendary Catherine O'Hara has folded her sails and surrendered to the briny deep at the age of seventy-one. The docks of Tortuga are quiet tonight, and even the parrots have ceased their squawking in honor of the woman who could out-shriek a hurricane. For decades, she was the North Star for every lost soul navigating the choppy waters of the stage and screen, a beacon of wit in a sea of dullards. To lose such a captain is to lose the very compass by which we measure our joy.

The consequences for our fleet are nothing short of catastrophic. Without her guiding light, the very concept of maternal panic has lost its anchor. I’ve seen hardened privateers weep into their ale, remembering her desperate cries for a lad named Kevin across the vast Atlantic in the days of Home Alone. Who shall now alert the coast guard when a cabin boy goes missing in the suburbs? The merchant guilds are in a panic, fearing that without her impeccable timing, the comedic currency of the realm will devalue faster than a Spanish galleon with a hole in its hull. The seas are flatter, the rum tastes of vinegar, and the horizon looks considerably more bleak without her silhouette upon it.

'She was more than a mere player; she was a force of nature that could turn a simple gown into a weapon of war,' remarked Quartermaster 'Iron-Lung' Higgins as he polished a rusted cannon. 'I once saw her play Delia Deetz in a haunted cove, and I tell ye, the ghosts themselves were too intimidated to boo. She had a way of twisting the Queen’s English that made a man feel like he was being tickled and interrogated at the same time.' Even the high lords of The Academy have lowered their silk banners to half-mast, acknowledging that a crown has been lost that no pretender can hope to wear, no matter how many doubloons they throw at the costume designer.

The rumors in the galley suggest that her departure has upset the balance of the supernatural realms. They say the spirits she once commanded with a flick of her wrist are now restless, wandering the decks of ghost ships looking for a director. Lord Windemere of the East India Sketch Company issued a formal decree from his plush cabin, stating, 'The theatrical maps must be redrawn. A continent of talent has simply vanished beneath the waves, leaving us with nothing but sand and shallow reefs.' It is a dark day for anyone who appreciates a well-timed gasp or a wig of extraordinary proportions, for the wardrobe of the world has grown significantly dustier.

So, raise a glass of the strongest swill ye can find to the memory of the woman who reigned over Schitt’s Creek with an iron fan and a heart of pure gold. We shall not look upon her like again, unless the tides bring us a miracle from the deep. The Great Script in the sky has called for a final curtain, and Catherine has answered the call with the grace of a queen and the fire of a buccaneer. May the winds be at her back and the sea monsters keep a respectful distance, for if she catches them out of character, she’ll surely give ‘em a lashing they’ll never forget. Fare thee well, O’Hara; the high seas are lonelier and far less fashionable for your absence.