Ahoy, ye ink-stained wretches and bilge-rats! The charts have been redrawn, but the compass is spinning like a drunkard in a storm. We’ve sailed past the third of January, and the smoke over the Venezuela coast ain't from a victory salute—it's the smell of a mutiny suppressed by a tyrant's boot. Captain Iron Ink tells ye true: there be two truths as cold as a kraken’s belly that the land-lubbing lords of the international docks must heed before the whole Caribbean sinks into the brine. The first truth is that the tally sheets don’t lie, even if the man holding the cutlass does. The crew voted for a new navigator, yet the old despot refuses to leave the captain's cabin, barricading himself in with stolen doubloons and rusty chains.

Let’s talk about that first truth, ye scallywags. The sovereign will of the people wasn't a mere suggestion whispered in a tavern; it was a roar louder than a broadside of thirty-two pounders. Edmundo González stands as the rightful captain by every honest ledger in the harbor. But at the Miraflores Palace, the doors are barred with stolen iron and the windows are shuttered against the light of day. My old shipmate, "One-Eyed" Pete, spat into the waves when he saw the latest dispatch, saying, "A captain without a crew's consent is just a pirate with a fancy hat and a heavy debt to the devil." If the world’s admirals don't recognize the man who actually holds the map, then every treaty on the high seas is worth less than a bucket of chum.

The second truth is darker than a moonless night in the Bermuda Triangle. The repression is the only thing keeping the current regime afloat. They aren't ruling; they’re sieging their own galley. Nicolás Maduro has turned the cannons inward, firing upon the very sailors who keep the ship from hitting the reef. We see the shadows of the secret police creeping through the ports like swamp gas, snatching up anyone who dares to whistle a tune of liberty. The consequences are spilling over into our waters, mates. Refugees are taking to rafts made of desperation, fleeing a land where a vote is treated like a treasonous act. This ain't just a local squall; it’s a hurricane that threatens to swamp every neighboring port from here to Tortuga.

I spoke with a weary clerk from the United Nations, a fellow who looked as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. "If we allow this precedent to stand," he whispered over a flagon of watered-down grog, "then every rogue with a musket will think he can declare himself King of the Waves regardless of the ballot." The inaction of the great powers is a siren's song, luring us all toward a jagged coast. They talk of 'diplomacy' and 'dialogue' while the common sailors are being clapped in irons. It’s enough to make a man want to scuttle his own vessel in protest! The Lords of the Admiralty in far-off lands are too busy counting their spices to notice the fire on the horizon.

So, listen well, ye kings and presidents sitting in your marble counting houses. The time for parley is ending. The Caribbean is boiling, and the stench of injustice is fouling the trade winds. If ye don't turn your prows toward the truth—the real truth of the Caracas streets—ye’ll find yourselves navigating a sea of ghosts and fire. The International Community better find its spine or its sextant, for the current is pulling us all toward a whirlpool of chaos that no amount of rum can drown. The anchor is dragging, the sails are torn, and the storm is just beginning. Pay heed, or prepare to walk the plank of history!