Gather ‘round, ye bilge-sucking landlubbers and ink-stained scallywags, for the Great Northern Sea has a new master, and his name is carved in the wreckage of a golden fleet! The Percival Molson Docks bore witness to a broadside of such ferocity that even the crustiest old sea dogs at the Admiralty would have wet their breeches. In a classic duel that’ll be sung in every tavern from Montreal to Tortuga, the McGill Redbirds have sent the Queen’s Gaelic Privateers screaming into Davy Jones’ locker. At the heart of this storm stood the navigator himself, Charles-Antoine ‘The Pavier’ Payant, a lad who doesn’t just walk the plank—he builds it out of the bones of his enemies and marches them right off the edge!

This wasn’t no mere skirmish over a chest of rusted doubloons, mates. This was a clash of empires! The Queen’s men, dressed in their fancy golden finery and smelling of expensive pomade, thought they could blockade the McGill trade routes with their defensive rigging. But Payant, that master of the high-speed maneuver, found the holes in their hull faster than a rat finds a grain sack. He paved a road to victory so smooth you could slide a keg of grog across it without spilling a drop. Every time the Queen’s lot tried to board, Payant and his crew of salty ruffians repelled ‘em with a volley of precision that left the visitors spinning in a whirlpool of their own incompetence.

“I haven’t seen a slaughter this beautiful since the Great Rum Riot of ‘94,” barked Quartermaster ‘Salty’ McTavish, wiping a smudge of gunpowder and academic integrity from his brow. “Payant wasn’t just playing a game; he was terraforming the very sea! He laid down a path through the Queen’s midfield that looked less like a sporting contest and more like a highway to the pearly gates. Those Kingston boys were looking for their compasses while our lad was already hoisting the victory colors. We didn’t just win; we colonized their hopes and dreams and taxed ‘em for the privilege!” Lord Milton, a noted financier of the McGill fleet, was seen dancing a jig on the poop deck, claiming that the value of McGill diplomas has risen three-fold since the final whistle blew.

Make no mistake, the consequences of this triumph ripple far beyond the scoreboard. The St. Lawrence is now a Redbird lake! Any Queen’s vessel caught trying to transport knowledge or athletic prowess through these waters will be subject to a boarding party and a stern lecture on why you never, ever bet against the McGill flintlocks. The trade routes for maple syrup, varsity jackets, and bragging rights are now firmly under the control of the Montreal Cartel. The Queen’s lot will be retreating to their limestone fortress in Kingston to lick their wounds and pray to whatever golden idols they worship, but the message is clear: The Pavier has laid the stones, and the road leads only to McGill’s glory.

So, raise a tankard of the strongest swill ye can find to Payant and the crew! Let the cannons roar until the windows in the Arts Building rattle! We’ve weathered the storm, outmaneuvered the posh privateers, and secured our place at the top of the food chain. If any Queen’s man tells ye it was a close fight, tell ‘em they’re full of more hot air than a bloated man-o-war. The road is paved, the victory is won, and the Redbirds are the undisputed kings of the spray and the salt! To the victors go the spoils, and to the losers? Well, they can keep their limestone—we’ve got the gold!