He swung his leg in a calm, rhythmic sequence. Front, back. Front, back. The weather was hot, just as the ship's navigator had informed a week ago. The region of Dry Pans was certainly dry and hot as hell. But the captain of Red Force could never unveil the meaning behind the name Dry Pans itself. Actually, he could care less. The things that interested him varied from rum, to food, to parties and back to rum again.

The crew took after their captain for the most part. They lazed around the ship, joking around, murmuring news of events in the world. But Shanks wasn't like them. When he wasn't partying, he drank. When he wasn't drinking, he slept. When he wasn't sleeping, he explored. When he wasn't exploring, he thought.

Unfortunately for him, his thoughts always wandered off to subjects and areas he would rather not think about.

His glanced at the wet trousers hung on the railings of the vessel's deck to dry. Dry Pans? Should it be Dry Pants? Why not Dry Pant, since everyone was panting dry breaths? Pans didn't have anything to do with the area – he had heard the savages were brutal and you couldn't expect savages to know how to make use of a pan. The red haired pirate stirred.

Perhaps it was a shortened form of Pandas. But Dry Pandas wouldn't make sense, no? He shook his head. No, Dry Hair would suit better. Everyone was sweating, dry hair would be good. He ruffled his hair, wondering if any insects have decided to make it its home. But then again, there could be better names than Dry Hair.

Dry Rum sounded peculiar and not very inviting. Dry Ship? It sounded ridiculous. Dry Dream?

Oh, why didn't he think of it before? Everyone was daydreaming on his ship – the lot of them had been daydreaming since they entered the Dry Pans area. Shanks chuckled to himself.

Daydream, huh?