It was late afternoon on the 41st day of the voyage when the sharp-eyed halfling cried down from the crow's nest, "Land Ho!" The excitement was palpable as the coastline crept into view, finally filling the horizon to confirm that it wasn't just another island. Captain Hiram and the navigator busily sighted landmarks, checked charts, and poured through rutters before confirming that they'd hit Arcadia a few days sail north of Anchor's End.
Fearing to sail the unplumbed depths of the Arcadian coast without the benefit of daylight, the Captain guided the ship to anchor in a sheltered cove for the night. A small shore party sent to restock the ship's dwindling fresh water returned with some fruit and a sizable boar, and the celebration as on.
You're fairly certain that the crew drank up the ship's remaining supply of grog, and your headache speaks to your own share in that feat. You could still hear the party continuing below decks--more than a few of the men having cracked open their private stashes of rotgut--even as you retired for the night to your cramped cabin.
Some time around midnight you are awakened by a knock at the door. "I'm rather embarrassed to ask this of passengersh," Captain Hiram slurs, having partaken himself, "but mosht o' the crew is passed out in their berthsh. Would you join me on the shecond watch?"