From a dinghy to a Man of War, at three miles an hour.
You begin shipwrecked, with an empty hold and a dinghy. Thirteen hulls stand between that and a Man of War, with refits along the way. Hire a navigator who sees further, a cartographer who keeps your charts from fogging over again, a gunner who halves the price of cannon. Take a loan you probably should not.
The sea does not care about you. Pirates give chase, and you outrun them, out-gun them, or strike your colors and pay. Storms open your hull. Debt compounds. A career can end, and one that ends is memorialized in the Hall of Fame with the score it earned.
Send a letter of passage and a friend sails your archipelago: the same islands, the same ports, the same prices, walking the same real streets, with their sail on your chart.