(Uh, probably not. It's the tats. And the crazy.)
Susan Ronald begins her The Pirate Queen: Queen Elizabeth, Her Pirate Adventurers, and the Dawn of Empire with a "Master Foster," deposing on an attempt by Spanish port authorities to seize his Primrose, a 150 ton Londoner loaded with Home Counties grain in Bilbao harbour on 26/05/1585 (Old Style), along with all other English ships. And, apparently, ships from Holland, Zeeland, "Easterland," Germany, and England. Typical of the times, the deposition specifies a religious motivation, while the historiography, as always, loves a good story and looks forward to the Armada campaign. For whatever reason, I can't resist reading Foster's story against the grain, not that there's much here to sustain my cynicism.
So how do I justify my cynicism? In this case, it's perversely hopeful. It doesn't seem to me that human affairs can continue if everyone is paralysed by fear of treachery. So, on the one hand, the merchant captain can't be so fearful of being seized and pressed into service that he won't come into port. On the other, the harbour master can't be so preoccupied with the danger of being taken advantage of by a dangerous heretic that they will not let the ship dock.
That these are real, and common fears, the Foster deposition, and many like it, tells us. So that has to be the weak point, because human affairs aren't coming to a screeching halt. There's a deception going on here, a word that's doing illicit work. How about "heretic?" The work it is doing is telling us that of course the captain and the harbour master are on opposing sides, forever condemned to strife. Italics, though, on the "of course." Because why is this so obvious. Why should a harbour master or a sea captain care which church the other goes to, or even make the distinctions that some doctor of theology might.
And isn't there money on the table? Doesn't money count as a motive? And who ever tells the truth about money? The cargo will fetch you this much if you pay by letter of credit; this much if you pay cash. Maybe the truth of the matter is that the harbour master and the sea captain are adults, and would prefer to keep their business to themselves.
There's no maybe about it. This is the story of the corrupting sea.
According to his Wikipedia entry, Henry Mainwaring was "an English pirate, naval officer with the Royal Navy, and author." That'd be one way to put it. At greater length, we learn that he was a Shropshire lad, son of Sir George, and maternal grandson (the best kind, when there's money to be made!) of William More, Vice-Admiral of Sussex and Bishop of Colchester, with some kind of suffragen authority over the diocese of Ely in the Fens. It's an unlikely juxtaposition of offices, but Vice-Admiral means something a little different from a blunt old sea dog in this case. In this case, he's the guy who gets a cut when business crosses the shore of Sussex. We're back at the intersection of government and protection racket here, a point that N. A. M. Rodger makes at length here. And as we might expect, the Mainwarings did favours for those who did them favours. Henry's brother was Carver to Prince Henry, and Henry went to Brasenose College, Oxford, followed by the Inner Temple, and was apparently called to the bar in 1604 before turning to piracy.
Now that you've got that out of your system, I'll complicate the story. Mainwaring was 24 in 1610, and a trial lawyer when he received a commission from the Lord High Admiral, Charles Howard, 1st Earl of Nottingham, to cruise in pursuit of the "arch-pirate of Newfoundland," Peter Easton, then supposed to be cruising in the Bristol Channel. (Wikipedia blandly suggests that he was cruising in the interest of the Killigrews of Falmouth.) Mainwaring, however, took his ship to the Straits of Gibraltar, announced his intent of making private war on Spain, and naturally soon turned up in Newfoundland. The treasure fleets of Spain being unaccountably missing there, he instead pressed sailors and took provisions for his four ships, and returned to the Straits of Gibraltar, where he took a Portuguese ship in dried cod and a French prize in wine, before going into what was then called La Mamora, just ahead of a Spanish fleet that reduced the town (to no permanent effect). The citizens of the town rendered their English prisoners to Mainwaring, who may at this time have received an offer of employment from the King of Spain that he declined. In 1616, he rescued the Newfoundland fishing fleet from unspecified menaces, received a royal pardon (a few years ahead of Easton), whereupon he returned to England, wrote a Discourse on Piracy, and received a commission in the Royal Navy, a commission that naturally qualified him to be the ambassador to Venice.
That the details of this story refuse to gel into anything like a coherent story shouldn't be surprising once you've read a little of the Discourse.