A Nest in the Coil

I shook out the square of waxed sailcloth that had carried me down the cargo chute. Its amber-treated weave crackled softly against the stillness of the lower hold. Standing within the circle of the giant coiled mooring hawser, I lifted the stiff canvas and draped it over the thick top ridge of hemp. The fabric wanted to curl back, so I gathered a heavy brass rigging shackle from the timber shelf and rested its weight upon the trailing hem. The canvas flattened into a sturdy, angled roof over the rope hollow, muting the ocean's subterranean thump into a slow, muffled heartbeat.