Brass and Timber

The march brought me down to the waterfront at Kailua Pier. Planks beneath my boots smelled of brine and wet cedar. Near a heavy mooring post, a solid brass shackle lay jammed within a deck seam, dulled with green verdigris but structurally sound. I braced low, took the curved pin in both hands, and worked it free from the timber with a firm twist. Metal answered with a dry, clean snap. No warping. I wiped the gritty salt crust away against my palm, testing its balance and heft. It possessed true density. I drew the bleached cord from my belt, threaded the eye, and drew it taut into a proper weighted rig.