The Driftwood Cleat

A heavy iron mooring cleat sat bolted into the bleached trunk of a driftwood log near the waterline. I paused and let out a slow, measured breath behind my mask. Setting the flat side of my machete down across the pale cedar bark, I reached out with both hands. Strands of dried lake grass were tangled tightly around the rusted horns. With steady, unyielding pressure, I peeled the stiff fibers away until the pitted black metal was bare. I closed a firm grip around the iron center and pulled back to test its anchor against the heavy log. It held completely rigid against the damp sand.