The Dry Dock – Part 1: Keel

"It is eighty years old," said Dominic. "And she wants to live."

"She's got a hole in her hull."

"She has character."

Kamil laughed and shone his torch along the great curved ribs of the old wooden ship, propped up in the dry dock on massive timber stays. The Baltic wind howled through the shipyard cranes. The air smelled of tar, salt and wet pine. Seagulls screamed on the rails.

Kamil, thirty-three, a marine surveyor from Warsaw, had been sent to assess whether the old sailing ship could be restored. Dominic, thirty-six, the shipwright, was tall and strong, with a heavy brown beard, sawdust in his hair and a gentle, thoughtful voice at odds with his huge hands.

"Every plank was cut by hand," said Dominic. "Do you want to feel?"

Kamil laid his palm on the wood. It was smooth as stone, warm from the sun. He had surveyed a hundred ships and had never felt a hull like this.

"It's beautiful."

"I think so."

He stayed a week, then two. The report was due, but he kept finding more to measure. In the evenings the other workers went home and the two men sat in the little shipyard office with mugs of tea and the rain drumming on the roof. Dominic told him about each plank, each nail, the old captain's letters found in a locker.

"You are not writing your report," said Dominic.

"I'm listening."

"To the ship?"

"To you."

Dominic put down his mug. "Kamil. I would like to say something. I do not know the words. I would like to kiss you."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Launch.

Continue the story: Part 2 – Launch.