Keeping the Record Out of Reach

The hardest part was not stopping Dain from taking the gear. It was making sure that when he tried, he would find witnesses already looking at it. I kept thinking that if I had stayed at the quay, the hidden recess might have stayed hidden longer. That thought is arrogant and probably false, but it followed me through the rain anyway.

Those three marks bothered me. A crewman leaves one small claim on the world, and someone waits years to erase it. I understand the temptation to treat every mark as ownership. I have done it myself, in quieter ways, with nothing but a bag and the road ahead. The difference is I never buried anyone’s name under a tide weight.

I wanted the independent skippers to say more than they had seen. Instead, they said exactly what they could support. Good. No speeches, no useful lies. Their restraint made me trust them more than I wanted to admit.

By the time I sat with a hot meal, my hands had stopped shaking. My ribs still did. I kept listening for the weather to turn against us, because that gave my fear somewhere practical to sit. Stress sounds cleaner than admitting I was frightened Dain would make the evidence disappear and leave me blamed for failing to stop it.

I slept in the pub room with the boots off and the harbour loud behind the wall. No rifle. No skiff holding me to the hull. Only thunder, rain, and the knowledge that for one night, the truth was under a tarpaulin with people standing beside it.