The net-loft above the North Basin smelled of salt cod, tarred hemp cordage, and fifty years of dust.
High in the rafters, dried herring nets hung like black cobwebs from cedar tie-beams, swaying whenever the freezing harbor wind forced its way through warped wall slats. On the floor below, long pine workbenches were scarred by knife-gouges, pitch burns, and glue-pot rings.
At the center bench, two animal fat candles burned inside tin horn-lanterns. He cast a yellow circle across the timber.
Tomas Reed sat on an overturned herring barrel, his right arm resting flat on the table with his sweat-darkened calfskin brace unstrapped beside him. The skin over his forearm bone was swollen and hot. Holding the core drill against the Sea-Gull’s stern deadwood had torn at the stiff scars along his cut flexor sheath.
With his left hand, Tomas uncorked a heavy clay bottle of bitter pine-resin and wintergreen oil. He rubbed three drops into the knot of gristle as the biting warmth sank into the muscle. Then began his daily rehabilitation: thumb to index for five heartbeats, then middle, ring, and little finger. The gristle grated against bone with a stringy drag, but by the tenth repetition, the stiffness yielded enough to close his fingers into a sixty-percent fist.
