Inric stands on the walkway overlooking the harbour as the sky to the east pales with the onset of dawn. The waves are tinged with chilly silver and the tall walls of the docks are alternately light and dark as they face and face away from the imminent sun. He holds onto the rail with both hands and closes his eyes. The ships below rock slightly, at ease in their berths. The ships below are vulnerable, fragile wooden shells held together with forged nails and spun rope, wood which is prone to warp and splinter, nails which are prone to rust and rope which is prone to fray. So easy, for iron fittings to rust and fail. So easy, for a plank to ease slightly and permit entry of the hungry sea. So easy, for a rope to unravel and for a mast to sway and topple. And after that, things will look after themselves.