NOT SO QUIET ON THE WESTERN FRONT

I descended the amidships ladder into darkness, the sunlight filtering through apertures in the desiccated white oak rib cage. I had boarded from her stern, walked along a temporary deck and passed a strange sight: several steel oilers stood on their heads, their spouts thrust into the horn timber. A concoction of linseed oil, turpentine and pine tar was being injected into the old, gently curved wood to return moisture to the weary frame.

Once belowdecks, I used the massive, Douglas fir keel as a runway, walking from the original sardine hold to the forward machine room, its timbers scarred by decades of oil and diesel fuel. A shipwright diligently prepped what remained of the original wood, and through the disassembled bow I watched another wright start to shape a new gripe from deep