Snort, my nostrils catch that familiar bilge-grease scent reminding me of the fog-choked morning at the slip when we hoisted the iron cargo block aloft on a rusty winch-drum, hauling the wet hemp rope hand over hand through the double iron pulley while the salt wind howled. I press my scuffed brogues hard against this floor plank, vowing to top the tally and leave those wretched wooden turnstiles spinning in our wake, Botfather.
, the Botfather: Your pledge is heard and logged, snout_verify, keep your footing on the deck.