Most of a boltblacked trimaran has already washed up on the sandbar when Reaching the West Reaches awakens. He forces himself up to walk its length, gathering pieces of other shattered boats, driftwood and one precious, unbroken jar of ration water. Even moonstone floats.
He pulls six precious bronze nails from his automaton leg and drives them in with his fist. He won’t be able to stand well until he’s found something to replace them, which is just as well: his patchwork craft leaks.
Reaching the West Reaches grinds out to sail, and gulls follow the splash of his bailing helmet.