At the end of Lake Herman road the salt marsh gave way to a water-bound repository for sea faring relics. The behemoths of metal and paint rested in stoic silence amidst the late afternoon fog, waiting for time to pass and fate to be meted out. Their end would likely be the scrapyards. My end wasn’t looking much better.

My car, bless its rusted out heart, had stalled two blocks back , just off the 680. A lot of panting and one near-sprained ankle later, I was across the railroad tracks and on the one lane road out towards the rotting ships, ‘No Trespassing’ sign or not. Civic-mindedness be damned, I had no intention of being caught.

Time played rough-shod over my brain, twisting, slowing, and speeding all at once. I imagined I knew how those ships felt, drifting forever without going anywhere. As my feet slammed into the pavement the forgotten vessels called out to me, somehow promising salvation.

Call it madness or call it desperation, I made for those ships like a drunken sailor to the rum cask.