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The old timber boat lay propped up on a couple of old timber railway sleepers. I had purchased her through the elderly owner of a boatshed who said she had been sitting unused on one of his moorings for years. Sam had offered me the sleepers and props so I could get her off the sand and scrap her hull while the tide was out. Her barely discernible name was carved on a weathered timber plate screwed to the transom. Night Winds had seen better days. As I scrapped, a pile of green and red seaweed, white crusty barnacles and loose clumps of mussels built up on the sand. The seagulls had left layers of encrusted dung on her topsides. Sam said he had forgotten when he had last seen the owner move her from her mooring. There came the steady beat of diesels as fishing and charter boats headed
