Four lines of prose about: knots.
I'm still in Vancouver - be back tomorrow.
We watched the sailor manipulate the ropes, his salt encrusted hands moving as though they belonged to our mother when she worked at her knitting. He could have done the same knot one hundred times in a row and we wouldn't have figured out how he'd done it. Maybe two hundred.
"All right boys," he growled as he moved toward us with a coiled rope in each hand, "it's time for you to hang."