Dragging an anchor through thick muck, scraping one of three prongs on the stained concrete floor beneath.
The remaining two barely poking above the sea of grey sludge.
Taking a heavy rope in each hand and whipping the twin cartwheel of twine into a sodden coiled blanket.
A dull sad, rhythmic thud.
Roughly twisting an old key in the ignition of a traction engine.
Battery full, fuel empty, repetitive despirate, constant lurching and growling, never engaging.