A few months ago, this boat wrecked near the shore, its crooked mast aiming a sharp angle out to the blue Olympics far away.
The sail-cloth disappeared first, then the motor. Every week or so another piece of it would be taken, or rotted off; people and time like hyenas cleaning a fresh kill.

Someone tried to float it with an impromptu raft of empty barrels. But the plan was forsaken and they too rotted.

Every time I bike past it I remember a story Jared told me about how a massive ship once sunk in a bay; it seemed impossible to get the giant back out of the water until a scientist created a simple solution of filling its hold with ping pong balls.

Now, months later, the boat whose name I’ve neglected to learn lays awkwardly on sea weed and logs. The waterline finally receded until the dead craft could be reached with ease, but no one seems to care anymore. There’s nothing left to take.