The harbour stairs at low tide

At dawn we found the harbour stairs bare to the last green-slick step, though beyond the breakwater the sea kept shouldering in, dark as pewter beneath a thin apricot sky. I had gone down with a lantern and a coil of rope, meaning only to fetch the skiff before the tide turned. Then a shout came from the outer water. Our neighbour’s cutter had lost her mast in the night and was drifting broadside toward the rocks. We pushed off at once. The boat bucked over the swells; spray stung my face, and the lantern went out before we cleared the harbour mouth. By the time we reached her, two men were clinging to the rail, their hands white with cold. We hauled them aboard, cut the loose rigging, and let the waves carry us home. The first tide was already licking the lowest stair when we landed. For an hour, the whole village stood watching the water climb.