Broad-shouldered and compact like a ship's anchor, Bram moves with the precise economy of a man who has spent decades climbing rigging. His shaved scalp reflects the sun in a dull sheen. A thick beard, flecked with gray, fans from his jaw in coarse braids bound with strips of sailcloth. His left hand is missing the index and middle fingers, the stumps wrapped with neat leather. The scarred skin along his forearms carries the salt-gray patina of wind and weather. He wears a leather harness threaded with coil of rope and an array of knots tied into the straps. Unexpectedly, he keeps a small, finely tooled silver rosary tucked beneath his shirt, the beads polished smooth from years of rubbing, a relic at odds with his superstitious sea-bluntness.