Takk has a weather-darkened face, a broad nose, and a close-cropped head where salt has left his black hair stiff at the temples. His beard is clipped short except for one stubborn tuft under his chin. He moves with a distinctive sideways roll, favoring his left foot as if the deck beneath him is always pitching; even on dry ground his knees make small, practiced corrections. A tarred little wooden ferry token hangs from his belt, worn smooth at one edge from his thumb. He is unexpectedly meticulous about folding paper maps into exact thirds.

Takk is loyal enough to risk his life for a friend, yet prickly when that friend tries to protect him by taking over. He is straightforward about danger but evasive about grief. In a crisis he becomes brisk and decisive; after it passes, he may go quiet and busy himself with small repairs rather than talk.

Takk learned the harbor by hauling rope for his aunt, a pilot who taught him to judge currents by the angle of floating weed. He took over her work after she died, and built a reputation for blunt advice and routes that got people home. During a sudden squall, a ferry struck a submerged wreck and rolled. Takk was swept under with a trapped passenger; Pahru pulled him free. The disaster left Takk grateful, but not obedient: he refuses to let rescue turn into a claim over his choices. He now pilots a patched skiff and keeps trying to prove that the wreck was not an accident. His old deckhand, Geth, wants him to abandon the investigation before the harbor authorities notice.