The squirming strain of a wire cable in my hands as I bend it around a cargo boom is not like the recoil of a fast-firing gun that, we middle-aged men are told, is for supple youth. THE questionnaire passed out by the shipyard timekeeper had a space for “craft.” I put “rigger” down, and farther along where elaboration was requested I added, “My job is to move any iron or steel of any size or shape from anywhere in the yard to wherever someone needs it.” My age went down as forty-four, and the years I had spent with steel and ships as a baker’s dozen.
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