Splinters

A tall, dark figure walked around the aft of the ship, feet sloshing in the mud. A hand glided over the hull, searching for weak spots, hidden cracks, dislodged nails. It stopped abruptly. There was an edge here; a jagged edge. The figure picked at the wood, slowly pulling at the splinters, disbelieving the sight. With each deliberate pull the hands worked faster. For every sliver removed two more seemed to appear. The hands worked up to a frantic pace. Splinters pierced the skin and found their way under the fingernails. No matter how fast the hands moved or how much they pulled the wood would not become smooth.
A fist pounded the hull.
The Captain rested his forehead against the ship.
“Gone,” he was vaguely aware of the word as it fell from his mouth. “Half. Gone.”