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“The Defod y Saer Llongau is something of an important tradition here at the yard.” Gwen rushed ahead, tugging him by his coat sleeve. “Each generation’s owner has added his—or, in my case, her—own contribution to the ceremony. I’m the fourth generation of Abernathys, so it has grown into quite an affair. This is my first since inheriting.”

Once his eyes adjusted, he saw what appeared to be every man employed by the yard, along with their wives and children, gathered in the open ground before the slipway. Those who had failed to secure a place near the front had made do with overturned crates and stacks of timber, while several boys perched along the lower beams of a nearby storage shed for a better view. At the center of it all stood a young, smiling lad.

As they approached, however, the men’s attention shifted wordlessly to Gwen before erupting into a cacophony of whoops, hollers, and applause loud enough that Michael wanted to cover his ears. Breaking through the rowdy mob, Harry stepped forward, scooped Gwen into a crushing embrace, and spun her about.

He whispered something in her ear, and she responded with a beatific smile before stepping back to join Sam. Together, they made their way toward the waiting yawl, the men following close behind. As they neared the vessel, the roar of merriment gradually faded, replaced by an almost solemn silence. From the rear of the gathering, Michael watched it all unfold, taking in the reverence with which they regarded the moment. A flock of oyster catchers swooped above the tidal flats, their sharp cries carried on the salt-laden breeze as though they, too, had arrived to lend their voices to the celebration.

An older man stepped forward, every eye following his path.

After a dramatic pause, he bellowed, “Overgrown coffin with sails!” his voice, clear even over the rush of the tide.

The men erupted in laughter and heckling as Gwen stepped forward, brandishing an empty jar.

“Pay up, Sam. That feels like a penny insult to me.”

The lad’s head dropped, but his shoulders shook with laughter. He fished out a coin and dropped it into the jar as the next shipwright stepped forward.

“Smelly cursed pile of splinters!” the man yelled.

Again, the yard erupted with laughter and good-natured jeers.

Gwen shook her head in mock disappointment, though her grin never faltered.

“Two pennies for that one, Sam. A man does not insult a vessel’s dignity and get off cheaply.”

As the bizarre ceremony continued, the genuine insults Sam had hurled at the ship during her construction intermingled with increasingly absurd accusations that could only have been invented by his fellow shipwrights for the sheer delight of watching him empty his pockets into the jar.

With a final payment of a penny for “Barnacle-bitten beast with the manners of a mule!” Samuel pressed his palms to the hull of the ship and apologized for his many insults. The moment he’d uttered the words, the men flooded him with backslapping congratulations. After each of the men had taken his turn offering gruff but obviously heartfelt praise, Gwen and Harry made their way back to the center. Harry held a mallet, and Gwen had, well, Michael wasn’t precisely certain what she held –- something sewn from sailcloth.

Gwen took the mallet from Harry and pressed it into Sam’s hands. “Samuel, with this mallet, you join the ranks of those who have shaped timber into ships and ships into legacies. May every vessel you build carry the mark of your skill and your honor.”

Sam took the mallet, then pulled her into a fierce one-armed hug. Even from his distance, Michael could see the lad’s eyes glistening with tears. As Michael looked around, he saw that Sam was not the only one affected. Several of the older shipwrights had turned away under the guise of studying the vessel, while others cleared their throats or hastily brushed a hand beneath an eye as though some stray bit of sawdust had found its way there.

Stepping back from their embrace, Gwen looked down at the sailcloth in her hands, a mischievous smile tugging at her mouth. “Sam, a man who builds ships must be prepared to command them. He must know the sea, understand his vessel, and above all else possess the confidence required to wear a truly magnificent hat. Today, therefore, as you test your first ship, we grant you the first requirement of any great captain.”

With laughing eyes that matched Gwen’s, Sam tipped his head low so she could place the most ridiculous hat Michael had ever seen upon it. When the lad straightened, he called out something in Welsh—loud, joyous, and clearly meant for every soul gathered around them. The crowd answered with cheers that followed him as he climbed aboard the ship alongside a handful of others, his face alight with pride.

Michael found himself struck by an unexpected wave of melancholy. These were men who had watched Sam earn this moment, who had shared in the work that brought him here. He thought back to his own triumphs—so very different, generally marked by a quiet office, Smythe, and a bottle of scotch. This felt like a different world entirely.

Men flooded around the hull, taking up their places as wedges were knocked free and the final preparations for launch began. As the noise gradually subsided, a woman's voice rose up in song through the shouts and creaking timbers. It was Gwen, he realised, turning toward the source of the low, velvety Welsh melody. After a moment, others joined until every man, woman, and child’s voice swept across the shore, following the ship as she took her first tentative dip into the sea.

For a time, Michael watched the ship as she gradually grew smaller, the eerily lovely song raising every hair on his arms to attention. Then, with some reluctance he refused to examine, he turned and made his way back toward the office. He wasn’t here to join the ranks of this tight-knit little community. There was work to be done.

Michael had scarcely broken away from the throng of merrymakers when he noticed footsteps trailing his own. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Gwen just behind him, wisps of hair dancing in the wind and cheeks pink from the cold. Michael gave her a tight-lipped smile but kept walking. He couldn’t explain his queer mood, only that the restless feeling in his chest made the thought of performing his necessary role feel… exhausting in a way it shouldn’t.

He ground his molars, his boots a steady thunk against the dock planks. He waited for her to say something, to ask what he thought of the ceremony or why he was cutting a swath across the yard as though the hounds of hell were at his heels. Instead, she merely quickened her pace to keep up and gave him his silence.

By the time they neared the office, he found himself unwilling to go indoors just yet and turned instead toward the narrow strip of pebbled shore between the docks and the cliffs. Gwen followed.

They walked without speaking, the autumn wind tugging at his coat and carrying away the last echoes of the ship’s launch. When his silence began to feel rude, he cleared his throat and sought out a topic of conversation.

“The apology, the mallet, and the hat. That’s only three. I thought you said you’re the fourth generation of Abernathy?”

From the corner of his eye, he saw her nod. “Mine comes tonight. The apology was my grandfather’s contribution. He kept the coins in a jar in his office. My father preserved the tradition but gave the money to a fund for sailors’ widows. When I took over, I arranged for a small portion of the yard’s profits to go to the fund throughout the year instead. That freed the coins for my own addition to the tradition: a grand feast with music and dancing. The coins buy the ale, and the owner of the yard is afforded the first dance with the newly appointed shipwright.”

Michael picked up a pebble and tossed it into the water before turning back to her, one brow arched. “A fine tradition while the owner is a woman, perhaps. Your sons, however, may think rather less highly of your addition.”

Her coy smile suggested she had anticipated that particular complication... and instituted the tradition anyway. “I dare say my descendants will either have to allow for the occasional apprentice of women or resign themselves to dancing with men. It seems only fair to leave them options.”