At some point, though, they switched roles: now it’s always Rob reversing the trailer and Shayne driving the boat off—like now: Rob reverses straight down the ramp, stopping when the boat is a half metre from the water and Shayne undoes his seatbelt and cracks the door. A slice of icy air slips into the car.

‘Could’ve fooled me that it’s spring,’ he mutters to Rob and climbs out.

As his feet hit the ground, they skate out from beneath him. The door’s still open and as he slips he twists himself and grabs hold of the car seat, throwing his arms across the base of it. His face rams into the upholstery and his shins smash against the metal step.

‘Fuck,’ he barks into the cushion while Rob has a right old chuckle.

Still holding the seat, he brings his feet beneath him and tests the ground. His shoes skate across it like it’s ice.

‘Must be some kind of algae or something,’ he says, looking down. He can’t see anything, but the creeping dawn rays still haven’t reached the ramp yet and it’s a bit hard to tell in the half-light.

The algae is thick everywhere, so he has to use his arms to pull himself, sliding along the length of the car, then boat. He unclips the strap from one side of the trailer and slides his way around the back of the boat, heading towards the other clip. But as he gets to the motor, his feet lose all traction and slip again. His arms go like a windmill as he falls, wrapping themselves around the propeller and pulling him up into its blades. His jaw bangs hard into one of the sharp steel edges and it fucking hurts. Still hanging on to the motor, he flexes, then paws at his jaw to see if the skin’s broken. It’s not, but it’s throbbing like it’s going to bruise something shocking.

This is a bullshit of a morning, he thinks to himself, and readjusts his grip.

Before he gets his feet properly sorted, they skid out from under him again. As he slips, all his weight shifts to the propeller and it feels like the boat moves, ever so slightly, towards him—like he’s pulling it off the trailer. But that isn’t possible because the boat’s not properly unclipped.

And then Rob starts revving the engine and the tyres whine as they spin out and realisation crackles through Shayne: the slime must’ve slickened the tread from the tyres. The car, the boat, everything is sliding backwards towards the water, and there he is, hanging uselessly off the prop like a dead weight—like one of those mermaid figureheads carved into the front of a pirates’ boat, except in reverse ’cos they’re going backwards and he’s an ugly bastard.

Fuck. This really is a bullshit morning.