3,300 years ago, a crew of men were working on the banks of the Nile. There was about

40 of them, maybe more, divided into two groups. They stood on the banks of a canal or a harbor,

and in their hands, these 40 men held a pair of long,

thick ropes. The ropes connected to the bow of a large wooden ship, an enormous construction,

elaborately decorated with a tall mast. It had a lavish two-story cabin amid ships. The roof was bedecked

with statues of golden cobras, Ureai, the symbols of royalty, the power of the pharaoh.

The 40-odd men clutching their ropes were preparing to launch a new state barge, a magnificent ship for the

king of Egypt. Behind the gangs of men, another man stood watching. He wore a long pleated robe. His

belly was heavy, prosperous. His wig was layered, finely quiffed, and in one hand he held a rod, a short staff,

his symbol of office. The man was a royal official. His name was Mary Neith, and he was in charge of

this operation. Launching the ship was a strenuous, laborious affair.

Besides Merinith and his two gangs, there were others making the boat move.

A pair of four men stood on the prow of the ship itself.

They shouted directions to the rope haulers below.

Beneath the boat, a third group used their backs and legs to carefully

lift the ship out of the mud. Pulling this barge was a communal effort, and as the work began,

the effort was intense. Merinith, the overseer, lifted one arm.

This was the signal, the moment to pull and to launch the great ship.

The work teams acted, their muscles tensed, their movements synchronized, their feet pressed into the earth.

They began to pull, straining on the ropes, dragging the ship forward one foot at a time.

Like their ancestors who built the great pyramids, these men threw all their energy into pulling

those ropes, forcing the object to move. The supervisors on top of the ship shouted commands and guided movements. The other men,

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