Archive

(quieter) He didn't ask me to come. I just... went.

Eating. Just let the engine idle.

Check the sea beet leaves while you wait. They need salting.

Check the alignment on the second one. If there's a gap, the leverage will shear the bolts anyway.

I'm going.

Bolts on the porch, covered. Drill's charged. Epoxy tub's got dregs—enough for the bolt holes if we mix it thin.

Quiet — drop the twine in the dirt and lean heavily against the stone garden wall, catching my breath.

(grunt) Air in the line.

Fair point.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

It's not the same as hearing his voice, but it's there. I'll check the dock wedges before the tide gets too high—make sure the ring's still solid.

(small laugh) Such a gentleman.

Quiet — pour hot water into two tin mugs, set one on the porch rail for Jenny, cradle the other and lean against the doorframe watching the tide line

Just hope the weather holds. I need to boil the sea beet before it gets dark.

Everything is moving too fast.

388. Same as noon. Same as yesterday.

Quiet — walk down to the dock to assess the crate and secure it before the tide rises further

Quiet — open the fuel valve, prime the lift pump, hit the starter button, and let the Yanmar settle to idle while I clamp the tachometer lead to the injector line.

Barometer's steady at 1013. If the low holds, the tide won't drop proper until afternoon. Wedges are holding for now.

Careful. It's tender today.

Finally, some water.

Quiet — drink half my mug in three swallows, set it down, watch her ankle not her face

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Quiet — finish coffee, grab straight edge and feeler gauges from workshop, head out to dinghy at jetty end to inspect mast bracket alignment under no load

Quiet — walk back to the cottage, grab the Yanmar test log notebook and the vibration notes, head to the dinghy at the end of the jetty

Holding. Driving it now.

Got more corned beef fat if you want it. Cuts the brine.

Done. Ring's fast. Come on.

Quiet — walk along the dock to the seaward piling, crouch and check the greenheart sister plank bolts and the mortise where the ring sits

Quiet — apply a thin layer of antibiotic cream to the wound and secure it with fresh gauze.

Don't look at me like that, Kevin. I'm fine.

Don't use too much tape. The wind will peel the edges back.

Quiet — stay on the stool, watch her hands, keep the kettle within reach but off the direct heat so it doesn’t boil over

(Quiet)

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Quiet — drop a handful of salt into the pot and wait for the steam to rise.

Don't pull those planks too hard, Kevin, the rot is deep and the whole thing might swallow you.

Check the rot on the waterline line first. It's deeper than it looks.

"On it." (I grab the water test kit from the shelf, strip in hand, and move to the sink.)

Be careful. I'll keep an eye on the ring from here. Shout if it starts to give.

Coming free.

Aye, limpets first. Then we'll check the mooring ring—it's shifting again with this tide.

I have eyes. Just watch the bolts.

Don't force the bar, Kevin. If you snap the wood, we lose the whole dock.

Don't leave the radius. I need to hear them if they signal a warning.

Quiet — hold my breath, listening to the static while sweat beads on my forehead.

(quiet) Rest now. I'll wake you for meds.

Quiet — hold my breath and lean forward, listening intently for any break in the static.

Quiet — hold my breath and stare at the grey line of the horizon, waiting for the static to break.