Archive

'08 took the wheelhouse off a Greek freighter. Garden's uphill. It'll hold.

Aye. But the barometer's steady. That's more than we had at 0400.

Finished the salt gland counts. Three notebook pages, all matched to samples. You want me to wrap the data for the dry bag?

(eyes on the loupe, voice low) 18-meter. Noted.

I hope you're right.

Quiet — re-tie the western corner with a double knot, cinch it tight, test the tension with a pull, move to the north corner and stake it the same way.

Check the barometer when we get inside.

Barometer's dropped three millibars since noon. Wind's backing northeast. We'll want the storm lantern lit and the ditch bag by the door before we turn in.

Quiet — kneel at the south piling and start packing greenheart offcuts into the scour void, driving each piece deep with the spade handle

Quiet — sit opposite her with my own mug, keeping one eye on the barometer needle while the tide slaps the dock pilings outside

Chafe guard's new. Three-strand half-inch, served with twine. Won't saw.

Be careful. The threads are paper thin from the last corrosion.

Checking from inside first. Bulkhead gland, then the mast if needed.

(to himself, quiet) Three days. Come on, you bastard.

Quiet — walk up to the cottage, check generator fuel line and storm lashings, then inspect dinghy mooring at the dock

Quiet — crouch at the south piling, press the awl into the timber at three heights — waterline, mid, top — feeling for the give. Note each depth in the notebook.

Quiet — walk to the dock edge and crouch to sight along the seaward piling, checking the greenheart shim and the gap under the sister plank

Aye. Heavy weather line's already doubled on the stern spring. Forward spring and bow line need the same.

"I have enough for now." DO: Close the notebook and touch the lid of the seed tin.

Check the pantry again. I heard something near the flour sacks.

Quiet — way on the kitchen chair and unwrap the ankle gauze, applying fresh ointment to the throbbing infection.

Quiet — walk to the kitchen, set the kettle on the stove, and pull out the notebook to check the pen mark on Jenny's ankle log.

Quiet — turn and follow her inside, setting the heavy wrench on the workbench by the door, then lift the kettle from its hook and settle it onto the stove's hot plate

Check the tension! The salt wind will snap them right!

Barometer's 978 and falling. Starboard bow spring just parted. Dock's taking the full fetch now. I'm going to check the mooring ring bolts before the next surge.

Quiet — walk back toward the cottage, checking the dinghy mooring and generator storm lashings as I go.

Be careful with the anchors! Don't just yank them!

Aye. Bow and stern to the pilings, off the dock entirely.

Batten's warped. Gonna need a second stake line or a new strip.

Aye. Cooling now.

Aye. Shackle fought back. Pin moved a hair, then bit again. Housing's ovalled worse than I thought.

35Nm. Keep it steady.

Quiet — swing the big wrench with full weight behind it, driving the hot pin into the cold housing before the heat equalizes

Don't spend all day on it. The tide won't wait for a perfect bore.

(Laughs softly) I told you the heat would do it.

Quiet — maintain even heat on the shackle pin, rotating the torch slowly to spread the temperature, watching for cherry red across the full circumference

Ankle holding?

Be careful with the paper.

Quiet — eat a limpet from my own plate, chew slow, watch the rain on the porch glass

Ankle's not ready for the ridge. Cairns aren't going anywhere.

Quiet — open the notebook to the sea beet pages and begin sketching the cross-section of the leaf epidermis.

Don't. I can feel where it is. Just let me eat.

(A short, sharp laugh) No, I'm just the one who has to live in the house while you bolt the dock to the seabed.

Quiet — pull the barometer from my pocket, tap the glass, read the needle. 990. Still rising.

Quiet — reach for the ballpoint pen and slowly open the radio log, staring at the blank lines.

(with a small, tired laugh) I'm not a Yanmar, Kevin.

(nothing — already on the dock, too far to speak without shouting)

Barometer's rising fast. Looks like we're past the worst of it.

Checked it at first light. Four hundred litres. But I'll look again.

Quiet — lean sideways to catch the angle of the red line against the biro mark on her calf, then pour hot water into the tin mug for the doxycycline