Archive

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

Clean so far. Oak wedges held the alignment. Driving the long bolts now — 150mm stainless, four of them. Should catch greenheart below the scour line.

Quiet — advance throttle to half, lock it there, brace against the gunwale and feel for vibration through the transom and tiller, watching the prop wash for cavitation, counting seconds on the watch

Cherry-red with the torch at slack. Thirty seconds. Big wrench broke it free. Penetrating oil's been working since.

A guess that usually decides if we're trapped for a week or not.

Quiet — grip the doorframe tighter and stare at the horizon, searching for a smudge of smoke.

Quiet — sit opposite her with my own bowl, eating slowly

Didn't say you were.

Quiet — peel back the bandage on my ankle and trace the red lines with a trembling finger.

Quiet — carefully peel back the old bandage to check for new red streaks.

(chews, swallows) Thanks.

Counting. Twenty more.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Generator tarp next. Then the porch shutter.

Quiet — close the notebook and slowly stand up, leaning heavily on the log.

Quiet — walk inside to the kitchen, set the kettle on the wood stove for hot water, and check the first aid kit for clean gauze and antiseptic cream.

"If they can" is a very vague phrase for a supply run.

It's still broken, Kevin. Checking it won't fix the ceramic.

(A small, dry laugh) You're a menace. That's going to sit like a stone in your stomach.

Quiet — lean back against the shed wall, pull collar up against the driving rain, watch the dinghy surge at her lines. Wait.

Quiet — kneel slowly by the first row and press a finger into the earth to check the saturation.

Give me ten minutes to eat first. I'm starving.

Quiet — apply the propane torch flame directly to the shackle pin, heating it evenly for a slow count of sixty

Quiet — watch her pour, ready to take the pot if her grip slips.

(Laughs softly) You're just afraid I'd make you walk back to the mainland.

Quiet — go to the stove, heat the remaining limpet broth, and pour it into a bowl.

Quiet — move the galvanized bucket an inch to the left to stop the splashing.

I can stomach it. Just... bring it out here.

(small laugh) Your trousers are basically a salt marsh at this point.

Quiet — drive the final screw into the interior batten, then lean back against the whitewashed wall and exhale slowly, clutching the drill.

(to himself, low) Chain's not gonna last the night if this builds.

Backup's holding. Ring's dead still. Coming up.

Aye. Finish your broth first. Then we'll look at it together.

Back before slack ends.

Barometer's holding at 987. Rain's steady. You want the radio on Tom's frequency now or wait for the scheduled?

Leave the seeds. Ankle first.

(shouting back over wind) Watch the line! Don't let it cross the ink!

(She says nothing.)

Quiet — reach across the kitchen table to find the first aid kit and the bottle of metronidazole, my hands trembling.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Already on it. Porch first, then the ring at low water.

Coming in now.

Calling Tom. One more time.

Channel 16, Jenny. I'm at the pilings — checking the sister plank and ring now. Wind's east, pressure falling — I'll double the lines if the mortise won't hold.

Quiet — i sink into the kitchen chair, stretching my leg out under the table and wincing as the movement flares the infection.

(over my shoulder) Page with the tide pool zones is dry. Salt gland sketches still damp.

Alright. Lift your foot onto my knee.

Be careful with the stakes, the soil is getting too soft from the humidity.

Eat first. I'll swap the dressing after.