Archive

Quiet — check the generator oil level and tighten the garden tarp lines at the corners

Ankle's solid. But I won't stop you.

Quiet — pick up the de-salted sea beet leaves from the table.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Rain's not stopping till the wind backs. Leaves'll keep.

Quiet — light the storm lantern, set it on the table beside her notebook, adjust the wick until the flame burns clean and still. Pull out the chair opposite and sit, back to the stove, listening to th

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Already on it.

Aye. Tide's under the keel — dinghy's free. I'll run it at the mooring.

Bread's rising. Generator's steady. You want first slice?

Aye. I'll wait.

Aye. Tin first.

Barometer's stuck. Has been since Tuesday.

Quiet — sit at the table with my mug, watching the steam rise, and glance at the radio on the shelf

Aye. No rush.

Quiet — follow the black poly pipe up the slope from the tank, stepping over the mossy rocks, until the intake screen comes into view in the shallow pool

Aye.

Quiet — reach for the heirloom seed tin on the table and open the lid to check for any scent of rot.

Back before the squall hits.

Quiet — jenny sits at the kitchen table, opens the tin of seeds, and begins to spread the damp packets onto a dry sheet of paper.

Quiet — adjust the ankle brace and check the skin for new notices.

Aye. Shouting if I need help.

Already on it.

Clear. Ran a hose up to the spring above tideline while I was at it. Gravity feed. No more tank silt.

Quiet — walk into the kitchen, pour the cold tea into the mug, and sit at the table opposite her

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Aye.

Quiet — watch her pencil move across the page, let the Yanmar idle steady, listen to the radio static

Aye. Greenheart offcuts on the dock. Three 150mm stainless through-bolts, nyloc nuts. You hold the drill steady, I'll drive the bolts.

Quiet — walk to the spring intake and check the hose run and mesh for silt buildup.

Check the intake for debris. The pressure was dropping again.

Quiet — walk down to the tide pools with a bucket and knife.

Quiet — close the notebook and wrap the ankle in the damp cloth, wincing as the pressure shifts.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Four litres won't sustain the sea beets if the rain stops. We need the tank full for when the boat actually shows.

I know, I know.

Canvas sail scrap. Layer it under the muslin. Double the charcoal.

(Quiet exhale)

Quiet — step onto the porch, knock the mud off boots, and go inside to the kitchen bench where the filter housing sits open

(muffled by wind, over shoulder) Heard you. Checking anchors.

Quiet — check the garden stake tension and shade cloth lashings, then inspect the water tank brackets on the return

Ankle still throbbing?

Quiet — wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of a hand, keeping my eyes on the nut.

I'll put them right next to the heat, then.

Quiet — stack the split kindling in the porch box, wipe sweat from my face, and check the generator oil level through the sight glass

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Right. Fresh water first, then the ladder.

Aye. Not making the crossing tomorrow.

Already did. They'll answer if they're out there.

I've got the radio! Watch your step on the loose planks!