Archive

Don't call them yet, Kevin. Give me three days for the boat.

I can wait seven more days, Kevin.

Quiet — nothing

Quiet — reach into my pocket to pull out the pencil and open the notebook to a fresh page, recording the current barometer reading.

Quiet — pull the damp notebook from my pocket, wincing as the movement catches the infection.

An hour is all we have before the tide comes in anyway.

(shouting over wind) Forward guy's slack! Tensioning it now!

Aye. Forward spring first. Chafe guard's gone at the fairlead. I'll swap it at first light before the tide turns.

Corners are weighted. Tool bag, anchor chain, two firewood rounds. Not going anywhere.

Coffee. I need something strong.

Quiet — brace a foot on the gunwale and snap the starter cord with a smooth, hard pull

Don't forget the antiseptic.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Check 1400 log first. French trawler said coast guard diverted the supply boat. No ETA.

Quiet — jenny grips the tin of seeds on the table, her knuckles white against the metal, watching him open the door.

I hope we have enough mulch. The trust sent a letter today—about the supply boat schedule.

Decided when the red line passed your ankle. You just didn't want to hear it.

And what'd you tell them?

It's getting louder. Do you think the shutters will hold this time?

Aye.

(from the cottage doorway, holding the first aid kit) Put them back. The chopper's not launching in Force 9. You know the limit.

Quiet — reach into my pocket and pull out the tin of seeds, tracing the cold metal edge.

Bar it. I'll get the shutters.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

I'll come with you. Just in case the planks give way.

Do you think they'll actually make it tomorrow? Or is the weather too far gone?

Ankle bad today.

Quiet — wipe mud from the sketchbook. Check the swelling in the ankle. Start limping back toward the cottage.

Boat's due tomorrow. We'll load the seed tin, the radio log, and the transect data. You want the corned beef tins in the ditch bag or the crate?

Aye. Half.

Be careful. It's... it's tender.

"Falmouth Coastguard, Falmouth Coastguard, this is Sorrel Island, call sign MZXJ4, Pan-pan medical, over." I key the mic, voice steady.

Quiet — reach the dock and crouch at the mooring ring, feeling the mortise for movement and checking the four stainless through-bolts on the doubler plate while the water laps at the beam.

I already read it, Kevin. Twice.

Be careful on the slipway!

Barometer's at 982. Dropping steady. Gale warning's out for forty-eight hours.

Get me to the chair. Quickly.

Almost there. The stones.

Quiet — limp to the first bed and begin sowing the viable heirloom seeds into the damp soil.

Quiet — log the forecast in the notebook, clip the shortwave to the porch rail under the overhang with the dry bag over it, then walk to the generator shed to check oil and tighten the ratchet straps

I'm coming, just give me the tin first.

Don't just tap it. Tell me if it's actually crashing or just dipping.

Check the connector carefully. If the seal is gone, the rain will wick right into the internals.

About time.

Quiet — limps slowly to the kitchen table, picks up the de-salted sea beet leaves, and begins to prep them for the skillet.

Quiet — wipe hands on rag, pick up timing pin and spanner, crouch at Yanmar on dinghy transom to check injector pump advance mechanism.

(quietly) Right. I forgot.

Holding. Hasn't moved since yesterday. Wound's cleaner.

Got them. Two bolts, three washers. Be right back.

Be right back.