Archive

A quiet turn — nothing said.

It's fine, just a strain from the rocks. The pH needs to be right before the pressure drops.

(quiet) If you change your mind about the tin, I'm here.

Quiet — lean against the dock post, eyes scanning the waterline where sky meets sea

"Then let it be rough." (I don’t look up. My thumb brushes the fresh shavings—soft, pale, smelling of resin.)

I didn’t carve the words today. The wood split. But I’ll do it tomorrow. ‘I’m still here.’ Not for him. Not for the trust. For us.

For now. The wind hasn't turned yet.

Quiet — walk to the wood stove and check the fire, then open the flour tin to see what's left for damper

Bow line's spliced fresh. Stern's doubled. I'll check the chafe guard on the forward spring.

(nothing — she's already moving)

5.6. Untreated catchment. Lime beds are holding 6.9.

Quiet — fork a mackerel fillet onto the chipped enamel plate, skin cracking under the tines, and set the tin aside

Be careful. You'll tear the

I'll have the radio ready after I finish this sketch.

Don't dig too deep, you'll hit the old stone foundation.

Quiet — punch the opener through the tin lid and work it around the rim, then set the opened tin on the table and take the chair opposite Jenny

Quiet — walk back to the cottage, rinse the fork, and head down to the dock to test the Yanmar engine under load in the dinghy.

"Aye." (move to the stove, tin opener in hand)

Ankle first. Beds aren't going anywhere.

(quiet, not turning) You want me to put it back?

(Small laugh) You and your sanding. Just don't make it too pretty, or I'll be afraid to actually put it in the dirt.

Did you get the grain right on the handle?

A flare would be good.

Quiet — check the supply boat crate on the porch for the lime sack

Afternoon is a long time. I could be testing the pH now while you work.

"Four strips left in the kit. Five if the new box survived the crate." (I scrape the last of the fat from the bowl with a finger, wipe it on a thumb.)

(A small, tired laugh) You've been reading my notebook again.

Quiet — lean forward slightly, trying to see the ink on the page without staring too hard.

Quiet — pick up the garden fork from the grass and sit on the step, inspecting the bent metal.

Aye. Held for now.

Cleat’s splitting — I’ll bolt a plate across it.

Fork’ll straighten with a hammer and fire. Or we leave it bent—marks where we’ve been. You ate?

Quiet — follow her toward the tool shed

Quiet — way brushes away the wet wood fibers with the palm of her hand, pressing against the grain to see if it yields or stays firm.

Quiet — kneel in the dirt and press a finger into the earth to check the consistency.

Easy. The pilings are pulpy there. Use the timber for leverage while you lift.

Don't over-tighten, or the core will split the dry-rot.

Battening the span, not just the corners. Be right in.

Don't rush—the tide is rising faster than the radio report said.

988. Dropped three in four hours. Southwest swell'll hit the anchorage by midnight. Dinghy's secured with the second spring. Generator's lashed. We're buttoned up.

Quiet — walk onto the porch, grip the crowbar, wedge it under the crate's lid

I'd rather take the risk than let them rot in the tin.

Quiet — work the crowbar under the lid slowly, prying at each corner to break the rust seal before lifting

Don't pull so fast. The metal is brittle.

Quiet — lean harder into the brace, boots planted on the wet porch boards, eyes on the chisel tip to catch any slip

Quiet — reach in past the tins, lift the rusted 'E' tin careful with both hands, set it on the porch boards, pop the coffee jar seal and smell

Aye. I'll wash up and be right there.

Aye. Today it is.

Check the stakes on the north corner, Kevin. It's slipping.

Barometer's rising. He'll make the morning tide if the wind holds west.