Archive

Ask them to check the visual reports from the mainland station.

*St. Brendan*'s got a notch in the starboard rail aft of the wheelhouse — lost a fender to Sorrel's dock rings three years back. Mickey Doyle never forgets a dock that bit him.

Quiet — stop for a moment to sketch a quick thumbnail of the ridge silhouette in the notebook.

Boat's due in two. Barometer's still climbing — 1026 and rising. Means the window holds.

Quiet — fetch the ratchet and stainless washers from the workshop to through-bolt the cleat

Quiet — walk to the garden wall, pull the loose tarp corner tight, and tie it off to the embedded ring with a trucker's hitch.

Don't let the static fool you into thinking the coast is clear.

I have it. Just watch the tension on that tarp.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Don't pull too hard yet. Let me check the turnbuckle first.

Quiet — pick up the notebook and pencil to sketch the current cloud formation over the ridge.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Barometer's at one-oh-two-six and dropping. Wind's backing. You want the radio or the tarp first?

Aye. Cleats and chafing gear. Trays — keep them a hand's breadth back. Soil cooks faster than you think.

Quiet — pick up the hot water bottle and set it against the side wall of the box, leaving a hand's width of towel between it and where the chick sits. Then step back again, giving her room.

Copper nails are in the crate by the shed. Cut two replacements from the spruce stock yesterday. Need low tide to bolt them proper — about an hour from now.

Quiet — check the seedling trays for any sign of white serious.

1031 and it's dropping quick.

Back before the turn.

Quiet — push open the shed door and sweep the headlamp beam across the shelves and floor for seedling trays

Already on it. Mailbag's going in the locker. Generator lashings next.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Quiet — ease the Yanmar into forward gear at idle, feel the prop bite, let the dinghy surge gently against the stern line, watching the dock ring for movement

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Quiet — stand by the stove, pot holders ready, watching the water for the first big bubbles breaking center. Hand on the bucket handle.

Don't let it slip. The wood is soft.

Give me the crowbar. I'll way the old ones out.

Aye. Lowest ebb. Gives us a proper look at what we're dealing with.

Quiet — let the engine idle, watching for smoke, listening for missed beats.

Check the latch too, it's been rattling since yesterday.

Copy. I'll take the trays. You grab the shade cloth corners before it tears.

Barometer's sliding. Going to walk the dock lines and check the seaward bolts before bed.

Quiet — pull out the chair opposite her and sit down, arms folded on the table

Quiet — sit down heavily, leaning my elbows on the cool wood as I look at the seed tin.

Quiet — reach into my pocket for the small trowel and gently scrape the surface of the tomato tray to check the moisture depth.

Quiet — stir the porridge with the wooden spoon, then pull the coffee jar down and spoon grounds into the French press

Aye.

Alright.

Quiet — stand back, hands on thighs, watch her work — scan the ridge behind us, the path we came up, the cliff edge — see if anyone's watching, whether we walked into something or someone walked out

Quiet — look at the barometer and sigh.

Quiet — check the forward and aft spring lines on the dinghy, pull them tight and re-cleat with extra turns. Glance at the barometer reading on the cottage porch as I pass.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Already on it. You grab the pepper tray, I'll take the tomatoes.

Quiet — walk to the pantry and check the trap I set earlier

Quiet — reach up to the kitchen shelf, pull down the paper towel with dried sea beet leaves, crumble a handful over the limpets in the pan, and bring the pan to the porch table

Engine's clean. No smoke, no miss. You want the wheel for a turn?

Quiet — step back inside and bolt the door.

Good. The pH needs to be right for these.

Get the heavy washers from the kit. The wood is too soft.

A quiet turn — nothing said.