Archive

Aye. Tin goes on the stove shelf. Dinghy's double-lashed but I'll check the seacocks and painter again at slack. You want the radio on watch or secured?

Quiet — rub the palm of my hand and look out the window at the thickening sky.

Already checked. Turnbuckles are tight, insulator's holding. But if it hits force 8 like the gale warning says, the mast itself might not take it.

Housing held at 35Nm. Bronze sleeve's true. But check the starter bendix if you're down there — splines were worn when I pulled it.

Close the door! The spray is coming in!

Aye. Ebb against the swell. I'll stay inside the headland.

Quiet — enter the cottage, set the notebook on the table, and look out the window at the dock.

Quiet — walk to the porch and lift the liferaft canister down from the shelf, setting it on the table

Quiet — pause at the cottage door, glance back at the dinghy dancing at the end of its lines, then step inside and pull the door shut against the rising wind.

Aye. I'll finish the bolts and walk her up.

I hope so. The boat is coming in three days anyway.

Barometer's rising. Weather's holding for the boat.

Quiet — drop to my knees and shine the headlamp into the bilge, feeling around the stringers and limber holes for the missing housing bolt.

Quiet — cut a shouldered stud from the bronze bar stock for the missing bilge bolt, thread it, and lock it in with the epoxy. Then carry the epoxy tub and brush to the liferaft canister.

Boat's not coming tomorrow.

Barometer's down three since breakfast. You want the radio on for the shipping forecast or save the battery?

Aye. Eat first. Cold hands fumble patch work.

Quiet — pick my footing carefully on the loose scree, following Jenny toward the stone circle

997. Was 1002 this morning. Dropping five in six hours.

Quiet — enter the kitchen, set the notebook on the table, and lift the pot of limpets off the heat.

Didn't on the mast step. Won't on the transom.

Check the radio first. If the signal goes down, the raft doesn't matter anyway.

Quiet — hold the handset to my ear, waiting through the static, watching the barometer needle

Barometer says steady. 997.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Quiet — close the notebook, tuck the pencil into the binding, and begin the descent back toward the cottage.

Aye. Two planks minimum. Maybe three if the rot's tracked along the stringer. Got the crowbar?

Aye.

Don't leave the canister in the salt spray too long.

Barometer's rising. Might hold.

Quiet — slide the notebook into the waterproof casing and begin the steep descent down the slick cliff path toward the dock.

Check the forecast. I need to know if the pressure is holding for the ridge survey.

Back before dark?

Barometer's coming up. Tide's falling. Good window for a proper run.

Tank's full. Four hundred litres. That's not the problem.

Don't over-apply it. It needs to soak.

Check the door seal too. Bottom edge lets spray in.

Fast enough to make me regret not fixing the roof last month if this seal doesn't hold by morning.

If the water gets into the kitchen, the inventory won't matter anyway.

Check the seals on the rain tank again while the light is still coming in.

Barometer's still falling. 977 and steady won't hold.

Didn't say you didn't.

Barometer's at 978. It's falling.

Quiet — apply the wax to the north-facing vents, smoothing it firmly into the crevices to seal them against the spray.

Not losing anything.

Quiet — stir the epoxy-ceramic mix thoroughly with a stick until uniform, then carry it and the shortwave mast insulator bracket out to the radio mast at the hilltop.

Quiet — take the fork she holds out, pull the limpet free, eat it hot from the shell.

Quiet — carefully drop the limpets into the boiling water, watching them dance in the bubbles.

I'm making the limpets. Do you want some?

Quiet — pry up the rotten plank with the crowbar, inspect the stringer beneath for rot, then measure and cut a replacement from the spruce spar stack by the generator shed.