Archive

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.

Engine held load. No knock. No water in the oil.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Barometer's at 983 and still dropping. We've got maybe six hours before it hits proper.

Quiet — lean back in the chair and watch him at the sink, going quiet.

Quiet — pick up the fork and start eating

Quiet — let the Yanmar warm at fast idle, hand on the throttle lever. Watch the temp gauge climb. Cast off the bow line, shove the dinghy clear of the dock, and put it in forward gear at low RPM.

Quiet — walk out to the garden and bend down to inspect the edges of the heavy-duty tarp, checking for any loose ties.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Close the door tight. It's coming in.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Calendars don't stop a swell from hitting the dock.

Quiet — adjust the shade cloth over the seed trays, then sit at the table and darn the torn shirt.

Quiet — stare at the forms in his hand for a long moment, then slowly reach out and take them, folding them back into my pocket without looking at him.

Got the bolts torqued. You want the aft tray or the forward?

Aye. Coming.

Aye. I'll run a line from the north corner to the shed ring. You got the south?

Fair point.

Quiet — lean in slightly, holding my breath, listening to the static.

Don't over-turn it! Just a light rake.

Aye. Storm’s got teeth. Let’s batten the cottage and check the dinghy’s seacocks—twice, like the note says. Then we secure the seed trays and get the generator topped off. I’ll handle the radio mast;

Aye. Front's parked on top of us.

Quiet — squeeze him back, my fingers clutching the back of his shirt, and let out a long, shuddering breath.

A quiet turn — nothing said.

Quiet — watch the pot, waiting for the limpets to bubble.

Ground's too wet. Seeds'll rot before they root.

Barometer’s at 974 and still dropping. Wind’s holding, but I don’t trust it. Let’s move the seed tin to the stove shelf—now—and I’ll check the dinghy’s seacocks while you do that. If we lose power or

Canvas holds. Skillet's hot.

Quiet — set the kettle on the stove and lean against the counter, watching the rain start to smear the windowpane.

It'll take us both. In a following sea, or beating into it.

Quiet — open the throttle to three-quarters, hold a straight line out past the headland, watch the temperature gauge and listen for any change in the exhaust note

Quiet — walk out to the shed and carefully lift the lid of the box containing the seabird chick.

(over the dinghy's side, low) Fuel's flowing. Idle's smooth. Bringing her up to half throttle now.

Alright, I'll give it a rest. Smells like you're boiling limpets—mind if I add a handful of those sea beet leaves? They'll soften up nice in the broth.

Quiet — pour the boiling limpets and broth into two bowls, then set one on the table for him.

Quiet — carefully lift the seedling trays from the kitchen table and slide them closer to the warmth of the wood stove.

Quiet — check the dinghy's stern line chafe point at the ring, then walk back to the cottage for the crowbar and cedar shims to wedge the mooring ring tight.

Be careful! They're practically sponges. I'll stay here.

Quiet — enter the cottage and move the seedling trays away from the drafty window, placing them closer to the wood stove for dry heat.

Quiet — drop two splits of dry wood into the stove, set the kettle on the hot plate, and wait for the whistle.

(shouting over the wind) Holding on!

(nothing — she's already gone)

Quiet — climb into the dinghy, prime the fuel bulb till it's firm, turn the key and crank the Yanmar

Engine's on. Stern line's the new three-strand, long splice and served. Bow painter's still the old salt-crusted rope. Won't take a beating.

Aye. I'll see the dinghy holds, then run the generator test under load before it hits.

Barometer's 990 and still dropping. Wind's southwest, backing hard. We'll get forty, fifty knots before morning.

Quiet — plate the potatoes and set them on the table, then move the seedling trays further from the stove draft.

Quiet — turn to the shortwave on the shelf, flip the power switch, and rotate the RF gain up, listening for any traffic through the static.

Quiet — arrive at the cottage and walk straight to the shed to check on the seabird chick.