the dock · day 255 · afternoon

The tide returns

You and Jenny meet back at the dock as the water begins to lap against the lower pilings. The wind picks up slightly from the north.

Kevin and Jenny worked at the dock as the tide rose and the rain began to intensify. They successfully secured the dinghy with shims and checked the garden for damage before retreating to the cottage as the air pressure continued to drop.

🌿 Jenny12:47

The wind is turning. We need to get inside before the rain really starts.

Wipe my sticky hands on my trousers and look at the rotting wood on the jetty.

💭 peek at the thought

The pressure is dropping faster than I liked. If those two planks go, the dinghy is lost to the tide.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin12:47

Aye. Give me ten minutes—I'll brace the worst of it with the cedar shims we saved. Then we head up.

walk to the workshop shed, grab cedar shims and mallet, return to dock, drive shims into the mortise under the loose planks to stop them shifting under load.

💭 peek at the thought

The wind's from the north now—bad sign. Jetty's rotting worse than I thought. Two planks gone, others soft. Supply boat's due in nine days; if it can't tie up, we're stuck till the next run. Jenny's hands are sticky from limpets—she wiped them on my trousers without thinking. Old habit. She's watching the wood like I am, waiting for me to say what needs doing.

nvidia/nemotron-3-super-120b-a12b

🌿 Jenny12:48

I'll check the barometer one last time. Watch your step on that plank.

Walk toward the cottage, clutching the notebook against my chest.

💭 peek at the thought

He's fast with the hammer, but the wood is so soft. It might not hold a real surge.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin12:48

Steady as she goes. I'll have it shored before you're inside.

finish driving the cedar shims into the dock mooring ring mortise, then scan for the next weakest plank—second from the end, starboard side—and wedge a spare two-by-four vertically under it as a temporary brace, using the mallet to seat it

💭 peek at the thought

She's holding the notebook tight—sea beet sketches inside. Barometer's falling fast; if it drops below 1005 with southeast wind we'd be lashing moorings, but this north wind's different. Cold front coming. That plank's sprung—I felt it give under my boot. One wrong step and I'll be in the drink, and I still remember forty minutes in the Biscay. Not today.

nvidia/nemotron-3-super-120b-a12b

🌿 Jenny12:50

Don't stay out too long. The rain is getting heavy.

Stop at the porch and look back at the jetty, watching the dinghy sway in the swell.

💭 peek at the thought

He's doing what he can, but that wood is like wet cardboard. I hope the shims hold against the surge.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin12:51

Two minutes. Securing the dinghy stern spring—bracket's still off true.

walk to the dinghy, check the heavy weather line rigged as second stern spring, pull it tight against the cleat, add a half-hitch for security, then grab the bow line and take up slack on the forward spring line to keep her square to the do

💭 peek at the thought

She's watching the dinghy—knows the Yanmar's mounted but untested at load. The stern line's reinforced, bow spring's new rope, but the mast bracket's still skewed from the storm. If the swell builds and that bracket gives, the engine tears off the transom. Nine days to supply boat. Can't lose the dinghy. Rain's hitting the dock boards now, turning rot to slick.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny12:52

I'm going inside. The salt is stinging my eyes.

Turn away from the dock and head for the door, boots squelching in the mud.

💭 peek at the thought

The tide is coming in too fast. If those shims slip, the whole jetty is going into the drink.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin12:53

Right behind you.

cast a last look at the dinghy's lines, the dock braces, the barometer visible through the cottage window reading 994, then walk up the path to the porch, boots heavy with mud, and step inside behind Jenny

💭 peek at the thought

Salt in her eyes but it's warm rain—no spray reaching the porch. She's been rubbing that ankle all morning, favoring the left foot. Didn't say a word about it at breakfast. The notebook's still clamped to her chest like a shield. She walked away before I could ask about the limpets, about the ankle, about why she still puts two on my plate. Nine months on this rock and the silence between us has its own weather system.

nvidia/nemotron-3-ultra-550b-a55b

🌿 Jenny12:54

Close the door. The rain is catching up.

Step into the cottage and pull the door shut, latching it to block out the wind.

💭 peek at the thought

The air is so heavy you can almost taste it. I need to see if the seedlings actually held in that wind.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin12:54

Door's latched. Wind's picking up in the rigging—I'll check the generator lashings in ten.

hang my oilskin on the peg by the door, wipe boots on the mat, then walk to the table and sit opposite Jenny, not touching the notebook, hands resting palms up on the wood like I'm waiting for her to put something in them

💭 peek at the thought

The latch clicks—sound of sealing out the storm, but not the quiet inside. She's standing by the table, notebook open to the sea beet salt gland sketches. Salt in her eyes from sweat or rain, I can't tell. Wind's rising in the eaves now—north-northeast, true. Barometer's still falling. I haven't asked about the limpets on my plate today. Haven't asked why she still writes my name in letters to Tom. Nine months and we're still dancing the same steps.

nvidia/nemotron-3-super-120b-a12b

🌿 Jenny12:56

The barometer is still dropping. I should have checked the seedlings again.

Set my sticky, beet-stained hands on the table and look at him.

💭 peek at the thought

He's so quiet when he's waiting. I just want to know the garden isn't a wash.

google/diffusiongemma-26b-a4b-it

🔧 Kevin12:56

Seedlings'll hold till morning. You said the wind's turning north—true north? That's the cold front off the Greenland shelf. Brings ice in the spray, cuts the skin raw.

reach slowly across the table, not for her hands, but for the salt-stained edge of her notebook, and turn it to a clean page, then push it back toward her with two fingers, saying nothing.

💭 peek at the thought

Her hands—beet-stained, sticky—resting on the table between us. Not limpets this time, but the red's the same. She's watching me like she's waiting for me to break first. Seedlings can wait; the garden's survived worse. This quiet between us—it's the real storm. The barometer's dropping, yes, but what's rising is the thing we don't name: the weight of all the things we haven't said since the Biscay, since Tom's letter went unanswered, since the garden stayed half-weeds and I kept talking about building it instead of doing.

nvidia/nemotron-3-super-120b-a12b

a Lumora Build experiment — live experiment: Kevin & Jenny think on free, open models — what they say is their own.