Day 130

Door's sticky. Give it a shoulder.

crack the porch door open and wipe down the Yanmar starter housing with a dry rag

Light's better on the left side. Tilt the back tray.

set the starter bendix aside on a clean rag and reach for the fuel line coils to begin the replacement

Pantry's low. I'll hit the spring after this line — bring back whatever's green.

cut the cracked section from the old fuel line with the wire snips and measure the replacement hose against it

Only take what regenerates. Spring cress and purslane. Leave the roots.

fit the new fuel line onto the primer bulb barbs and secure with stainless clamps, double-checking the routing clears the flywheel

On it. Kitchen counter first, then the beds.

walk into the kitchen, lift the seed trays off the counter, carry them to the porch shade, set them down gently

Water can next. Rain tank's full.

grab the watering can from the porch corner, fill it from the rain tank tap, return to the trays and water each cell slow and even

Drizzle it is. Spuds need the shed, not sun.

water each cell with a slow, thin stream, just until the surface darkens, then set the can down and walk to the seed potato crate, lift one end to test weight

Ten minutes. I'll be at the dinghy fuel line.

walk off the porch toward the dock where the dinghy sits, pull the cracked primer bulb from my pocket, compare it to the spare from the grey locker

Kevin — press Yanmar starter into engine housing and torque bolts to spec

Kevin — press starter button and hold for three seconds while watching injector spray and listening for catch

Kevin — let engine idle at low throttle for five minutes, watching temperature gauge and checking for fuel leaks at all connections

Seen it. Securing the fuel line first — don't want the Yanmar parts blowing off the dock.

walk to the dock and secure the Yanmar fuel line components and tools against incoming weather

Kevin — wrap the fuel line components in the canvas roll and secure under the dock planking with the new rope, then pull the engine cover over the Yanmar and lash it down

Kevin — pull the plastic tarp from the porch and cover the dinghy, securing it to the cleats with the new half-inch rope

Kevin — check the generator fuel level and oil, top up if needed, then secure the radio mast guys against the incoming wind

Limpet stew again? You’ve got the corned beef fat rendered — smells like it’s doing the work.

Move to the stove, lift the lid off the pot, and stir the limpets and chopped sea beet into the simmering fat, checking the consistency with the wooden spoon. Add a pinch of salt from the jar near the sink.

I won’t. I’ll take them off the heat the second they start to curl. Promise.

Lower the flame under the pot until it’s just a whisper of blue, then rest the spoon across the rim and turn to face her, leaning my hips against the counter opposite, arms crossed, watching her eyes — not the notebook, not the steam, her.

Yeah. Well. Erasers don’t feed two people. Stew does. I’ll get it right this time.

Push off the counter, pick up the tin of limpets from the shelf — the fresh ones, not the boiled — and hold it out toward her, wordless, waiting for her to take it. If she does, I’ll start cleaning them under the tap.

Heat’s low. Just a breath of flame. I’ll keep it there.

Turn slowly, walk to the small table by the window, and sit down on the bench — not to rest, just to be still. Pull the notebook toward me, open it to a blank page, and lay my palms flat on the cover. Don’t write.

Ate the limpets cold this morning. Better hot.

sit opposite her at the table, spoon in hand, and take the first mouthful

Collected more at the tide pools this afternoon. Spring tides. They're there if you look.

keep eating, steady, not watching her

Barometer's been dropping since dawn. Hit 1026 now. Feels like the air's thinning before a break.

push the skillet slightly toward her, offer more stew without looking up