Day 261

Aye. Feels like the sea’s holding its breath.

Pull the collar of my own jacket up, turn slightly to face the tide, and kick a loose piece of waterlogged wood loose with my boot — just to feel the resistance, just to do something with my hands.

Not just the tide. The barometer's been climbing since midnight. Wind'll shift northeast by afternoon if it holds.

Lean one forearm on the new handrail, watching the water climb the planking — checking the sistered joints I bolted last week, the way the grain takes the stain. My thumb finds the bolt head nearest me and presses, testing.

Stern line needs re-serving. Did it once, did it wrong. Rope's still in the crate by the generator.

Push off the handrail, boots heavy on the planking, and walk back toward the cottage — not running, not slow. The crate sits on the porch under the tarp. I know the rope by touch: half-inch three-strand, salt-stiff but sound.

Port cleat's sound. Starboard horn's got a check running up from the bolt hole — three inches, maybe four. Didn't want to weaken it drilling out.

Fall into step behind her, stride shortened to match hers. The porch boards creak under my weight. I reach the crate first, crouch, and pull the tarp corner back — rope coiled neat as a snake, exactly where I left it.

Knife's on the workbench. Sail twine in the tin by the radio.

Set the crate lid down gentle. Straighten, wipe salt from my palms on my thighs. Turn toward the workshop door — the Yanmar's cylinder head bolts are still soaking in penetrating oil, the micrometer's on the bench, the letter to Tom is fold

Jenny—hold the plank steady while I drill through. We’ve got maybe twenty minutes before this tide lifts it clear.

Grab the cordless drill and two 10mm stainless bolts from my belt, kneel on the dock, and start drilling pilot holes through the new plank into the sound stringer below, Jenny bracing the wood with her hands as rain slicks the surface.

Got it. Second hole—watch your fingers.

Drill the second pilot hole, drive the first bolt home with the impact driver, then the second, checking the plank doesn't shift as the wash hits my knees.

On it. I’ll take the tin to the porch and stack the tarp over it while you grab the tray from the garden.

Scoop up the rusted seed tin, cradling it against my chest, and jog toward the cottage porch, ducking under the eaves as the first fat drops hit my neck.

Kevin — sort seeds: heirloom varieties onto paper towels, labeling each pile with pencil marks in the notebook margin for later planting

Kevin — carry the paper towels with seeds inside the cottage, lay them on the kitchen table near the wood stove to dry, then secure the plastic tarp over the seed tin with a length of new rope from the crate, tying it tight to the porch posts

Kevin — walk to the dock, inspect the dinghy stern line and forward spring for chafe, tighten the generator ratchet straps on the porch, then scan the north cliffs for any sign of movement

Slack water's in twenty minutes. I'll pull the Yanmar head then—see if it's rings or valves killing compression on three. You want to come down to the dinghy with me, or rest that ankle?

walk to the porch, grab the torque wrench and socket set from the shelf, then head toward the dinghy at the dock, keeping my pace even to avoid jarring Jenny's ankle if she follows.

Boots are by the porch door. I'll get the head gasket and penetrating oil from the workshop—meet you at the dinghy.

walk to the workshop corner of the cottage, retrieve the new cylinder head gasket and can of penetrating oil from the shelf, then head down the path to the dock where the dinghy sits on the low tide mud.

Take the stool. I'll have the head off in twenty.

climb into the dinghy, brace one knee on the gunwale for stability, and start spraying penetrating oil on the Yanmar's cylinder head bolts, working in the star pattern so it penetrates even.

Always am. These have had twenty minutes to soak—should break clean.

fit the 14mm socket onto the breaker bar, position it on the first head bolt in the star sequence, and apply steady pressure counter-clockwise, feeling for the initial break without jerking.

On it. Grab the head and follow me.

scoop up the rusted seed tin and carry it inside the cottage, setting it on the kitchen table away from the door.

Kevin — step back onto the porch and pull the door shut, latching it firmly against the rising wind.

Tin first or head? We've got light for another hour.

pull out a chair and sit, wiping hands on a rag before reaching for the tin's lid.

Kevin — pick up the cylinder head and carry it to the workbench by the window, setting it on a clean rag to inspect the gasket face and valve seats.

Light's going. I'll be right here.

use a clean rag and honing stone to lightly lap the gasket surface on the head, checking for flatness and any signs of pitting or corrosion from the salt air.

Kevin — flip the head over and examine the exhaust valve seats on cylinder three for signs of burning, warping, or carbon buildup that could explain the compression drop.

Damp seeds won't store. Spread them on the tray by the stove tonight—low heat'll pull the moisture without cooking them.

pick up a dial indicator and magnetic base, set it up on the head to check valve stem runout on cylinder three exhaust.

Jenny, the tide’s at the wall and rain’s starting. I’m going to check the overflow pipe and make sure the tank inlet’s clear.

walk to the rain tank, inspect the overflow pipe for blockages, then check the inlet screen and clear any debris.

Mesh first. Then I'll check the wall footing.

pull the inlet screen from the tank, rinse it off in the bucket by the back door, and reinstall it; then walk along the garden wall base where the tide is lapping, checking for any new undermining or shifted stones.

I’ll tread slow. Screen’s clean and back in.

walk carefully along the tide-washed base of the garden wall, probing with the toe of my boot for any give or washed-out stones, then return to the tank and verify the overflow pipe is still clear and draining freely.