Day 309

Then let’s sister it. I’ll get the greenheart from the shed. You keep the tin sealed — we’ll dry the seeds on the porch later, out of the sun.

walk to the shed, pull the greenheart sister plank, carry it back to the dock, set it beside the mooring ring mortise, and begin measuring where it needs to be scribed to fit over the rotted section.

The locker under the bench. It’s dry and sealed. I’ll move the tin there with the gel packs. You keep sketching — I need to know where the rot ends so I can sister true.

walk to the cottage, open the storage locker under the workbench, place the seed tin inside with two silica gel packets, close it tightly, then return to the dock with the greenheart plank and begin tracing the rotted section of the piling

Show me. Walk me through it.

crouch beside her, eyes on the piling, following her pencil lines as she traces the soft boundary where the wood gives way under her thumb, noting how far it runs up the grain and across the mortise shoulder

Cut back to sound. Scarf in the greenheart. Four 12mm through-bolts, epoxy every surface. You hold the sketch — I’ll cut.

fetch the reciprocating saw from the shed, return to the dock, and begin cutting the rotted section of the piling along her marked lines, working clean and slow to preserve every sound fiber

Got the saw and the plank. Sister the starboard side first — rot's deepest there.

Set the greenheart plank beside the dock, pull the reciprocating saw from the kit, and kneel to brace the timber against the rotted starboard support.

Mark's down. I'll follow it.

Grip the saw with both hands, align the blade to Jenny's pencil line, and begin a slow, steady cut through the greenheart, letting the teeth bite without forcing.

Blade's tracking.

Keep the saw running straight and level through the greenheart, shoulders square to the cut, letting the blade eat at its own pace while Jenny brushes the line clean ahead of it.

Cut's done. Your turn.

Set the saw down, blow dust off the fresh-cut end of the greenheart, and hold the plank in position against the starboard support so Jenny can test the fit and inspect the rot face.

Soft?

Keep steady pressure on the greenheart plank, bracing it with my knee and shoulder, and watch Jenny's hand as she probes the original timber for give or crumble.

Kevin — remove the old spark plug, inspect the electrode and ceramic for fouling or cracks, then thread in the spare and torque to spec

Kevin — reconnect the battery, crank the engine by hand to check for binding or wobble in the prop shaft, then start it and let it idle to warm up

Kevin — engage the gear and slowly increase throttle to half, listening and feeling for vibration through the bench and into my boots

Kevin — walk up the dock to the cottage, check the dinghy's stern spring tension at the cleat, then head to the workshop to true the prop shaft alignment on the Yanmar.

Aye. Wind's coming from the northwest now — foul for the dinghy if we need to put out. I'll true the prop shaft under load this afternoon, then check the mooring ring's doubler plate before the tide turns.

Walk to the dinghy, slip the engine cover off, and use the micrometer to check the prop shaft runout while Jenny finishes her sketch.

Then we sister deeper. Cut back to sound wood, even if it means taking half the piling. Greenheart's the only thing that'll outlast the worm.

Pull the hand saw from the tool belt and start marking the cut line on the piling, two feet below the rot line, where the grain still rings hard under the knife.

Then we bolt it through. Drill from the top, bronze bolt through the piling and into a steel plate on the seabed. Hold it fast where the water bites hardest.

Lay the square on the piling, mark a vertical line through the rotten zone, and start boring the pilot hole with the tubing cutter and brace, bracing my knee against the damp timber for leverage.

Then we drive a new one. Beside it. Scarf the old to the new above the waterline, let the new piling take the load. Two days' work if the weather holds. Three if it doesn't.

Drop the brace, pull the tape measure, and pace off the spacing for a sister piling — two feet starboard, clear of the rot, where the bottom's firm enough to take a drive.

Box it. Steel channel from the shed — two lengths, ten mil. Through-bolt top and bottom, epoxy grout the void. Four hours work, one tide window. Ugly as sin but it'll take the boat's lines.

Turn toward the workshop shed, motioning for the heavy wrench and the steel stock piled by the generator.

She's been here. Left the beans, the stone, the wood. Trying to tell me something without saying it.

walk up to the shrine, pick up the tin of beans, turn the 'E' stone over in my palm, then place it back where it was, beside the softwood scrap.

Sixteen days in my pocket. Didn't open it. Didn't burn it. Just... carried it.

pull the letter from my pocket, hold it out to her — sealed, salt-stained at the edges — then let my hand fall back to my side without releasing it.

Five days.

turn the letter over in my hand, thumb catching the flap, then tuck it back into my pocket — not deep, just where my fingers can find it.

Tin E first. The one from the shrine.

fall in step beside her on the ridge path, boots finding the worn track down toward the cottage.

We'll reseal them with wax. Melt it slow, pour it hot.

quicken my pace just enough to walk beside her, not ahead, not behind — matching her step as we cut across the open sand toward the cottage.

We'll use what we've got. Then we'll see.

reach the cottage porch, pause, and set my hand on the warped doorframe — not to open it, just to steady us both for a breath before we go inside.

Kevin — walk to the porch, sit on the step, stare at the dark water where the dock pilings vanish into the tide, and wait.

Yeah. Slack’s 0540. I’ll be there.

stay on the porch step, hands on knees, watching the water climb the pilings, not looking at her through the window.