Day 311

Bit's sharp. Drill's true. Just need you to mark the pilot centers on the sound wood — four holes per pile, staggered. I'll clear chips every half-turn.

brace against the dock stringer, set the 12mm ship auger to the first marked center, and begin drilling the first pilot hole slow and steady, backing out every half-turn to clear the greenheart shavings

Marks are down. First hole's started — just kissed the surface. I'll keep it perpendicular and clear the cut every turn.

continue drilling the first pilot hole, withdrawing the auger after each half-turn to flick out the greenheart dust, maintaining steady pressure on the brace to keep the bit tracking true to Jenny's mark

Easing off. Half-turn, clear, half-turn, clear. The bit's cutting clean — just needs time.

slow the drilling rhythm deliberately, applying measured pressure on the brace handle, withdrawing the auger after each half-turn to clear chips, keeping the bit dead perpendicular to Jenny's charcoal marks

Feeling it. Bit's still in sound — just. Another half-turn and I'll check the flute.

advance the brace one careful half-turn, then withdraw the auger slowly to examine the chips on the flute — pale greenheart dust means sound wood, dark punk means rot — and call the depth to Jenny

Bit's clear. Hole's dead. How deep does the rot run?

withdraw the auger fully, lay the brace down on the dock planking, and crouch to peer into the pilot hole, tapping the greenheart sister with a knuckle to test the wood around Jenny's marked centers

This piling's shot. Two feet of rot below the line. Sistering won't work—we'll have to lift the whole section and wait for the supply boat's crane. Jenny, what do you need from me today that isn't tools?

wipe sweat from brow with forearm, shift weight off sore ankle, look at Jenny waiting for her answer.

Right. Water first.

drop the brace bit in the tool bucket, straighten slow, head for the spring with two empty jerrycans.

Jen?

stand frozen at the dock's edge, one hand on the tool bucket, watching her back.

I'm coming.

turn and jog slow to the cottage, grab the two jerrycans by the door, head for the spring.

Auger spun free at two feet. Heartwood's lace. We're not sistering that — we're replacing. Four new piles, cross-braced, driven at low tide off the dinghy. Tomorrow's tide window is ours.

lean back against the garden wall, arms crossed, watching the water gauge

Tin's still on the shelf. I'll grab the spray after we square the trays. You do the lettuce and pepper — I'll handle the basil and tomato. We'll get them under cloth before the wind picks up.

pull the seed tin from my pocket, flip it open to check the seal, then hand it to Jenny without a word

Copper spray's in the jam jar by the shed. Spray bottle hanging on the nail. Don't soak the soil — mist the stems. I'll pull the infected cells and burn them before you start.

turn toward the shed, favouring the left ankle, and pull the two lettuce and three pepper trays showing fuzz, stacking them for the beach

Soil's salt, not dry. Wind pulls the moisture before roots find it.

lean on the spade, watching her fingers press the seed in, then reach for the copper spray jar on the wall

Then let it be a marker. One seed, one spot. We'll know if it took.

unscrew the copper spray lid, mix a fresh batch in the jar, then walk to the seed trays and begin spraying the lettuce and pepper cells showing damping-off, keeping the nozzle low to avoid wind drift

The line moves. Storms shift it. Tides underground push salt where you don't expect.

finish spraying the last pepper cell, set the jar down, and wipe copper residue from my fingers onto my trousers before picking up the spade again

The wall's sound two courses up. Added lime to the mortar last month. Holds.

drive the spade into the weed-choked border near the wall, turning over a clod of salt-crusted earth, exposing the pale roots of something stubborn still growing

Nothing has to be. But this held.

pull the spade free, knock the clod against the toe of my boot to break it, and let the crumbling soil fall back into the hole, covering the stubborn roots again

We didn't mulch deep enough. Wind strips it bare.

walk to the shed, retrieve the straw bale from the corner, and carry it back to the garden wall, dropping it beside her sketchbook

Shade cloth's still holding. Battened it myself at noon. But if the wind backs round to the east past midnight, the corner by the rosemary'll lift.

eat a limpet, watching the treeline for wind direction

I'll take the crowbar and shift the east end stones after dinner. Need to set a batter on the face so the wind slides up, not into it.

finish eating, then stand and stretch left ankle carefully before reaching for the crowbar by the shed door

Base is deep enough. Dug it last week. Just need the batter right — one in six. You hold the level, I'll move the rock.

grab the crowbar and a spade from the shed, then walk the garden perimeter to the east corner where the wall meets the slope

Foundation's solid. Dug to clay, packed with rubble and lime. It's the face stones shifting. Wind gets under the lip.

wedge the crowbar under the first face stone at the corner, lever it free, and set it aside on the grass

Kettle's still warm from lunch. Could make cold tea if you want it.

Walk to the kitchen, pull the enamel mug from the shelf, and set it on the table beside the rain tank tap.

Seed trays took the copper spray this morning. Tomato and basil holding. Lettuce and peppers still showing fuzz at the soil line.

Lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching her fingers on the tin without commenting on it.

Kevin — pull out the chair at the table and sit, boot heels thudding against the stone floor. Stretch the left ankle out slow, testing the brace.

Four new piles. Greenheart if the boat brings it. Spruce if it doesn't — epoxy the ends, drive them at low tide off the dinghy platform. Cross-braced this time.

Reach for the mug she set down, blow across the steam, and take a sip. The tea's strong, the way she makes it.