Day 327

Aye. Hand me the mallet and those cedar wedges — I’ll re-stake the corners while you pull the tarp tight. We’ll double-lash the windward side.

walk to the garden shed, grab the mallet and a bundle of cedar wedges, return to the garden tarp, and begin re-staking the loose corner while Jenny adjusts the tarp tension.

Got it. Tapping them in shallow, following the split. Won’t crack the timber.

continue driving the cedar wedges into the soil at the tarp’s corner, using short, controlled taps with the mallet to avoid splitting the timber frame, while Jenny holds the tarp edge taut and aligned.

Wedges are set. Tarp’s holding. I’ll check the barometer again, then walk the wall base — make sure the weep holes aren’t clogged.

walk to the cottage porch, pick up the barometer, read the pressure, then walk the length of the seaward garden wall, checking each weep hole for blockage and clearing any debris with a stick.

Tide's coming in fast. You see how high it's licking the timbers? We should secure the tarp now—before it turns into a sail.

Walk to the garden shed, grab the extra rope and a mallet, then head back to the garden to re-stake the tarp corners and tie it low to the frame.

Then don't dig. Use the tool bag, the water buckets, the spare timber—whatever holds without making new holes. The frame's solid if the corners don't lift.

Drop the mallet, pick up the coil of half-inch rope, and start lashing the tarp's grommets to the garden frame's base rails, pulling each corner tight and cleating it off on the existing bolts.

Barometer's high, Jen. 1037. Steady.

Finish the last corner lashing, pull it drum-tight, and stand back to check the tarp's run—no sag, no flap. Then wipe hands on trousers and look at the beds, the pooled water, the weeds still winning.

You're right. I was reading the needle, not the sky.

Walk over to where she stands, stop a pace back, and look at the seed in her palm—small, dark, ridiculous against the wind and rain and rising water.

Kevin — pick up the heavy wrench and the bucket with the doubler plate and through-bolts, move to the mooring ring mortise, and start cleaning salt and debris from the bolt holes with a wire brush.

Kevin — position the steel doubler plate over the mooring ring mortise, align the four bolt holes, and drive the 150mm stainless through-bolts through from the seaward side. Thread washers and nyloc nuts on the landward side.

Tarp’s secure for now, but the corners are stretching where the rope’s wet. We’ll need to re-lash with dry line before the next blow. Garden’s taking on water — I’ll pull the tarp back at first light and let the beds breathe.

walk to the garden edge, lift the tarp corner to inspect soil saturation and seedling condition under the dripping edge.

If you’re digging tomorrow, I’ll come with the trowel and help break the crust. The soil’s sour where the water sat — lime might help, but we’ll see what the test strip says in the morning.

pull the seed tin gently from my pocket, turn it over in my hand once, then slip it back — not to hide it, but to feel its weight, real and rusted, before stepping toward the shed for the trowel and lime.

Lime’s in the paint tin, top shelf. I’ll bring the strips too. Four left — we’ll use one for the high corner where you’re planting.

walk to the shed, pull the paint tin down carefully, check the seal, then take the water test kit from the shelf beside the radio and tuck both into my coat pocket before heading back to the porch.

Morning light. I’ll wake early and pull the tarp back so the beds dry. We’ll test when the shadows are short.

sit beside her on the bottom step, elbows on knees, and watch the grass flatten and rise with the last of the wind, the barometer steady in my pocket.

One seed. I’ll have the lime dry and the strip ready.

stay on the step a moment longer, listening to her boots on the kitchen floorboards, then rise and walk inside to bank the stove for the night, setting the damper so the coals hold till dawn.

Morning.

pull the blanket from the hook, settle on the narrow bed, and lie still in the dark, listening to the kettle boil and the wind drop to nothing, the barometer steady at 1037.

Tom’s birthday today. I didn’t call. I should’ve.

walk to the garden, pull the tarp tight at the northeast corner, and drive in a cedar shim where the rope’s fraying — just enough to hold till morning. Then return to the porch and sit beside Jenny without speaking.

Dropped four millibars since lunch. Wind'll back southwest by midnight.

lean against the porch post, arms crossed, watching the western sky where the clouds are thickening — not looking at her, not looking away either.

Good. The soil’s still warm from the day. Rain’ll help it settle.

stand, brush off my knees, and walk to the shed for the trowel — the one with the cracked handle. I’ll go with her. Not to help. To be there.

I’ll get the headlamp.

turn and walk back into the cottage, pull the LED headlamp from the shelf beside the radio, check the battery — still strong — then step back onto the porch and hold it out to her without a word.

Kevin — follow her up the slope, one hand on the knife in my belt, the other loose at my side, breathing steady, eyes on the ground where the path turns slick with moss.

Kevin — kneel beside her, not to help — just to be level. My hand rests on my knee, open, empty. I watch the trowel bite into the soil, slow and sure. When she’s ready, I’ll pass the seed back to her. Not a word. Just this.

Tarp holding?

walk to the porch and lean out to check the garden tarp corners

Good. High point drains best.

pull out a chair at the table and sit, hands flat on the wood

Radio's working. Insulator held.

stand and walk to the radio shelf, flip the power switch, turn the squelch knob