Day 475

Coffee's on if you want it. Filter housing's laid out on the bench — first light I'll crack it.

Set the Yanmar primary filter housing and clean rags on the workbench, then pour two mugs of coffee from the kettle on the stove.

Wasn't planning to. Just getting the housing clear so it's ready when the window opens.

Hand her the tin mug, then sit on the bottom step beside her boots, cradling my own mug, watching the tide push against the dock pilings.

I'll walk the line at slack. If the wedges hold, we're good till the boat comes.

Finish the coffee, set the mug on the step, pull on my boots, and walk down to the dock at the water's edge, crouching to sight along the mooring ring where it meets the mortise.

Seen it. Got oak wedges in the shed — vertical grain. I'll drive them at low water tomorrow before the boat.

Straighten, brush damp grit from my knees, and head back up the path to the cottage, pulling the shed door open to rummage for the oak wedge bundle.

They were under the tarpaulin. But I'll check.

Pull the bundle from the shed, carry it to the porch rail, unwrap the burlap and press a thumbnail into each wedge's end grain — checking for punk, for damp, for anything that'll crush instead of bite.

Kevin — walk to the porch, check the radio shelf for moisture, then move the shortwave and spare coax to the kitchen table away from the leak.

Coax connector's green at the threads. One more soak and the shield goes. This boat doesn't come for nine days.

Move the radio and coax to the kitchen table anyway, then set the tin mug under the porch leak to catch the drip.

Boat comes when it comes. Ankle still hot?

Walk to the wood stove, lift the kettle, and set it back to boil for limpets. Pull the mint sprigs from the drying rack.

Two limpets each, then I'm into the Yanmar housing. You stay off that ankle till I'm back.

Boil water, add limpets, set timer for eight minutes. While they cook, grab the torque wrench, cylinder head gasket, and penetrating oil from the shelf and step outside to the dinghy.

Kevin — crack the bleed screw on the Yanmar primary filter housing and work the hand primer until fuel runs bubble-free, then torque the housing bolts to 18Nm in star pattern.

Kevin — snug the lift pump union on the Yanmar, then trace the suction line from tank to pump with a rag, feeling for any seep or air whisper while I work.

Kevin — pack the tools back in the roll, wipe the Yanmar housing dry, and walk back up the dock toward the cottage.

Kevin — crouch at the dock edge, press fingers against the mooring ring mortise where the greenheart shims sit, feel for movement as the first wavelet laps the base

Kevin — stand, wipe wet fingers on thigh, turn back toward the cottage with tools in hand

Kevin — set the kettle on the stove. Pull two tin mugs down. Coffee's in the jar — sealed still. Spoon goes in quiet. Water's hot enough by the time I turn back. Pour one, push it across the table toward her without a word.

Yeah. Falling fast. Going to lash the mast down before it blows.

Grab the spare coil of ratchet strap from the shelf by the door. Step outside into the rain, collar up, and walk fast to the radio mast base.

I'll stay low. Keep to the lee side of the cottage. Back in ten.

Move fast but low, hugging the south wall until I'm past the corner, then cut across the sheltered side of the garden toward the mast. Rain's steady now, soaking through the shirt.

Stay off it. I'm at the base now — three straps, two minutes.

Drop to one knee in the mud at the mast base. Feed the first ratchet strap through the existing turnbuckle eye, pull tight, crank the handle hard. Second strap diagonal to the greenheart stake. Third back to the cottage corner cleat.

Barometer's still dropping. Wind's backing southwest — means it'll hold this direction till morning." I set the wrench down on the table, the metal clacking quiet against wood. "Let me see.

Cross to her side of the table, kneel on the stone floor, and bring the lantern closer to her ankle.

Hold still." My voice drops flat, the way it does when there's no room for softness. "Need to lance the worst of it. Get the pressure off.

Pull the first aid kit closer, tear open a fresh gauze packet with my teeth, lay out the scalpel blade and antibiotic cream. Tear a clean strip from the gauze for after.

Three cuts. Deep enough to drain, not to nick the tendon. You'll feel the scrape, not the slice. I've got you.

Swab the area with the last of the antiseptic wipes from the kit, then press the scalpel tip to the skin at the highest point of induration and make a quick, confident stab — depth just shy of the bone, angled to follow the tract.