Day 491

Ring's solid. How's the ankle?

Wipe grease from hands on trousers, glance at the tide line climbing the piling.

I'll get the pot on. You sit.

Walk back toward the cottage, grab the galvanized bucket of limpets from the porch, set water to boil on the stove.

Won't. Just till they open.

Drop limpets into boiling water, set timer for three minutes, lean against the counter and watch the steam.

I know, Jenny, but the engine’s smooth. I’ll slash the throttle if it starts to strain.

glance at the throttle, then back at Jenny’s ankle, fingers tightening around the yellowed fishing line.

Eating. Just let the engine idle.

kill the throttle, step back onto the dock, and pick up the tin mug of limpet broth.

I'll be in in a minute. Just gotta open this.

walk to the porch table, take the sealed letter from my pocket, break the seal, and begin to read it quietly to myself.

(quietly, without looking up) It's from Tom. Birthday was six days ago.

continue reading the letter, eyes fixed on the page, oblivious to the stove, the steam, Jenny's back.

(voice low, rough) He wrote, "You didn't have to follow me into the water. You chose to. That's the difference."

fold the letter slowly, deliberately, and set it on the porch table beside the radio. Don't put it back in my pocket.

(quieter) He didn't ask me to come. I just... went.

turn from the table, cross to the stove, stand beside her without touching. Watch the limpets bob in the salt water.

Yeah. It is.

reach for the tin mug beside me, pour hot water from the kettle, and hand it to her without a word. Then take the spoon and stir the limpets slow, three times clockwise, like Mama used to do for luck.

Jenny, hand me that cracked insulator from the porch. I’ll try to bond it with epoxy before the limpets finish boiling.

walk to porch, pick up cracked insulator and epoxy tub, return to kitchen table, begin cleaning insulator surface with rag

I’ll set it by the stove to dry. Going to check the prop shaft on the dinghy—see if the sleeve’s shifted.

walk to dock, inspect prop shaft where sleeve meets shaft, look for play or wobble by hand, note if nut is still tight at 35Nm

I’ll check the mast bracket bolts and the mooring ring doubler plate. If the threads are gone, I’ll tap new ones or use longer bolts with backing plates.

walk to dinghy at dock, inspect four 150mm stainless through-bolts on mast bracket for corrosion and torque, then check four bolts on steel doubler plate at mooring ring

Tarp's loose on the southwest corner. Saw it flap earlier. You take that side, I'll batten the north edge.

walk toward the garden with Jenny, uncoiling the heavy-duty twine from my belt as I go

I'll scuff my boots loose first, give you a clear tread. Hand me that loose slate — I'll wedge it under the tarp grommet.

kick loose shale aside with my boot heel, then snatch the flat stone Jenny indicated and slip it under the tarp's corner grommet to take the wind load

Got it. Pull tight — I'll take the strain on my knee so you can get the knot.

brace my left knee against the tarp's lower edge, pressing my full weight into the plastic to stop the flutter while Jenny loops the twine around the oak stake

Done. Run the last strip under the ridge batten — I'll hammer the batten nails home while you feed it.

snatch the claw hammer from my belt loop and drive two galvanized nails through the batten into the ridge beam, sandwiching the tarp's leading edge tight against the timber

Let's sit on the step. I'll take the boot off and check the poultice — if it's soaked we'll redress it fresh before dark.

lower myself onto the cottage's wooden step, unlacing Jenny's left boot slowly so I don't jar her ankle while she leans on my shoulder for balance

Looks like it's tracking. I'll heat water for a soak, then we'll re-wrap it clean and keep the leg up on the bunk. You take the first dose now — we'll space the next eight hours out.

rise and stride to the kettle on the stove, filling it with fresh spring water and setting it to boil while I speak to Jenny over my shoulder

Water's coming. Lean back on the pillows — I'll test it on my wrist first so we know it's safe.

lift the kettle from the stove once it stops bubbling, pour half into the enamel basin, then dip my wrist in to gauge the temperature before handing it to Jenny

Yeah. Too quiet sometimes. Makes you hear the things you've been avoiding.

I pull the letter from my pocket, turn it over in my hands once, then place it gently on the table beside the seed tin. I don't open it yet—just let it be there, between us.

Waiting for us to decide what comes next. Or maybe just waiting for me to stop putting things off.

I slide the letter toward her, then reach for the first aid kit on the shelf. I pull out the antibiotic cream and a clean gauze pad, keeping my voice low. "Let me look at your ankle. It's been a while since I checked the dressing."

"Fine" and "tight" aren't the same thing. Hold still.

I set the cream and gauze on the table, pull the basin of warm water closer, and dip a clean cloth. I start gently wiping around the wound edges, watching for any sign of spreading redness or heat.

I'll flush it out good, then rewrap it. It's not infected again—just aggravated. You've been tough on it.

I rinse the cloth in the basin, wring it out, and clean the wound more carefully this time, making sure to get salt out of the fissures.