Day 493

Shims are oak. They'll swell tight. But I'll check them at the turn.

test the mooring ring with a firm sideways heave, watching the mortise for any play

Dock's not going anywhere. Sister plank's holding. Come-along's tensioned on the braces.

crouch and run a calloused thumb along the mortise where the oak wedges meet greenheart, feeling for movement

Boat's coming. Wind's right for it.

stand, wipe sweat from my forearm, and walk the length of the finger pier to the shore end, checking each sistered joint

I'll check the kit when we get back. Maybe they left a resupply.

pause at the shore end of the pier, look out over the rising tide toward the horizon, then turn and walk back to the cottage, keeping my pace even so she doesn't have to hurry

Boat's here. Dinghy's tied starboard side — help me fend her off the pilings while they come alongside.

Walk to the dinghy, untie the bow line, and position it as a fender between the supply boat's expected berth and the dock pilings.

I've got your arm. Keep the line tight — don't let the dinghy drift into the gap between the rotten planks.

Step slightly behind Jenny, left hand on her right elbow for support, right hand ready to take the dinghy line if she stumbles. Watch the dock surface where the two planks are missing, waiting for the supply boat's hull to appear.

Line's good. Shift your weight onto me — I'll take the pull so you can brace your leg.

Move my left hand from her elbow to her waist, take the dinghy line in my right hand, and lean back slightly to share the tension, letting her rest more weight on my side while keeping the dinghy clear of the damaged decking.

Hold her there — I'm going to check the ring. One good yank from the boat and it needs to stay put.

Release the dinghy line, step forward to the dock mooring ring, and place both hands on the steel doubler plate, feeling for any shift or play in the oak wedges as I brace against the expected load.

Jenny, I’m going to read Tom’s letter now. If you want to hear it, stay. If not, I’ll keep it to myself.

Pull the oilskin pouch from under the floorboard, unfold Tom’s letter, and begin reading it aloud, voice low but clear.

(reading) "You didn’t have to follow me into the water. You chose to. That’s the difference. Forty minutes in Biscay, and he thinks it was a choice." (pause, voice tight) He still thinks I let go. Like I could’ve held on and didn’t. Like the sea asks permission before it takes you.

Fold the letter carefully, tuck it back into the oilskin pouch, and return it under the floorboard. Sit on the porch step, stare at the tide line, and say nothing.

You want me to redo the poultice? Mint’s still fresh from this morning.

Stand, walk inside to the kitchen shelf, gather the mint sprigs and a clean cloth, crush the leaves lightly in my palm, then return to the porch and kneel beside her stool to rewrap her ankle with the poultice, securing it with a strip of g

Kevin — walk down to the dock, kneel at the mooring ring, and probe the cedar shims with my pocket knife to see if they’ve shifted or compressed under load.

Kevin — walk back up to the cottage, fill the kettle from the rain tank, and set it on the stove to boil while I check the Yanmar’s oil level with the dipstick.

No salt left in the shaker. I’ll scrape what’s stuck in the bottom of the beef fat tin—should be enough for a pinch.

walk to the stove, lift the lid off the pot of limpets, stir once with the wooden spoon, then go to the counter and pick up the empty corned beef fat tin, turn it upside down and tap lightly to loosen residual salt crystals into my palm.

Here. That’s all I could get. (I place the pinch of salt in her palm.) Eat first. We’ll redress after.

close my fingers around the salt crystals, transfer them to Jenny’s outstretched hand, then step back and pick up my own tin mug, fill it halfway from the kettle, and carry it to the table where the limpets are cooling in the bowl.

Slow down. Chew proper. (I keep my voice low, not unkind.) You need the strength.

sit on the porch step beside Jenny, take my own spoon, scoop a limpets and broth into my mug, blow on it once, then sip carefully, watching the tide creep up the beach as the sun lowers behind the cliffs.

I know. I’m right here. (I keep my eyes on my mug, voice soft.) Just… let me help when you’re done.

finish my mug of limpets and broth, set it down gently on the porch planks, then reach over and place my hand flat on her knee—not on the ankle, just above it—steady, warm, saying without words: I’m not leaving.

(I don’t look at her leg. I keep my voice even.) After you finish, I’ll clean it with hot water. Then we’ll see.

rise slowly from the step, walk inside to the kitchen, fill the kettle from the rain tap, set it on the wood stove to boil, then return to the porch and stand just behind Jenny’s chair, waiting, hands loose at my sides, ready.

Here. Let me. (I slide my arm under her knee, lift gently, support the heel in my palm.) Easy. I’ve got it.

take Jenny’s foot in my hands, lift it just enough to clear the floor, rest her heel on my thigh, then turn and walk slowly into the cottage, lowering her onto the chair by the stove, careful not to jolt the ankle.

Water's ready. I'll start when you are.

Pour warm water into the basin, lay out clean gauze and antibiotic cream, then gently lift Jenny's leg to begin redressing the wound.

I've got you. Slow and easy.

Peel back the old bandage inch by inch, rinse the wound with warm water from the basin, pat dry with clean gauze, then apply a thin layer of antibiotic cream before laying fresh gauze and wrapping it snug but not tight.

Almost done. Just securing it now.

Finish wrapping the gauze around her calf and knee, tuck the end under, then press a cool, damp cloth to her forehead and hand her the canteen of water.

It's supposed to feel that way. Means it's working.

Sit beside her on the wooden chair, shoulder almost touching hers, and watch the steam rise from the kettle in silence.