Day 506

Barometer’s fallen three points since dawn. If it keeps this pace, we’ll see whitecaps before noon.

Point to the damp patch on the foundation where the trench meets the cottage wall, then turn and walk back inside to check the Yanmar’s lift pump suction line for air leaks.

Fuel filter’s clean, but I’ll bleed the lift pump line again. Suction side’s the usual culprit after a damp night.

Kneel by the Yanmar on the dinghy, loosen the bleed screw on the lift pump housing, and pump the primer lever steadily until fuel runs clear without bubbles, then retighten the screw.

Tank’s at 394 — holding steady. Trench’s clear, water’s running south. I’ll secure the lift pump line and then check the mooring ring’s wedges before the lift.

Tighten the lift pump bleed screw firmly, wipe any spilled fuel from the housing, then walk to the dock and inspect the cedar and oak wedges in the mooring ring mortise for shift or compression.

Take the cane by the door — your ankle’s not taking uneven ground today. I’ll be at the mooring if you need me.

Retrieve the wooden cane from inside the cottage porch, walk to Jenny as she starts up the path, and place it gently in her hand before turning back toward the dock to check the mooring ring wedges.

Tide’s high and rising. I’ll double-check the wedges and give the ring a sharp tug — if it moves, we reset now.

Jog to the dock, kneel at the mooring ring, and firmly tap each cedar and oak wedge with the mallet to seat them deeper, then grab the ring and try to wiggle it side to side and up down to test for play.

Jenny—wait. The barometer’s falling hard. If the tide turns and the wind backs west, that path could flood fast. Let me come with you, or at least radio ahead if you hit trouble.

walk to the radio shelf, pick up the mic, and key it briefly to test the frequency—just to see if the air is clear, then lower it without speaking.

I’ll be at the spring when you get back. Boiling water for tea. No sugar.

turn the radio on, tune to Tom’s frequency, and listen—just listen—for thirty seconds, then turn it off and walk to the rain tank to check the overflow trench one more time, making sure it’s clear and flowing south.

Kevin — walk to the garden, pull the shade cloth tighter over the tomato rows where the wind’s lifting the corners, then sit on the porch step and wait—not for her to return, but for the wind to shift so I’ll know when it’s safe to breathe again.

Jenny! Rain’s coming—turn back, I’ll meet you on the path.

stand up from the porch step, grab my jacket from the hook, and walk down toward the north ridge path, keeping my eyes on her position so I don’t lose her in the murk.

Kevin — drive two cedar shims into the mooring ring mortise from starboard, tap them tight with the mallet; then take the new half-inch rope and re-serve the dinghy’s stern line where the chafe guard wore through, wrapping it tight with sail twine

Kevin — grab the spare coil of ratchet strap from the porch, run it from the radio mast base to the buried ground stake, crank it tight to storm-brace the mast; then clip the handheld VHF to my belt and listen for a break in the static on Tom’s fre

Let me help you with that.

step forward and take Jenny's weight under her arm, guiding her toward the cottage door.

Come on, let's get you off your feet. I'll put the kettle on.

support Jenny's weight as we move inside the cottage, lowering her gently onto the bedroom bench and setting her sketchbook on the table beside her.

Hold still. I'll get the water and cream.

rise from the bench, fill the galvanized bucket with clean water from the rain tank tap, and retrieve the antibiotic cream and clean gauze from the first aid kit on the shelf.

This is going to sting, but I've got to get it clean.

pour clean water over Jenny's ankle to wash away sweat and debris, then gently pat the skin dry with clean gauze before applying a fresh layer of antibiotic cream and rewrapping it loosely with clean gauze strips.

We’ll lift the dock tomorrow at low tide. Oak shims, like before. I’ll get the wedges ready.

walk back to the cottage, pull the cedar and oak wedges from the tool rack by the door, and set them on the table beside the kettle.

I’ll lay them by the stove. Dry as bone by morning.

carry the oak and cedar wedges to the woodstove in the cottage, place them on the flat stone hearth to the side where the heat is steady but not fierce, then step back and wipe my hands on my trousers.

I’ll keep them where the warmth is even. Not too close. Promise.

adjust the wedges so they lie in a ring around the edge of the hearth stone, where the air moves gently and the heat rises slow, then sit down on the low bench beside Jenny without speaking, just letting the quiet fill the space between us

Kevin — sit very still, hands loose on my knees, and watch the fire burn low, letting the silence stretch until the first true dark comes.

I’ll check it first thing. Before the tide turns.

rise slowly from the bench, step over to the shelf where the barometer sits—damp, curling at the edges—and lift it gently in my palm, feeling the weight of the glass and the faint resistance of the stuck needle, then carry it to the window

I’ll take a quick look at the trench. You rest that ankle. We’ll eat soon.

walk to the back of the cottage, kneel by the overflow trench, clear any debris with my hands, check flow toward the south.

Trench is clear. Water’s flowing south like it should.

stand, wipe my hands on my trousers, head inside to check on the limpets, lift the lid off the pot, smell the steam.

On it. Just need the bucket.

walk to the rain tank, pull the bucket up full, carry it back to the porch, set it down beside Jenny without a word, then go back inside to check the limpets — they’re done, tender, ready to eat.