Day 515

Gauze holding? Or do you want me to rewrap it before the spray gets in?

Step closer to Jenny on the crate, keeping my voice low against the wind, and watch her hands as she adjusts the dressing.

I’ll turn the dinghy’s bow into the wind—break the spray a bit. Stay right there.

Walk to the dinghy, grab the mooring line where it’s chafe-protected, and pull the boat’s bow hard to windward of the crate, using the vessel as a windbreak for Jenny. Then plant myself beside her, silent, facing the reef.

Kevin — stay planted beside Jenny, shoulders braced against the wind, eyes on the reef, letting her draw in peace. Only move if the dinghy surges hard enough to need line adjustment—then act fast, quiet, and return.

Barometer’s dropping. I’ve got to check the mooring ring before the tide turns. I’ll be fast.

Rise stiffly from the crate, favoring my calf, and jog to the dock end—scan the mooring ring, mortise, and oak wedges for any movement or loosening under the surge.

(nothing—eyes on the ring, jaw tight)

Drop to one knee at the dock’s end, ignore the spray, and inspect the mooring ring: test for play in the mortise, check the oak wedges are still driven tight, feel the lashings for slack or chafe where the line bears on the bronze sleeve.

Got your back. Call if it goes.

kneel beside Jenny, left hand braced on the rock, right hand slow and flat to lift a limpet from the shaded face where it’s clamped tight. I work the knife under the edge, feel the give, and lift it clean into my palm.

You want me to take the next stretch? I can work this shelf while you rest on that dry slab.

shift along the rock to the next shaded vertical face, knife ready, eyes scanning for the dark cone of a limpet. I find one, small but firm, and work the blade under the rim with short, careful strokes to avoid slipping on the wet stone.

Then I’ll work here. You sit, watch the water. I’ll call if I see anything worth saving.

move in close to the ledge, left knee down on the slick rock, right hand feeling along the underside for limpets clustered in the dark.

Staying close. This shelf’s clear — moving to the next one over, just where you said.

slide sideways along the rock, keeping low, left hand trailing for balance. I find a limpet in a crevice, shaded and fat, and work the knife in from the side, using the rock as leverage to pop it free without slipping.

Crabs are out. I’ll keep the bucket between us — they’ll think twice.

shift to the next rock shelf, crouched low, right hand feeling along the edge where the rock meets the sand. I spot a limpets’ trail in the wet sand and follow it to a cluster under a small overhang, then begin prying them loose one by one,

Kevin — mark

Kevin — walk to cottage

Kevin — inspect cottage sill for rot and reinforce with available timber

Jenny — tarp’s coming loose. I’m gonna secure it, then check the ring.

walk to the garden, grab the heavy-duty twine from the oak stakes, and re-secure the tarp’s windward corner with a timber strip and a tight lashing.

I’m on it. Stay off it till I check the ring.

run down the jetty, skip the rotten planks, and drop to my knees at the mooring ring — hand on the bronze sleeve, feel for shift, eye on the wedges and the lashing taut to the piling.

Yeah. It’s holding. For now.

press my palm flat against the mortise, feel for any give — none — then sight down the piling to the waterline, checking for fresh splashes or rot exposed by the swell.

Wedges are tight. Lashing’s good. I’ll keep an eye on it.

shift my weight to the balls of my feet, step back from the ring, and walk slowly toward the cottage — not to the porch, but to the corner where the sill meets the foundation, to see how far the water’s crept in since yesterday.

It’s up another inch since yesterday.

crouch low, run my finger along the damp line on the stone foundation, then rise and walk back to the dock — not to check the ring again, but to sit on the end of the jetty, back against the piling, and wait for the next swell to hit.

Yeah. Too quiet.

Sit down on the stone beside her, not touching, just sharing the silence. Let my hands rest on my knees, eyes on the horizon where the sea meets the sky. Wait.

I don’t know. Maybe they just stopped trying to be remembered.

Keep sitting. Let the wind start to stir again in the palms above us. Don’t move. Don’t reach for her hand. Just be here, in the quiet, with her.

Then don’t.

Shift slightly, turn my face into the wind too. Let it cut through the salt and the silence. Stay beside her. Not fixing. Not leaving. Just here.

I’m still trying to make the garden right. Not because it’ll fix anything. Just because stopping feels like giving up.

Pull the softwood scrap from my pocket — the one carved with 'I'm still here' — and lay it gently on the stone between us. Not a speech. Just a mark. Then sit back, hands loose on my thighs, and wait. Let her see it.

Yeah. It is. But I’m still putting in the stakes.

Keep my hands where they are. Don’t reach for her. Don’t explain. Just let the wind move between us, and let the scrap stay on the stone — a quiet thing, held in place by nothing but the wind and the weight of the stone itself. Wait.

"Yeah. Looks like the sea’s pulling back for now." (I keep my eyes on the horizon, not the stones.)

Stay seated on the weathered stone, hands loose on my knees, watching the tide edge retreat across the exposed reef.

"Wind’s backing. We should head back—secure the dock before dark." (I stand slowly, brushing salt from my pants.)

Rise from the shrine stone, turn toward the cottage path, and begin walking down the ridge at a steady pace, glancing back once to see if she’s following.