Day 517

Aye. Lower planks first—then I’ll sister the sill before the flood comes back.

kneel and pry up the rotten dock plank with the crowbar, feeling for solid timber underneath.

Sill’s shot. I’ll sister it with greenheart offcuts—bolt it through and let the tide seat it.

lift the exposed sill slightly with the crowbar and slide a greenheart sister plank into place, aligning it with the bolt holes.

Void’s scoured out under here. Gotta pack it before I bolt, or we’re just spanning air.

reach into the gap and feel the depth of the void with my fingers, then pull out a cedar wedge and tap it in where the sill sags lowest.

Yeah. Let me look.

Kneel down and run my hand along the underside of the sill, feeling for high spots and gaps where the tide’s been working it loose. Check if the joist’s still bearing or if it’s hanging in air.

Hand me the crowbar. I’ll lift it slow.

Take the crowbar from Jenny, place the heel against the piling just beside the gap, and use the sill as a lever to raise the joist a fraction—enough to slide the scrap wood underneath as a temporary shim.

It’s holding for now. I’ll cut the sister while you keep the weight off it.

Keep steady pressure on the crowbar to maintain the lift, then reach for the greenheart offcut and the saw to measure and begin cutting the sister plank to span the gap and land solid on both pilings.

Sorry. I’ll brace it myself.

Shift my weight onto the crowbar handle, using the piling as a fulcrum to hold the joist lifted, then signal Jenny to step back and rest her leg on the dry sand above the tide line.

You're right. I'll wait for the turn. Hand me that cedar wedge—I'll set it now so it's ready when the water drops.

reach for the cedar wedge and slide it into the mooring ring mortise, tapping it gently with the mallet to seat it snug against the steel doubler plate and bolt heads.

Just seating it. Not driving. Like you said—let the tide do the work.

tap the cedar wedge once with the mallet, just enough to settle it flush, then step back and watch the water lap at the dock's edge, listening for the shift in the pilings.

Got it. Let's check the tension.

take the wire tension meter (or a simple plumb line) and measure the gap between the dock beam and the pilings at the wedge. Record the reading in the notebook: "Wedge settled, tension 1.2 mm" (or similar).

I’m going in to get the limpets cleaned. You coming?

walk into the cottage, shake rain off my jacket, and hang it on the hook by the door.

Let me do it. I’ve got the antiseptic cream and clean gauze. You’re shaking.

walk slowly to the table, stop just behind her chair, and hold out the small tin of antibiotic cream and a fresh gauze pad without touching her.

I’ve got the light. Steady as I can make it.

adjust the LED lamp on the table so it shines directly on her ankle, then stand still, hands at my sides, watching her hands work.

It’s angrier. Red’s gone past the old line — looks like it’s tracking up the vein. You need to keep going. I’ll hold the light.

lean in slightly, not touching, and point with my chin at the spreading redness along her inner calf, then return my focus to holding the lamp steady.

I’m not moving it. You’re doing good. Keep going.

keep the LED lamp locked in place with both hands on the base, elbows braced on the table, eyes fixed on the wound as she works, silent except for my breathing.

Kevin — eat limpets from plate, chew slowly, watch Jenny from corner of eye

Alright.

take plate Jenny pushed, set it in front of me, eat limpets without looking up, jaw tight, listening to the rain on the roof

Kevin — wipe mouth with back of hand, stand slowly, take empty plates to sink, rinse them in seawater bucket without speaking, leave them to drain on counter, return to chair but don’t sit—just lean against wall, arms crossed, watching her sketch i

flagged: repeated_opener

The barometer’s dropping fast. Storm’s coming in harder than the forecast said. I’ll batten the porch shutters after we eat — if you can hold the hammer, I’ll pass you the nails.

Stir the limpet broth on the stove, then ladle two portions into tin mugs and set one beside Jenny on the porch bench, the other in front of me at the table. I don’t look at her. I just eat, slow, letting the heat settle in my chest.

Don’t stand. I’ll do the shutters alone. You rest. Keep the broth warm — it’s doing more good than you know.

Push back from the table, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and pull on my oilskin jacket. I grab the hammer and a coil of tarred line from the shelf, then step into the wind howling through the cottage’s eaves.

(I don’t turn back. My voice is low, caught in the wind.) Latch is secured with the spare line — figure-eight knot, double-check. It’ll hold.

I move fast along the porch, nailing the shutters shut with three nails each — top, middle, bottom — driving them deep into the window frame, not just the rotting sill. The wood’s soft in places, but I hit the sounder grain beneath.