Day 524

Kevin — blow compressed air through the Yanmar fuel filter housing one last time, then reseat the housing and tighten the bolts to 25Nm with the torque wrench.

It’s fixed. I tested it at three-quarters throttle for twenty minutes yesterday. No vibration, no smoke. It’ll pull the dinghy to the spring and back if we need water.

Stand slowly, wipe my hands on my trousers, and walk to the edge of the dock where I can see her face in the morning light — not to touch, just to be seen.

The boat’s due in ten days. I’ll light the signal fire on the hilltop tonight — same as always. If it’s late again, we’ll know by the tenth dawn.

Kneel beside Jenny’s crate, take the clean gauze from the first aid kit, and begin wrapping her ankle — tight, even, starting at the ball of the foot, working up past the red streaks, saying nothing until it’s done.

It’ll be big. Greenheart branches burn hot and bright. I’ll stack it high on the west ridge where the sea can see it.

Finish wrapping the gauze, secure the end with a half-hitch knot, then rise and walk toward the cottage to gather dry greenheart kindling and split it with the hatchet, keeping my movements steady, my silence not empty — but full of what I

I won’t. I’ll feed it till the coals glow red, then sit with it till first light.

Split the greenheart into forearm-length sticks, bundle them tight with twine, and carry the armload to the hilltop path, moving quick but steady, the cottage fading behind me as the slope begins.

Nothing yet. But the barometer’s steady. If she’s coming, she’ll show in the next hour.

stand beside Jenny at the dock, watching the water lap at the reinforced pilings, hands loose at my sides, eyes on the horizon.

I’ll take a look at the mooring ring. See if the oak shims are still holding.

kneel at the edge of the dock, run my hand along the mortise where the ring sits, feeling for movement or play in the shims, salt-crusted wood under my fingertips.

I’m keeping my weight on the stringers. The planks between the pilings are the ones to watch.

shift my weight to the longitudinal beams, crawl forward on hands and knees toward the mooring ring, testing each plank with my palms before putting pressure on it, eyes on the grain for any dark streaks or soft spots.

I feel it too. The wood’s spongy where it meets the water. We’ll need to sister those joints before the next tide—tonight, if we can.

stop crawling, press my palm flat against the joint between two planks near the mooring ring, feeling for give, then pull back and nod to Jenny, water lapping at my wrist.

Kevin — walk down to the dock, lift the tarp off the supply crate, and pry it open with the crowbar.

Kevin — pry the crate lid with the crowbar, sweep out the debris, and carefully pull the spare coax cable and the new insulator cartridge out. Take the ceramic shard to the stove to clean any salt residue before fitting.

Kevin — climb mast with insulator and coax, install new insulator and connect coax to aerial base

Kevin — key the mic, listen for hiss or return signal on shortwave band

Radio's clean now. Insulator seated. Heard the mainland weather net on the check — they're calling for a front moving through day after tomorrow.

lean against the doorframe, wiping hands on a rag, watching her face

Right, I've got the spare planks from the dock repair. I can slap a quick patch up.

grab a 2‑by‑4 from the shed shelf, step onto the platform, and start screwing it into place.

Long screws it is. I'll grab them while you're in there. (I hand her the tin of seeds as she passes, keeping it brief.)

turn back to the workbench, unscrew the lid of the jar, and pull out three of the longest deck screws.

I'll run the moisture test. Fresh strip from the new kit — if it's dry in there, we're good.

tear open a new test strip, dip it quickly in the condensation beading on the tin's lid, and lay it on the table to read.

Looks like it's holding — just a faint damp line, not soaked. We'll keep it by the stove tonight, drive off the moisture.

slide the strip aside, pick up the tin, and place it on the warm edge of the stove where the heat rises.

Backed off an inch. Good spot — warm but not baking. I'll check it again before dark.

step back from the stove, wipe my hands on my trousers, and turn toward the shed roof where the planks still need fastening.

Tide’s up to the second stone now. If it keeps rising, we’ll lose the lower names by dawn.

stand up, brush off my knees, and walk to the edge of the shrine to watch the water lap at the stones.

They’ve lasted two hundred years. Another night won’t kill them.

crouch beside the lowest stone, where the water is licking the base, and run my thumb over the faint groove of a name I can’t read anymore.

You shouldn’t be on it. Let me wrap it again — warm salt soak first, like it helps.

reach for the clean cloth in my pocket, but stop short, hands hovering — not touching her, not pushing. Wait for her to say yes or no.

Okay. I’ll get the water hot. Just the soak.

turn and walk quickly down the ridge toward the cottage, not running, but fast — knees bent against the wind, eyes on the path, not looking back until I’m past the bend where the shrine drops out of sight.