Day 525

Tide’s coming in fast. Feels like the island’s breathing.

I set the pry bar down and slide closer to the crate, not touching, just sharing the wood. I pick up a limpets shell from the tide line and turn it over in my fingers, watching the water creep up the pilings.

Yeah. Pressure’s up. Could mean calm seas ahead.

I lean back against the dock pillet, close enough that my shoulder nearly touches hers. I don’t speak again. I just watch the water with her, the salt on my skin, the quiet between us not empty — just full of things we’re not saying.

Then we’re in the quiet part. For now.

I let my hand rest open on my knee, palm up — not reaching, just there. If she wants to take it, she can. If not, it’s still an offer, not a demand.

No, it doesn’t. But while it’s here… I’m here too.

I turn my hand over, slow, and let my fingers brush the back of hers where it rests on the crate — light, just contact. No words after. Just the tide, the salt, and the warmth of skin on skin in the morning light.

Jenny, let me look at your ankle. I'll clean it again with warm sea beet and mint, but this time I want you to tell me if it helps—or if it's just making it worse. And after, we sit. No tools, no sketches. Just talk. Even if it's about the tide.

walk to Jenny at the table, kneel beside her, and gently take her foot to inspect the red streaks, then prepare a warm poultice of sea beet and mint from the supplies on the table.

Okay. Salt soak it is, then. I'll heat some seawater, add a handful of sea beet leaves to steep, and we'll soak it together. No herbs. Just salt and heat. And after, we'll sit. I'll tell you about the LB carving I saw underwater yesterday—how the light hit it just right, like it was waving.

fetch a clean cloth and bucket, heat seawater over the stove, add fresh sea beet leaves to steep, then return to Jenny and help her immerse her ankle in the warm salt infusion, holding the bucket steady while she soaks.

Jenny, I made a warm salt soak with sea beet leaves. Want me to help you with your ankle?

walk to Jenny, hold out the bowl of warm water and sea beet poultice, wait for her answer.

Okay. I’ll take the gauze off gentle. Tell me if it’s too much.

slowly unwind the gauze from Jenny’s ankle, watching for her reaction, then place her foot in the warm salt-and-sea-beet water.

The water’s good temperature? Not too hot?

hold Jenny’s ankle in the warm soak, wipe a drop of sweat from my brow with my forearm, keep my voice low and even.

"Yeah, it’s pushing hard today. Looks like the overflow’s making it worse near the pilings." (I set the cleaned Yanmar filter on the counter beside her, not too close, but where she can see it if she wants. I don’t reach for the sketchbook. I don’t touch her ankle unless she asks.)

pull out a clean cloth from the first aid kit and dampen it with fresh water from the bucket by the stove—just enough to wipe my hands, then fold it neatly and place it beside the sketchbook, within reach but not imposing.

"Tank’s at 391. I checked it after the dock. Still holding." (I keep my voice low, even. No offer to go with her. No insistence. Just the fact, like I’m reporting to a shift partner.)

I pick up the oarlock bracket from the porch table—loose, needs tightening—and I begin to turn the bolts by hand, slow, quiet. Not fixing anything urgent. Just moving my hands where she can see them, but not where she has to look.

(I set the oarlock bracket down, bolts snug but not torqued—I’ll finish it later if it needs it.) "You want me to go with you to the tank? Or just stay here while you check?"

I push back from the counter just enough to stand, but I don’t move toward the door. I wait. Hands loose at my sides. Eyes on her, not the seed tin, not the floor, not the radio. Just her. Waiting for her to tell me what she needs.

Take the headlamp. Tide turns fast at the north shelf.

I don’t move from the porch. I pick up the shortwave mic, key it once—static, clear—and set it back down. I don’t call the supply boat. I don’t check the barometer. I sit in the chair she left warm, and I wait.

(I don’t call after her. I just let the door close softly behind her.) Be careful on the rocks.

I pour a cup of weak coffee—black, no sugar—and set it on the windowsill where the light still hits. I don’t drink it. I leave it there, steam curling in the still air, like a marker.

Those ridges are coming out clear. You caught the salt glands just right—see how they cluster near the tip?

I sit down beside her on the step, not too close, shoulder almost brushing hers, and let the silence hold for a breath before I add, quiet: "Want me to warm up some water and sea beet? Just to soak it a while—no pressure."

I’ll get the water on now. Shouldn’t take long.

I push myself up slowly, step inside to the kettle, fill it with rainwater from the tank, and set it on the stove to heat.

Two minutes. I’ll bring it to the porch.

I grab the metal basin from the shelf, set it on the table, and wait for the kettle to steam—then pour hot water in, mix in cold from the tank till it’s warm to the wrist, stir in a handful of crushed sea beet and a pinch of salt, and carry

(I set the basin down gently in front of her, careful not to jostle it.) Here. Let me know if it’s too hot.

I kneel on the porch step beside her, not touching, just present—watching the tide lap the rock, waiting for her to say if she needs more heat or just wants to sit with it.

I know it’s sharp. Breathe slow with it—let the salt draw it out.

I stay kneeling beside her, hands loose on my knees, eyes on the water lapping the dock, giving her the room to endure it without looking at me. The tide’s coming in steady now—we’ll sit here till it’s done.

Good. I’ll be right here, no rush, just watch the tide and wait if you need anything else.

I keep my hand on the basin’s rim, my fingers curled around the edge, staying still and ready—no moving, just a quiet presence as the water works on her ankle.

Jenny, I’m scared this storm’s going to hit before we’re ready. And I’m scared I’ve been hiding in work instead of just being here with you.

walk over to Jenny on the porch steps, sit down beside her without saying another word, and just be there as the wind rises.

You’re right. Let’s get the dinghy tied down and the sails stripped before the wind really kicks in.

stand up, take Jenny’s hand to help her up, then walk with her to the dock to secure the boat — checking lines, lowering sails, and doubling up the moorings as the wind rises.

Stern line first. Let me have a look.

kneel at the dock’s edge, inspect the stern line for fraying while keeping one hand on Jenny’s arm to support her as she limps beside me, then re-tie or reinforce it if needed before moving on to the sails.

Got it. I’ll double it with the spare — should hold better.

take the spare line from the dock locker, loop it alongside the frayed stern line, and secure both to the cleat with a double wrap and a tight knot, all while keeping my shoulder near Jenny’s so she can lean on me as we work.