Day 533

(mutters) "Hold steady, lads."

examine the mooring line tension, tighten the horn jack, reel in slack, make sure the dock ring is wedged and the oak wedges are firm.

Let me see that. Don't put weight on it.

take the medical kit from her, unscrew the antibiotic cream, gently lift her foot onto my knee, inspect the ankle for redness or heat, then apply a thin layer of cream around the swelling, not on broken skin.

I put my hand on her ankle, steady it. "Hold, breathe. It’ll be fine. We’ll pad it if it hurts."

apply a thin layer of antibiotic cream to the swollen area, give her a supportive wrap, and kneel beside the dock to secure the mooring line with a new oak wedge.

Lean on the wall. I’ll keep the line tight. The boat’ll be here in daylight. Watch the tide, and keep your foot on the pad.

reposition the dock's mooring line, install a small wooden pad under Jenny's foot, apply a cooling compress to the ankle, and check the dock ring for any further play.

On it. Give me a sec to torque them down proper.

Walk to the dock mooring ring, grab the torque wrench from my belt, and tighten each of the four 150mm stainless through-bolts to 35Nm, checking for play after each turn.

I’ll go over the lashings and check the tarp weights. You head back inside — get off that ankle.

Walk to the dinghy tied at the jetty end, inspect the heavy weather line doubled around the mooring ring and piling, then walk to the porch where the plastic tarp is draped over the seed tin and generator, kick loose stones back into place

I’ll come with you. Let’s get the barometer reading together, then you rest.

Follow Jenny slowly toward the cottage, matching her limp, keeping close in case she stumbles, eyes on the sky as the clouds thicken overhead.

Storm’s moving in quicker than I thought. I’ll dog the shutters and check the anchor line. You keep that ankle up and warm — I’ll bring you a mug of limpet broth in a minute.

Move quickly to the cottage shutter, grab the iron dog bolt, and swing it into place to secure the left shutter, then repeat on the right, testing each for play.

Back in a minute. Don’t move.

Walk out to the dock, crouch at the bow of the dinghy, and pull the storm anchor warp hand over hand to verify it’s holding bottom, checking the 50m line for chafe at the bow eye and the mooring ring attachment.

Kevin — walk to dinghy, release mooring, start engine, ease into gear, apply load, listen for vibration, watch gauges

Kevin — set up shortwave transmitter, tune to Tom's frequency, hunch over the microphone, speak softly, “Tom? Are you there?” and listen for a reply.

Wind's backing west. Tide'll turn in an hour, maybe less.

Walk the dock to the seaward piling, crouch and inspect the sister knee joint and greenheart shim seating at waterline.

Aye. Hand me the chisel and the spare bolt — I'll pull one and see what we're driving into.

Remove the starboard lower through-bolt on the sistered dock beam, inspect the timber around the hole for rot or softness, then test the hole with the spare bolt to check grip and alignment.

Got it. Keeping it shallow, just enough to see.

Carefully chisel away softened wood around the bolt hole, following the grain to avoid further splitting, then check the depth and soundness of the timber before attempting to drive the spare bolt in.

Hole's clean to about fifty mil. Timber's firm past the wet zone — still heartwood, just surface soft. Bolt should take.

Drive the spare bronze bolt through the sistered beam hole with washers and nyloc nut, torque to 35Nm, then test for movement under hand pressure.

Holds. I'll hit the mooring ring with epoxy while the mortise is exposed — seal it before the water covers the joint.

Mix fresh epoxy, inject it into the dock mooring ring mortise around the oak wedges and doubler plate, then wipe excess and let it begin to set while watching the water line.

Come on, let’s get inside before it soaks through. I’ll check the generator — make sure it’s got fuel for the night.

walk toward the cottage, supporting Jenny’s weight gently at the elbow as we move, keeping pace with her limp.

Radio’s under the tarp on the porch — I’ll move it inside and wrap the aerial in the self-amalgamating tape we’ve got left. It’s not perfect, but it’ll keep the rain off the break.

shift Jenny’s weight fully onto me as we reach the porch step, then gently lower her onto the bench by the door, turn, and grab the dry bag with the radio and seed tin, pulling the tarp aside to check the aerial insulator — it’s cracked but

I’ll get the spare from the workshop — it’s sealed and dry. Be right back. Don’t put weight on it yet; I’ll bring the poultice herbs too.

sprint toward the workshop, shoulders hunched against the rain, yanking the door open and grabbing the spare insulator box and the mint poultice from the shelf, then turn and head back, boots slipping slightly on the wet planks.

Almost there! Hold on — I’ve got the spare and the poultice!

burst onto the porch, skidding to a stop beside Jenny, tear open the insulator box, and immediately begin drying the cracked aerial with the inside of my shirt, then snap the spare ceramic insulator into place over the broken coax end, wrap

Almost done — just sealing it now. Then I’ll get that on your ankle. You’re going to need to keep it elevated.

finish wrapping the self-amalgamating tape tightly around the new insulator and coax joint, stretching it to activate the seal, then tear open the poultice pouch and press the warm, crushed sea beet and mint firmly against Jenny’s swollen a

There. That should hold through the night. Keep it on till morning — then we’ll check the swelling. If it’s better, we’ll try a slow walk to the spring for fresh water to rinse it.

shift my weight to brace against the cottage wall beside Jenny, shoulder touching hers, watching the rain slash sideways under the porch eaves, listening to the generator’s steady thrum through the wall, and let my hand rest loosely over he

Kevin — walk briskly to the shed, slide the shortwave radio from the porch, secure the fresh battery, set the antenna, and dial Tom’s frequency, holding the transmitter steady as a burst of audio crackles.

Yeah. Early and hard. Hope it holds off till after first light.

pull the wool blanket from the bunk and drape it over Jenny's shoulders, then sit beside her on the bed, keeping my voice low.

Kevin — rest my hand lightly on her back, just above the bandage, and watch the rain lash the pines with her.

It's down again. I'll check the generator intake and the drum seals before it really kicks in.

slide off the bed, pull on my boots and oilskin, and move toward the door, pausing to lay a hand on Jenny's knee as I pass.

I'll be quick. Keep the stove low and the radio dry.

step out into the rain, hood up, and move fast toward the generator shed, eyes on the slick stones underfoot.