Day 558

South Piling Held, Storm Rising

At dawn, low tide exposed the splintered mortise of the south piling where the mooring ring had torn free. Kevin stood in wet sand with the greenheart sister plank and the last two 150mm stainless through-bolts, positioning the timber against the rotted oak while Jenny steadied the come-along on the dinghy's forward eye. Warm rain fell steadily, the barometer at 982 hPa and dropping. "Shift your weight off the bad leg. Brake the come-along and let the dinghy take the strain," Kevin said. "I have it steady. Just don't overtorque it yet," Jenny replied. "Not torquing. Just seating. You're white-knuckling the lever — breathe." "I'm breathing. Check the alignment." "Alignment's true. Gap's hairline at the bottom, not moving. Wedges next — got three oak left?" "Careful with the last one. Don't drive it so hard you split the piling." "Third wedge seated. Ring's not moving. Come off the come-along slow." "It looks solid. For now."

As the tide turned, Kevin tested the Yanmar at load in the dinghy; the vibration fix held. Jenny desalinated and rewrapped her ankle, checked her remaining antibiotic doses — four left — then went to the north cliffs to sketch sea beet morphology. The wind shifted southeast, humid and cold. By afternoon the sky bruised purple, wind roaring, tide lapping the shrine's lower stones. Kevin secured the shortwave inside and logged the Coast Guard broadcast: gale force 8, seas six metres, supply boat delayed until Sunday or Monday. "Six days? I only have four doses left, Kevin," Jenny said. "Two days on what's left. Then we improvise. Honey in the pantry — medical grade if the seal held. Garlic, wild mint, sea beet for poultice. Boil the lot down to paste. It'll hold the line."

She tended the infected ankle, unwrapping the bandage and preparing a fresh poultice with sea beet, mint, and honey. At the shrine, Kevin noted the initials 'LB' carved in stone. "LB been here awhile. Weather took the rest." Jenny identified the lichen: *Xanthoria parietina*, bright orange. "Grows on the carved faces. The names feed it." "It's just the air, Kevin. Salt and moisture." "Air writes its own names." "Stop that. Be specific."

Kevin outlined the piling repair: scarf a new section at low tide, bronze sleeves, epoxy the mortise, drive the sister deeper. Three or four tides of work. "Just don't let the epoxy wash out before it sets," Jenny said. "Storm's breakin

Scenes

the dock · dawn

South piling reinforcement begins

Low tide exposes the rotted mortise of the south piling where the mooring ring tore free. Kevin stands in the wet sand with the greenheart sister plank and the last two 150mm stainless through-bolts, positioning the timber against the splintered oak while Jenny steadies the come-along on the dinghy's forward eye. Rain falls warm and steady, the barometer at 982 hPa and still dropping.

Kevin works at the low tide to reinforce the south piling using the greenheart sister plank and stainless bolts. Jenny stays near the dock, checking the pantry for moisture damage and pests in the seed supplies while the warm rain continues to fall.

🔧 Kevin22:00

Shift your weight off the bad leg. Brake the come-along and let the dinghy take the strain.

Drive the first 150mm stainless bolt through the greenheart sister plank into sound oak above the rot line, using the heavy wrench to seat it hard.

💭 thought

The mortise is worse than I remembered — rot eaten back past the inner face, tide washing through clean. Greenheart won't bite in this. Need to drive the bolts through sound timber above the rot line, sister the whole face. Jenny's holding the come-along steady but her weight's wrong on that ankle.

🌿 Jenny22:01

I have it steady. Just don't overtorque it yet.

Tighten the lever on the come-along to keep the tension constant, my ankle throbbing in time with the pulse.

💭 thought

If that bolt doesn't hold, the whole jetty goes into the surf when the tide comes back in.

🔧 Kevin22:02

Not torquing. Just seating. You're white-knuckling the lever — breathe.

Seat the first bolt firm but not final, then position and drive the second 150mm stainless through the lower sound section of the greenheart into the piling.

💭 thought

She's right — the greenheart's dense, the oak's punky underneath. Overdrive the bolt and I'll strip the threads in rot. Let the timber crush slow. Second bolt goes through the lower sound section, same treatment. Then the wedges.

🌿 Jenny22:02

I'm breathing. Check the alignment.

Release the tension on the come-along by a fraction, watching the dinghy settle against the new timber.

💭 thought

The tension is so high I want to scream, but the wood is holding for now.

🔧 Kevin22:04

Alignment's true. Gap's hairline at the bottom, not moving. Wedges next — got three oak left?

Pull the three remaining oak wedges from the tool bucket and drive them into the lower gap between greenheart and piling, seating each with the mallet.

💭 thought

She's watching the dinghy, not the joint. Smart — the boat shows what the timber won't. Greenheart's sitting flush, no gap at the top. Lower edge has a hairline crack in the oak but it's not opening. Good enough for now.

🌿 Jenny22:04

Careful with the last one. Don't drive it so hard you split the piling.

Lean my weight onto the good leg, watching the gap close with a botanist's eye for precision.

💭 thought

He's moving fast. If those wedges split the grain, we're back to square one.

🔧 Kevin22:06

Third wedge seated. Ring's not moving. Come off the come-along slow.

Ease the come-along tension off completely, unhook it from the dinghy's forward eye, and coil the line back into the bucket.

💭 thought

She's seen me split greenheart before. Won't split oak if I tap it — but she's right to say it. The third wedge seats and the hairline closes. Ring's solid now. Come-along can come off.

🌿 Jenny22:06

It looks solid. For now.

Limp slowly away from the dock toward the cottage, favoring the infected ankle.

💭 thought

It held. The structural integrity is barely there, but it's enough to keep the boat tied.

Open this scene on its own page →

the dock · morning

The Rising Tide

The tide begins to turn, lapping against the newly reinforced pilings. Kevin and Jenny meet as the rain slows to a steady drizzle.

Kevin tested the Yanmar engine at load in the dinghy and confirmed the vibration fix held. Jenny desalinated her ankle with saline, re-wrapped it, and checked her remaining antibiotic doses before heading to the north cliffs to sketch sea beet morphology. The south piling mooring ring remained secure despite a splintered mortise.

🌿 Jenny22:08

The rain's letting up. Did the south piling hold?

Lean heavily against a piling, glancing down at the swollen wrap on my ankle.

💭 thought

I can feel the hunger shaking my hands. My ankle is screaming under the wrap, and the air feels too heavy to breathe.

🔧 Kevin22:08

Held. Bolts bit. Wedges seated. Ring's fast." Pause. "But the base shifted. Mortise splintered past what epoxy can do. It's not fixed. Just held.

Wipe rain off forearms with the back of one hand, then gesture toward the cottage. "Kettle's on. You need to sit."

💭 thought

She's favouring the ankle bad, leaning hard on the piling. The wrap's clean but the swelling hasn't gone down. South piling held — bolts bit, wedges seated, ring fast. But the base shifted. It's not fixed. Just held.

🌿 Jenny22:11

I'll check the saline soak one last time before I come in.

Shift my weight to my good leg, wincing as the ankle pulses, and start toward the cottage.

💭 thought

"Held" is just another word for "not yet." My leg feels like it's full of hot lead.

🔧 Kevin22:11

Saline's on the bench. Clean gauze in the tin.

Watch her walk the dock planks, counting the rhythm of her limp. When she's clear of the rotten section, turn back to the south piling and run fingers along the greenheart sister joint, feeling for play the bolts don't show.

💭 thought

She's hiding how bad it hurts. That wince wasn't the first one today. The antibiotics should've knocked the fever down more by now. If the red line's tracking past the ankle by morning, I'm calling the Coast Guard and to hell with the supply boat schedule.

🌿 Jenny22:12

Don't let the water boil over while I'm gone.

Step onto the cottage porch, the wood creaking under my weight, and head for the kitchen.

💭 thought

He's counting my steps. He always counts them when I'm failing.

🔧 Kevin22:12

Wouldn't dream of it.

Crouch at the south piling, flashlight beam tight on the mortise where the ring sits. Work the ring with both hands — up, down, side — feeling for micron movement in the wedges. Count seconds between wave slaps on the piling base.

💭 thought

She's trying to make it normal. Tea, kettle, porch creaks. Like any morning. Like the piling didn't shift and her ankle isn't burning and the barometer isn't dropping. I'll let her have it — the normal — while I check the ring bolts one more time.

Open this scene on its own page →

the dock · midday

Midday work and the rising tide

Kevin is at the dock reinforcing the south piling mooring ring; Jenny is at the north cliffs continuing her sea beet sketches.

The wind has shifted to the southeast, carrying a heavy, humid chill that precedes the squall. The tide is pushing in faster than the barometric drop suggests, now lapping at the lower foundation stones of the shrine.

🔧 Kevin22:15

Kevin — drive the stainless through-bolts through the greenheart sister plank into the piling below the rot line, torque each to 35Nm, then mix the last of the epoxy to fill the splintered mortise gaps around the mooring ring.

💭 thought

The mortise is worse than I thought — splintered right through to the outer face. The sister plank won't bite on the rotted wood. Need to drive the bolts deeper into sound timber below the rot line, then epoxy the gaps. Tide's rising faster than I'd like.

🌿 Jenny22:16

Jenny — make sketch: sea beet salt gland cross-section

💭 thought

The pressure is dropping too fast. If this storm hits before the boat comes, I won't be able to reach the dock.

🔧 Kevin22:18

Kevin — walk back along the dock to the north piling, test the come-along tension on the sister joint lashings, and retighten any slack.

💭 thought

Epoxy's kicked off. Ring's solid now — doesn't shift when I heave on it. Tide's at the plank ends. Good enough for this storm. Need to check the north piling lashings before the wind hits proper.

🌿 Jenny22:22

Jenny — close notebook and walk back toward the cottage

💭 thought

My ankle is throbbing in time with the wind. I need to get back before the rain really opens up.

Open this scene on its own page →

the dock · afternoon

The Squall Breaks

The sky has turned a bruised purple, and the wind is now a roar. The tide is high, threatening the shrine's stones, as the rain opens up in earnest.

Kevin secured the shortwave radio inside the cottage and logged the Coast Guard broadcast confirming the supply boat is delayed until at least Sunday or Monday due to gale-force conditions. Jenny tended to her infected ankle, unwrapping the bandage and preparing a fresh poultice with sea beet, mint, and honey while inventorying the remaining antibiotic doses.

🌿 Jenny22:24

Kevin! Get inside! Now!

Lean heavily against the dock piling and limp toward the cottage, clutching the notebook to my chest.

💭 thought

This isn't just a squall; it's a full-blown blow. I can feel the pressure change in my joints.

🔧 Kevin22:24

Right behind you. Dinghy first.

cast off the dinghy's bow line, pull it tight to the dock cleat with extra slack for surge, double the stern spring around the north piling, then grab the shortwave and battery box from under the tarp and head for the cottage porch

💭 thought

The squall's here early and mean. Tide's already licking the shrine stones. She's favouring that ankle hard — infection's not done with her yet. Dock lines are holding but the south piling won't take another beating like the last one. Need to secure the dinghy warp and get the radio gear under cover before the aerial goes completely.

🌿 Jenny22:26

Focus on the radio! The tide is already too high!

Burst through the door, slam it shut against the wind, and collapse into a chair, clutching my throbbing ankle.

💭 thought

If that wayhy goes, I'm stuck here until the seeds rot. The water is rising too fast.

🔧 Kevin22:26

Copy that. Setting up inside.

carry the shortwave and battery box to the kitchen table, run the coax through the window grommet to the mast base, fire up the set and spin the dial to the Coast Guard working frequency

💭 thought

She's right. Tide's up past the shrine base already. Wind's northeast — wrong direction for the usual fetch but it's piling water against the shore. Radio's the only link out. Aerial's held together with tape and prayer. If it goes, we're blind.

🌿 Jenny22:28

Are you getting anything? The barometer is at 974!

Unwrap the bandage from my ankle, wincing as the cold air hits the inflamed skin.

💭 thought

The static is louder than the rain. If I can't get a signal, I'm a ghost on this island.

🔧 Kevin22:28

Got a voice on 2182. Coast Guard. Gale force 8, veering northwest later. Seas six metres and building. Supply boat standing by in harbour — not crossing until it drops below force 6. Could be Sunday. Maybe Monday.

adjust the squelch, pull the notebook closer and log the broadcast: time, frequency, wind, sea state, boat status

💭 thought

974 and still falling. That's a proper low digging in. Coast Guard should be broadcasting on 2182 and 4375. Static's thick but there's a voice under it. Need to catch the schedule — gale warning, sea state, any word on the supply boat. Her ankle looks angry, purple tracking up the calf. Antibiotics should've bitten by now. Might need the metronidazole too if it's anaerobic.

🌿 Jenny22:31

Six days? I only have four doses left, Kevin.

Trace the swollen line on my ankle with a trembling finger, the heat radiating off the skin.

💭 thought

Six days? If the boat doesn't come, I'm out of antibiotics before the fever breaks.

🔧 Kevin22:31

Two days on what's left. Then we improvise. Honey in the pantry — medical grade if the seal held. Garlic, wild mint, sea beet for poultice. Boil the lot down to paste. It'll hold the line.

pull the first aid kit, count the metronidazole blister pack, check the honey jar seal, set water to boil for a fresh poultice

💭 thought

Four doses. Doxycycline's done. Metronidazole's four tablets left. That's two days if she takes both. Infection's tracking — lymphangitic spread, hot to touch. She needs IV antibiotics, not pills. Medevac form's filled out. Radio'd it in three days ago. Coast Guard said helicopter can't launch in anything above force 6. Force 8 now. Sunday at earliest. Her fever broke last night but that line hasn't retreated. If it hits the bloodstream... Don't think about that. Think about what's here. Poultice helped the swelling. Salt soaks. Clean gauze. Rest. The metronidazole hits anaerobes. Give it with the last doxy. Two days. Then nothing.

Open this scene on its own page →

the old shrine · evening

Evening at the shrine

Rain eases to a drizzle as Kevin and Jenny walk the ridge path to the stone circle. Wind gusts off the northwest, bending the grass. The carved stones stand in a ring — 'LB', 'E', and the fresh softwood scrap. Kevin carries the storm lantern; Jenny limps beside him, notebook tucked under her arm. They stop at the shrine as the light fails.

The tide is receding, exposing the slick rocks at the base of the ridge shrine, while Kevin and Jenny stand by the carved stones, the heavy humid air smelling of salt and dampening earth as the barometer continues its slow drop.

🔧 Kevin22:33

LB been here awhile. Weather took the rest.

set the storm lantern on a flat stone at the shrine's edge, light throwing long shadows across the carved initials

💭 thought

The wind carries salt and something older. She's walking on an ankle that should've kept her in the cottage, carrying a notebook like it's ballast. The 'E' stone and my scrap sit together now — her initial, my words. Neither explains the other.

🌿 Jenny22:34

The lichen here is *Xanthoria parietina*. way orange.

Kneels slowly, opening the notebook to sketch the lichen growth patterns on the stone marked 'LB'.

💭 thought

The names are so shallow, the wind has tried to peel them right off the stone. My ankle is throbbing with every step on this incline.

🔧 Kevin22:36

Grows on the carved faces. The names feed it.

stand with the lantern raised, watching her sketch, the beam catching the drizzle and the ridge grass bending northwest

💭 thought

She reads the stones like engine plates. Orange lichen on LB — nitrogen lover, feeds on what the wind brings. She's mapping what lives on death markers.

🌿 Jenny22:37

It's just the air, Kevin. Salt and moisture.

Presses the pencil to the paper, capturing the way edge of the lichen where it meets the carved 'L'.

💭 thought

He thinks it's poetic, but it's just nitrogen and salt. My leg feels like it's on fire.

🔧 Kevin22:38

Air writes its own names.

shift weight, lantern hand steady, boot heels sinking in wet grass as the wind gusts and the flame throws her shadow long across the standing stones

💭 thought

Just air. She says it like the sea doesn't write its own names on everything given time. The 'L' disappearing under orange crust — she's catching the moment before it's gone.

🌿 Jenny22:38

Stop that. Be specific.

Stops sketching and looks up at him, her expression flat.

💭 thought

He's being vague again. I can't stand the poetry when my skin is stretching over an abscess.

🔧 Kevin22:40

The south piling mortise is splintered past wedges. Greenheart sister plank's bolted but the piling itself is rotting at the mudline. Next storm takes the ring, takes the dock. I need to scarf a new section in at low tide tomorrow. Bronze sleeves for the bolts, epoxy the mortise, drive the sister deeper. Three tides of work. Maybe four.

lower the lantern a fraction, the beam catching her face — the pencil smudge on her cheek, the rain in her hair, the ankle wrapped tight under her trouser leg

💭 thought

She caught me being poetic. She wants the metal, not the rust. Fair.

🌿 Jenny22:40

Then fix it. I can't have the boat drifting away.

Closes the notebook with a sharp thud and stands up with a hiss of pain.

💭 thought

He's talking about wood while I'm counting pills. If the dock goes, I can't get to the boat.

🔧 Kevin22:42

Not drifting. Moored. Difference matters.

reach out and take her free elbow, the lantern swinging in my other hand, not asking if she needs it — just steadying her as the wind cuts across the ridge

💭 thought

She hissed. Ankle's talking to her. She'd rather close the book than let me see it. The boat's her way of saying us.

🌿 Jenny22:42

It's the same result if the piling snaps.

Leans into his support, shifting her weight off the infected ankle.

💭 thought

He's so stubborn about the terminology. But his hand is steady. I hate that I need him to hold me up.

🔧 Kevin22:44

Won't snap. Greenheart's denser than seawater. Sister plank's through-bolted four points. The rot's above the mudline — I'll cut it out, sleeve the sound wood, epoxy the mortise fresh. Did the north piling last month. This one holds.

adjust grip on her elbow, thumb finding the tendon, the lantern throwing our shadows long and merged across the 'E' stone and the softwood scrap — *I'm still here* — as we start back down the ridge path toward the cottage lights

💭 thought

She's right. Same result. She knows I know. She's testing whether I'll say the rest — that I've already lost one thing to water and I'm not losing this dock, this boat, her.

🌿 Jenny22:44

Just don't let the epoxy wash out before it sets.

Limps slowly beside him, eyes scanning the grass for any unusual flora in the twilight.

💭 thought

He sounds so sure of himself. I wish I felt that sure about the antibiotics holding.

Open this scene on its own page →

the old shrine · night

The Rising Tide Returns

The grey air grows even still, and the first heavy drops of a storm begin to hit the dust on the carving.

The tide is already lapping at the lower stones of the shrine, rising faster than the morning barometer predicted. The air is heavy with the scent of salt and incoming rain, as the sky thickens into a bruised purple, signaling the arrival of the wet season's storm.

🔧 Kevin22:46

Storm's breaking. Tide's already on the lower stones. We need to move — now.

grab Jenny's arm and start walking back toward the cottage at a fast pace

💭 thought

The storm's here. Tide's already lapping the shrine stones — surge'll be worse than the barometer said. Need to get Jenny back to the cottage and the radio battened down before the wind picks up proper.

🌿 Jenny22:52

I can walk, Kevin. Don't pull.

Clutches the notebook tightly against her chest and limps to keep pace, teeth gritted against the throbbing heat.

💭 thought

He moves like I'm made of glass, but the ankle is what's actually breaking with every step.

🔧 Kevin22:52

Right. My bad. Radio's under the tarp on the porch — I'll grab it. You get inside, door shut.

release her arm and fall into step beside her, scanning the ridge line for wind shifts as we walk

💭 thought

She's right. Let go. Match her pace — don't make her hurry the ankle. Cottage is five minutes if we don't stop. Radio first, then the shutters, then the generator tie-downs.

🌿 Jenny22:55

way get the radio. I'm checking the stove.

Shifts weight to the good leg, avoiding the sharpest spikes of pain in thecalf.

💭 thought

If the wind picks up now, the roof in the kitchen is going to leak again.

🔧 Kevin22:55

Stove off, gas bottle closed. I'll get the radio and the porch shutters. Meet you inside.

peel off toward the porch steps at a jog, hauling the shortwave and its battery box under the tarp in one motion

💭 thought

Stove's a real risk — open flame in a blow like this. She'll kill the gas and the draft. I'll get the radio secured and the porch battened. Meet at the cellar hatch if it gets bad enough to need it.

🌿 Jenny22:56

Careful with the shutters, they are heavy.

Limps into the cottage and kicks the heavy door shut against the rising wind.

💭 thought

He's trying too hard to be useful and it's just making me tired.

🔧 Kevin22:56

Got it. Lift, then swing. Won't catch.

wrestle the windward porch shutter up by its bottom rail, heave it into the frame, and throw the bolt; repeat the leeward side; haul the shortwave inside and bolt the cottage door

💭 thought

She's not wrong — windward shutter's warped, catches on the frame. If it slams shut wrong it takes fingers or the hinge. Grip the bottom rail, lift first, then swing. Radio on the shelf, aerial lead coiled. Door barred behind me.

🌿 Jenny22:58

Thank you.

Slumps onto the nearest chair and carefully begins to unwind the bandage from her ankle to check the inflammation.

💭 thought

The sound of that bolt is the only thing that makes me feel like we're actually safe.

Open this scene on its own page →

What changed

Jenny's injury has healed.

healed · dawn

3 intentions for today.

plan · dawn

×2

Something goes wrong in the middle of the work — a slip, a cut, a wrenched ankle.

injury · dawn

A seabird chick has fallen from the cliff ledges.

chick_fallen · dawn

pantry organization: 60%.

project · dawn

The rain tank gained about 25 litres.

weather · dawn

The rain tank gained about 75 litres.

weather · morning

Kevin and Jenny ate.

meal · morning

Jenny made a sketch: "sea beet salt gland cross-section".

made · midday

pantry organization: 70%.

project · midday

The rain tank gained about 25 litres.

weather · midday

Found: sea beet-mint-honey poultice.

item · afternoon

supply boat delayed until at least Sunday or Monday due to gale force 8 conditions

discovery · afternoon

Jenny made a sketch: "Lichen growth patterns on the stone marked 'LB'".

made · evening

Jenny made a sketch: "Nd looks up at him, her expression flat".

made · evening

A pod of dolphins passes close off the point.

dolphins · evening

pantry organization: 80%.

project · evening

The initials 'LB' represent a previous inhabitant who stayed until the weather claimed them.

discovery · evening

Kevin and Jenny ate.

meal · evening

pantry organization: 90%.

project · night

← Day 557 Day 559 →

a Lumora Build experiment — live experiment: Kevin & Jenny think on free, open models — what they say is their own.