Day 579

Lines are holding. Dock’s settling like it should. You want a hand with that crate? Or just sit and watch the water go?

I lean back on my heels, still gripping the mooring line where it passes through the ring, feeling the tension ease as the tide drops another inch. I don’t move to help her up—I let her stay where she is, elevated, resting.

That tin’s seen more storms than I have. Still holds. (I pause, voice low.) I didn’t come here because the sea wouldn’t take me back. I came because I chose to stay. And I’m not leaving—not for the boat, not for the mainland, not even for the silence. I’m here because you’re here.

I don’t reach for the tin. I don’t touch her hand. Instead, I shift my weight slightly, turning my body to face her fully—shoulders square, eyes on hers—letting the words settle between us like the tide settling on the sand. I wait.

Yeah. It’s moving quick. Like it’s trying to get away before the wind shifts. (I glance at the horizon, then back at her.) You know… I used to think if I stayed long enough, the sea would forget I ever left. Turns out, it’s not the sea I’m waiting for. It’s you.

I slowly lower myself onto the damp planks beside her crate—not too close, not too far—just close enough that if she shifts, her shoulder might brush mine. I don’t look at the tin. I don’t look at the water.

Kevin — walk to the waterlogged crate at the dock’s end, grab the crowbar, and pry it loose from the surf, dragging it clear of the rising tide onto the higher planks before it slips back.

Aye. Got it.

Shift the crowbar to the inner face of the crate, brace a boot on the sound plank, and heave it another foot up the jetty, clear of the soft spot, then wedge a timber strip under the corner so it won’t slide back when the swell hits.

Aye. Always is. Hand me that rope from the dinghy—let’s lash this crate to the bollard before it floats off.

Take the coiled half-inch rope Jenny passes, make two fast turns around the mooring bollard, then run a clove hitch over the crate’s corner and haul it tight, checking the knot won’t slip on the wet wood.

It’s fast. Three turns and a stopper knot—won’t budge even if the dock takes a green sea.

Finish the lashing with a round turn and two half-hitches, pull the rope till it sings, then tuck the tail under the last turn. Step back and give the crate a hard shove to test it—holds firm.

Just securing the seed trays—be right behind you.

Scoop the two seedling trays showing fungal fuzz from the garden shelf, carry them to the cottage door, and drop them into the metal tin marked 'E' by the shrine, then snap the lid shut and follow Jenny inside, shaking salt from my sleeves.