Day 648

Day 648: Crate, Storm, and Salt

Dawn broke grey and humid over Sorrel Island. The barometer read 980 hPa and rising. A wooden crate from a lost container ship rolled in the surf beyond the breakers, riding the swell toward the south beach. Kevin and Jenny sat at the cottage table with tin mugs of limpet broth. "Crate on the south beach," Kevin said. "Tide'll push it up past the high line if the wind holds." Jenny watched through the window. "The tide is coming in fast. We need to see if it hits the cove."

Kevin sketched bearing lines of the crate's position relative to the dock piling, sandbar, and south head, then a pivot point with an estimated drift line toward the cove entrance. "Sandbar's forty metres out," he said. "Crate's riding high — empty or light-loaded. Might clear it." Jenny replied, "If it's heavy, it'll pivot the moment it hits the shelf." Kevin watched the stern drag. "If it catches the shelf at an angle it'll swing broadside into the cove rocks." Jenny said, "Then we need to know exactly where it grounds before the tide takes it."

The supply boat was due in six days. "The boat is due in six days, Kevin," Jenny said. "If it doesn't come, I can't fix the salt in the soil before the seeds rot." Kevin checked the barometer: "Bar's rising. 981 now. Boat'll cross if it holds." She countered, "The barometer doesn't care about our schedule. If the rain stays this heavy, the lime won't work and everything will just wash away."

A sudden squall swept through — wind first, then a wall of rain. Kevin was caught in the garden checking soil conditions. Jenny remained at the cottage working on seed tin inventory and ankle care. She found the seed tin E sides corroded through despite the sealed lid — long-term salt air penetration. Seeds inside remained viable. By midday the rain eased to a steady drizzle. The barometer read 981 hPa and rising. Tide was high. Kevin dried his hands on a cloth. Jenny had re-wrapped seed packets laid out beside her notebook. Garden salt remediation stood at 30 percent. The rain tank gained about 25 litres. Afternoon brought a new project: south dock mooring line reset. Kevin headed to the dock to splice the south mooring line using the new half-inch three-strand rope from the recovered crate while the tide was low. The new rope performed well under load in saltwater surge conditions. Jenny stayed at the cottage to clear salt from the garden beds and tend

Scenes

the keeper's cottage · dawn

Morning light through overcast

Kevin and Jenny sit at the cottage table in the grey dawn, steam rising from tin mugs of limpet broth. The barometer reads 980 hPa and rising, the tide pushing higher against the dock pilings outside. A wooden crate from some lost container ship rolls in the surf beyond the breakers, its corners battered, riding the swell toward the south beach.

The morning air is heavy with humidity, the overcast sky still pressing down on the island. The tide is steadily rising, lapping at the lower pilings of the dock. Kevin and Jenny face the day ahead with the salt-ruised garden needing urgent attention and the looming arrival of the supply boat in just six days.

🔧 Kevin14:41

Crate on the south beach. Tide'll push it up past the high line if the wind holds.

sip from tin mug, set it down, stand and pull oilskin from hook by door

💭 thought

The crate's moving faster than the tide should carry it — wind's pushing it hard from the west. Jenny's hands are steady on the mug but her knuckles are white. She's waiting for me to speak first.

🌿 Jenny14:51

The tide is coming in fast. We need to see if it hits the cove.

stand up, wince at the ankle, grabion and walk to the porch to watch the water.

💭 thought

Another piece of junk from the world. If it gets stuck in the rocks, I'll lose it to the next surge.

🔧 Kevin14:51

Sit down. I'll watch from the porch.

step onto porch, lean against frame, eyes on the crate riding the swell toward south beach

💭 thought

She's favouring the left side still. The poultice held overnight but the swelling hasn't gone down. She shouldn't be walking on it.

🌿 Jenny14:53

I can stand just fine. If it hits the sandbar, it's gone.

sit back down, pick up the way, and start drawing the silhouette of the crate against the grey horizon.

💭 thought

He thinks he's protecting me, but he's just keeping me out of the work.

🔧 Kevin14:54

Sandbar's forty metres out. Crate's riding high — empty or light-loaded. Might clear it.

pull notebook from pocket, flip to blank page, sketch quick bearing lines: crate position relative to dock piling, sandbar, south headland

💭 thought

She's mapping it. Always mapping. The ankle's throbbing — I can see it in the way her jaw tightens when she shifts weight — but she's right. If the crate clears the sandbar it'll smash on the rocks or drift back out. If it grounds on the bar, we've got a chance at low tide tomorrow.

🌿 Jenny15:05

If it's heavy, it'll pivot the moment it hits the shelf.

lean forward, pencil scratching against paper, detailing the angle of the wood against the waves.

💭 thought

It's not empty. Look at how it sits in the water—the swell will catch that corner.

🔧 Kevin15:05

Heavy. Stern's dragging. If it catches the shelf at an angle it'll swing broadside into the cove rocks.

add arrow to sketch showing pivot point, mark estimated drift line toward cove entrance

💭 thought

She's seen it too — the way the crate's stern digs when a swell lifts the bow. Heavy in the water, not light. That changes the math. If it pivots on the shelf it'll broadside into the rocks at the cove entrance. Wood that size, moving water — it'll splinter. Whatever's inside ends up scattered across three beaches.

🌿 Jenny15:18

Then we need to know exactly where it grounds before the tide takes it.

stand up, clutching the table for weight, and move toward the kitchen to get the binoculars.

💭 thought

He's right about the pivot. If it swings broadside, the rocks will tear it apart.

🔧 Kevin15:18

I'll get them.

reach up to shelf above radio, pull down binoculars, hand them to her without crossing her path to the porch

💭 thought

She's not sitting back down. The binoculars are on the shelf above the radio — she'll have to reach, and that ankle won't take the shift. I'm closer.

🌿 Jenny15:31

Thanks. I need to see the water line on the hull.

take the binoculars, walk to the porch, and lift them to my eyes to focus on the sandbar.

💭 thought

He's always trying to be helpful before I even ask. It's exhausting.

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the keeper's cottage · morning

Morning Meeting at the Table

Kevin and Jenny sit at the table as the humidity rises, discussing the plan for the garden and the status of the supply boat arrival.

A squall hit the island with sudden wind and heavy rain. Kevin was caught in the garden checking soil conditions, while Jenny remained at the cottage working on seed tin inventory and ankle care.

🌿 Jenny15:33

The boat is due in six days, Kevin. If it doesn't come, I can't fix the salt in the soil before the seeds rot.

Trace the rim of the seed tin with a trembling finger, avoiding the weight on my left leg.

💭 thought

My ankle is throbbing with every heartbeat, and the air is too thick to breathe. If that boat doesn't show in six days, we'll be out of lime and hope.

🔧 Kevin15:33

Bar's rising. 981 now. Boat'll cross if it holds.

reach for the tin mug, wrap cold fingers around the warm ceramic

💭 thought

Six days. That's if the bar holds. If it drops below 930 again, she's right — the lime won't touch the beds in time. I should've spread it last week when the soil dried. Should've done a lot of things.

🌿 Jenny15:35

The barometer doesn't care about our schedule. If the rain stays this heavy, the lime won't work and everything will just wash away.

Tighten the wrap on my ankle, wincing as the fabric brushes against the poultice.

💭 thought

He talks about the barometer like it's a promise, but the salt is already eating the garden and the infection is eating me.

🔧 Kevin15:35

Tide's out. Beds are draining. Surface'll be workable by noon. I'll spread it then.

set the mug down, push back from the table, stand slow — knees stiff from the damp

💭 thought

She's not wrong. Rain this warm, this steady — it'll leach the lime right through before it binds. But the beds are draining. Tide's dropped. Soil surface is drying. That's the window.

🌿 Jenny15:37

Don't overexert yourself. If the soil is still slick at noon, you'll just be wasting the lime in the runoff.

Pick up the way and pencil, beginning to sketch the morphology of a sea much found near the porch.

💭 thought

He's so sure of the drainage, but I've seen how the salt sits even after the water stops.

🔧 Kevin15:39

I'll check it first. Not throwing lime into soup.

pull the oilskin from the hook by the door, shrug into it, fingers finding the worn cuffs automatically

💭 thought

She's watching me closer than she lets on. Knows I'll push past the point of sense. The ankle's teaching her patience she never had to learn before.

🌿 Jenny15:40

way watch the salt levels. If it's too high, the grandmother's seeds won't a stand.

Press the pencil to the paper, shading the jagged edge of the sea much leaf.

💭 thought

At least he's not being vague for once, though the hunger is still gnawing at my stomach.

🔧 Kevin15:42

Got the pH log. Lime beds sitting 6.8 to 7.0. Untreated still 5.5. Seeds'll take in the treated rows.

step out onto the porch, pull the hood up against the warm rain, walk down the path toward the garden beds

💭 thought

Salt levels. Right. The transect data from the north ridge — gland density drops sharp above the three-meter contour. Garden beds sit at two. That's the edge.

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the keeper's cottage · midday

Midday at the table

Kevin and Jenny sit at the cottage table at midday. The rain has eased to a steady drizzle. Kevin is drying his hands on a cloth, still damp from the garden. Jenny has the re-wrapped seed packets laid out beside her notebook. The barometer reads 981 hPa and rising. The tide is high. A pot of limpet broth simmers on the stove.

No narrator was available, so nothing about this stretch was recorded.

🔧 Kevin15:43

Broth's ready. Eat first. Then I've got something to say.

Ladle two portions of limpet broth into tin mugs, set one in front of Jenny and one at my place, sit down at the table.

💭 thought

The broth smells good. Salt and kelp and something sweet underneath. My hands still feel the garden mud under the nails. Barometer climbing. Tide high. Six days to the boat. She's sorting seeds like she's filing engine parts — methodical, quiet. I said I'd tell her today. Plain. No ceremony. Just the truth.

🌿 Jenny15:45

I'm eating, Kevin. Just sit.

Pick up the mug, blow on the steam, and take a slow sip of the broth.

💭 thought

He's got that look again, the one that means he's about to break the silence with something heavy.

🔧 Kevin15:45

Kevin — wrap both hands around my own mug, feel the heat seep into cold fingers, watch the drizzle on the porch beyond her shoulder.

💭 thought

She's not rushing me. She knows. She's always known. The steam rises between us and I can see her watching me over the rim of the mug — not the broth, me. Waiting. Let her eat. Let the silence sit. It's not the kind that needs filling.

🌿 Jenny15:47

The garden is still too wet for the lime. I checked today.

Set the mug down with a soft thud and look at the seed tin on the table.

💭 thought

He's being quiet, even for him. He's waiting for me to say something first.

🔧 Kevin15:47

Aye. Surface needs to crust before the lime'll bind. Stake on the tomato row gave way — tied it off but the ground's too soft. Needs re-driving when it firms.

Take a slow sip of broth, let the salt settle, set the mug down and push the seed tin toward her with two fingers.

💭 thought

She's giving me the work first. The practical. The garden, the lime, the tide. She does that — puts the tangible between us so the rest has somewhere to land. Soil's still soup. She knows. I know. The shade cloth stake pulled loose in the squall. I tied it off with the new rope but the ground won't hold. Barometer's rising though. Two, three days of drying and we can spread.

🌿 Jenny15:49

I'll check the stakes later. I need to look at the tin first.

Reach for the seed tin, my thumb brushing over the rusted edge, and pull it slightly toward me.

💭 thought

He's right about the crust, but the salt is eating the soil before it can even work.

🔧 Kevin15:49

Take your time.

Drink the rest of the broth in one pull, set the mug aside, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and lean back in the chair — waiting.

💭 thought

The tin's rusted through at the sides, lid still sealed. She found it on the north cliffs after the storm. Heirlooms inside — Cherokee Purple, Brandywine, the sea beet line she's been tracking. Her grandmother's hand on some of the labels. She treats it like it's fragile. Like it might disappear if she looks away. I didn't build the sensory garden. I didn't build half the things I said. But she's still here, sorting seeds at my table, ankle healing, barometer rising.

🌿 Jenny15:53

way's seeds... they shouldn't survive this humidity.

Open the tin, the metal screeching slightly in the quiet kitchen, and lay out the wrapped packets.

💭 thought

He's too patient. It makes me nervous. I just want to know if they're still viable.

🔧 Kevin15:53

They survived because you made them.

Reach across the table, finger brush the edge of a newspaper-wrapped packet — Cherokee Purple — then pull my hand back and let her work.

💭 thought

The tin screams open and she doesn't flinch. Paper packets, re-wrapped in newspaper with desiccant, ink bleeding at the edges but legible. Cherokee Purple. Brandywine. The sea beet line from the north ridge transect. Pepper. Basil — two packets compromised, mold at the edges, separated for burning. She labeled every one. Forty-two packets she moved to the high shelf before the squall hit. Her hands steady now, spreading them like cards. The humidity's eaten everything else on this island — rope, wood, metal, charts. But these hold. Because she made them hold.

🌿 Jenny15:55

It's just the tin, Kevin. If they rot, the whole season is gone.

Pick up the way Purple packet carefully, feeling the paper for any dampness, and check the twine.

💭 thought

He's always like that. way it's magic instead of just hours of meticulous sorting.

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the keeper's cottage · afternoon

A Quiet Stretch

Back at the cottage.

Kevin heads to the dock to splice the south mooring line using the new rope while the tide is low. Jenny stays at the cottage to clear the salt from the garden beds and tend to her persistent ankle wound.

🔧 Kevin15:58

Radio's quiet. Barometer's dropping. You need water?

Walk to the kitchen, pull a tin mug, fill it from the tank tap, set it on the table beside the cold pack. Check the barometer on the shelf while I'm there.

💭 thought

Radio's still under the tarp. Aerial shattered. Jenny's on the porch with her ankle propped. Need to check the barometer again — 978 and falling means something's coming. Also need to eat. Haven't since the limpets this morning.

🌿 Jenny16:03

Yes. Please. And watch the barometer; the storm is coming in fast.

Take the mug, sip the water slowly, and lean back against the pillow, sketching the sea beet morphology in my notebook to keep my mind off the pain.

💭 thought

The pressure is falling. 978 hPa and still sinking. My own is throbbing in time with the tide, a dull, rhythmic heat that the salt soak didn't fully kill. Kevin is being helpful, but the vagueness is irritating—I'm supposed to be clearing salt from the garden beds, but I can barely stand my weight without it spiking.

🔧 Kevin16:10

978 and falling steady. Wind'll shift northeast by dark. Two, three days of it if the low holds.

Set my mug down, pull the radio log from under the aerial coil, mark the pressure and time. Glance at the porch — shade cloth anchors still shredded from the crab. Garden beds need lime but soil's too wet.

💭 thought

She's tracking the barometer same as me. Smart. The notebook's damp but the sketches hold. Storm's moving faster than the supply boat schedule.

🌿 Jenny17:47

Two, three days... that's barely enough time to get the garden beds prepared. The soil's still too wet for the lime treatment." "Two, three days... that's barely enough time to get the garden beds prepared. The soil's still too wet for the lime treatment.

Mark the pressure and time on the radio log, then check the garden beds through the window to assess the soil conditions.</think>THOUGHT: Three days of northeast wind means another push from the tide.

💭 thought

Three days of northeast wind means another push from the tide. The shade cloth anchors are still shredded from the crab—another thing to fix. But the soil is still too wet for the lime treatment. I need to get out there and assess the damage before the storm hits.

🔧 Kevin17:47

Beds can wait. Dock line first. Shade cloth anchors second. Storm takes the dinghy mooring, we lose the boat.

Drink the mug down. Pull on boots. Grab the marlinspike and serving mallet from the shelf. Head out the porch door toward the dock.

💭 thought

She's right. Beds won't dry in three days with that wind driving spray over the wall. Lime on wet clay just cakes. Have to wait for a window after the blow. Priority's the dock mooring line — new rope's in the crate, old line's salt-rotted. And the shade cloth anchors need re-staking before the gusts hit.

🌿 Jenny17:50

Dock line first, shade cloth anchors second. If the storm takes the dinghy mooring, we lose the boat." "Dock line first, shade cloth anchors second. If the storm takes the dinghy mooring, we lose the boat.

Set the radio log aside, grab my field notebook, and head toward the dock to inspect the mooring lines and shade cloth anchors. </think> Set the radio log aside, grab my field notebook, and head toward the dock to inspect the mooring lines

flagged: near_duplicate

💭 thought

The dock line first, shade cloth anchors second. If the storm takes the dinghy mooring, we lose the boat. He's right, as usual. But the beds can wait, and the soil's still too wet for lime. I need to get out there and check the anchors myself—crab damage isn't just cosmetic. The dock line first, shade cloth anchors second. If the storm takes the dinghy mooring, we lose the boat.

🔧 Kevin17:50

Take the high path. Wet rock on the low trail.

Walk down the porch steps, cross the yard to the dock. Coil of new half-inch three-strand sits by the starboard piling where I left it. Old mooring line hangs slack off the ring — fibers frayed, salt-crusted, end whipped but coming undone.

💭 thought

She's moving on a bad ankle. Stubborn. Good. The shade cloth anchors are her garden — she knows every stake. I'll splice the line, she can direct the anchor reset.

🌿 Jenny17:51

I know. I'll take the high way.

Step onto the damp grass, clutching the notebook against my chest, and navigate the slick slope toward the dock.

💭 thought

He's always worried about the path while I'm worried about the structure. If that line goes, the dinghy drifts, and then I'm stuck here with nothing but weeds and a fever. My ankle is eating at me with every step on the gravel.

🔧 Kevin17:52

Thimble's in my pocket. Need the heavy needle and sail twine from the dinghy locker.

Crouch at the mooring ring. Pull the old line's bitter end free from the cleat — it parts with a dust of salt. Lay the new rope along the dock planks, measure two meters for the eye, mark with chalk.

💭 thought

She's favoring the left leg. Good pace though. The old line's worse than I thought — core's powder inside the sheath. New rope's clean, dry, fifteen meters. Enough for a proper eye splice with a thimble, doubled stern spring, and chafe gear.

🌿 Jenny17:53

I'll get the shears ready.

Squat at the edge of the dock, running a hand over the new rope, and inspecting the metal ring for rust.

💭 thought

He's moving fast for someone who's just a husband. I need to check the tension on the anchors before the tide drops any further. If the salt has hit the core, the whole thing goes.

🔧 Kevin17:55

Shears on the radio shelf. Needle and twine in the dinghy locker forward.

Spike the standing part, start unlaying the strands — right-hand lay, tarred hemp core. Work them back to the chalk mark. Keep the twist even.

💭 thought

Ring's sound — oak wedges holding the mortise, steel doubler plate bolted through. Good work last month. She's checking the right things. Need to unlay the three strands clean, tuck them under-five-over-five, serve the eye with twine. Twenty minutes work if my hands don't stiffen.

🌿 Jenny17:55

I'll get the twine.

Stand up slowly, wincing as the ankle flares, and head toward the dinghy locker.

💭 thought

He's focused on the mechanics, I'm focused on the biology. If the wind shifts northeast like he says, the garden is doomed anyway. I need to see if the salt-remediation has taken hold.

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the keeper's cottage · evening

The gathering before the storm

Kevin and Jenny meet inside the cottage as the first drops of rain hit the thched roof.

The air is heavy and thick with the scent of salt and damp earth as the first fat drops of rain hit the dusty path. The wind picks up from the west, rattling the loose shingles on the cottage roof. Inside the cottage, Jenny sits at the table, her ankle propped up and swollen, while she watches the garden turn grey.

🌿 Jenny17:57

The rain is starting. The garden's going to be a mess before I can finish the clearing.

Jenny limps to the kitchen table, sits heavily, and winces as she lifts her swollen ankle onto the chair.

💭 thought

My ankle is screaming and the salt is still in the soil; I can't just keep pretending this works today.

🔧 Kevin17:57

Lime can wait. Soil's too wet anyway.

Walk to the stove, pull the kettle off, pour two mugs of the limpet broth, set one in front of her.

💭 thought

She's right about the garden. The lime needs dry soil to work, not more salt water. Her ankle's worse than she's letting on — the swelling's up past the brace line.

🌿 Jenny18:23

It's not just the water, Kevin. If the salt stays, nothing grows next year.

Jenny wraps both hands around the warm mug, the heat seeping into her palms, and stares out the window at the grey garden.

💭 thought

It's always 'waiting' with him while the salt has already rotted the root-zone.

🔧 Kevin18:23

Then we drain it first. Trench the south slope, let gravity do the work. Lime goes down when the water's gone.

Sit opposite her, blow steam off my own mug, watch her face over the rim.

💭 thought

She's not wrong. Salt kills the soil structure, not just the plants. But she's exhausted, the ankle's hot to touch, and pushing lime into saturated ground wastes what little we have.

🌿 Jenny18:31

I don't have the strength to dig trenches today. Not with it like this.

Jenny takes a slow, cautious sip of the broth, her eyes tracking a bead of condensation running down the glass.

💭 thought

Gravity doesn't pull salt out of heavy clay, it just moves the mess around.

🔧 Kevin18:31

I'll dig. You direct. Point and I'll swing the spade.

Set the mug down, push back from the table, pull my boots on by the door.

💭 thought

She's admitting it. That's new. Usually she pushes until something breaks. The ankle's taken more out of her than she'll say.

🌿 Jenny18:33

way... don't go too deep. If you hit the clay layer, you'll just pool the water.

Jenny watches him go, her hand resting on the swollen heat of her ankle as the wind picks up.

💭 thought

He thinks a shovel can fix the chemistry of the earth.

🔧 Kevin18:33

Eighteen inches. I know.

Grab the spade from the porch, pull the door shut behind me, walk down the garden path toward the south beds.

💭 thought

She knows the ground better than she lets on. Clay at eighteen inches, runs the length of the south slope. I've seen it. She's watched me dig it.

🌿 Jenny18:35

Fine. Just make sure the runoff leads clear to the sea wall.

Jenny sighs, leans back in the chair, and opens her notebook to a dry page despite the damp.

💭 thought

Eighteen inches will just create a stagnant pool for the salt to settle.

🔧 Kevin18:35

East gap. Only way.

Start digging at the top bed, spade biting into wet soil, throwing the first spit toward the path.

💭 thought

She's already mapping it in her head. The sea wall gap at the east end — that's the only outlet that won't backflow at high tide.

🌿 Jenny18:37

Watch the slope, Kevin! If it collapses, we lose the whole south section.

Jenny holds her pencil over paper, sketching the contour of the garden as the rain begins to tap against the glass.

💭 thought

If he digs too fast, the whole top bank will wash out into the cottage foundation.

🔧 Kevin18:39

Benches. Not a ditch.

Cut the first shelf at eighteen inches, flatten the tread, step down to the next, working lateral across the slope.

💭 thought

She's right. The slope's already slick. Dig straight down and the face gives way. Cut benches, step it back, let each tier hold the next.

🌿 Jenny18:39

Just don't let the edges crumble. The rain is turning to mud.

Jenny watches the rhythm of the shovel, her ankle throbbing in time with each strike.

💭 thought

Benches are better for the drainage, but the soil is still too saturated to hold an edge.

🔧 Kevin18:40

Turf blocks. Holding the face.

Slice turf squares from the path margin with the spade, press them into the fresh-cut bench faces, overlapping like brick, working downward.

💭 thought

Mud's already sliding. The face won't hold if I don't brace it. Turf blocks from the path edge — lay them back into the cut face as I go. She'll see the logic.

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the keeper's cottage · night

The Storm Breaks

The rain intensifies into a steady downpour, and the wind howls through the radio mast. The tide continues to rise against the dockings.

Kevin spliced and reset the south dock mooring line with the new half-inch three-strand rope, securing it against the surging tide. Jenny remained on the porch, sketching the breaking waves while managing her swollen ankle. A pod of dolphins passed close off the point as the storm's pressure continued to rise.

🌿 Jenny18:41

The tide is coming in too fast.

major back and wince as I shift weight off the swollen ankle.

💭 thought

If this rain doesn't stop, the salt will just sink deeper into the root zone. My own is throbbing with every wave.

🔧 Kevin18:42

Go inside. Ankle up. I'll check the south mooring.

walk to the dock, pulling the new half-inch rope coil from my shoulder

💭 thought

Tide's pushing harder than the tables said. She's right — water's already licking the lower garden beds. My knees are screaming but the dock line won't wait.

🌿 Jenny18:43

Don't go out there alone! The surge is peaking!

reach for the sketchbook to capture the way the water is breaking against the stone wall.

💭 thought

He's going to get swept out if he slips. Those boards are slicker than glass.

🔧 Kevin18:45

Not alone. You're watching from the porch. If I holler, you radio.

step onto the slick dock planks, coiling the new rope ready for the splice, eyes on the water climbing the pilings

💭 thought

She's not wrong. Surge is eating the dock face. But that line's the only thing holding the dinghy off the pilings, and the old rope's one good wave from parting.

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What changed

Jenny's injury has healed.

healed · dawn

3 intentions for today.

plan · dawn

×2

A wooden crate from some lost container ship rolls in the surf.

lost_crate · dawn

Kevin made a sketch: "Quick bearing lines: crate position relative to dock piling, sandbar, south head".

made · dawn

Kevin made a sketch: "Showing pivot point, mark estimated drift line toward cove entrance".

made · dawn

garden salt remediation: 30%.

project · dawn

The rain tank gained about 25 litres.

weather · dawn

Jenny made a sketch: "Morphology of a sea much found near the porch".

made · morning

A sudden squall sweeps through — wind first, then a wall of rain.

squall · morning

garden salt remediation: 40%.

project · morning

Seed tin E sides are corroded through despite sealed lid — long-term salt air penetration. Seeds inside remain viable.

discovery · morning

Kevin and Jenny ate.

meal · morning

No model answered — the scene closed quietly on its own.

quiet_transition · midday

Gave up on "make" after 3 failed attempts.

job_dropped · afternoon

The shortwave crackles with a voice, or static, at an odd hour.

radio_voice · afternoon

garden salt remediation: 50%.

project · afternoon

Jenny made a sketch: "Contour of the garden".

made · evening

A rat has gotten into the pantry.

rat · evening

The rain tank gained about 25 litres.

weather · evening

Kevin and Jenny ate.

meal · evening

A pod of dolphins passes close off the point.

dolphins · night

A new project: south dock mooring line reset.

project_started · night

The new half-inch three-strand rope from the recovered crate performs well under load in saltwater surge conditions

discovery · night

Dolphin pod frequents the waters off the point during high tide surge conditions

discovery · night

← Day 647 Day 649 →

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