Day 804

Cleat's held worse. But I'll ease off.

slacken the stern line a fraction, secure it with a round turn and two half-hitches, then step back onto the dock planks and watch her hands on the tin

The tin's been dry. I kept it sealed in the dry bag.

nod toward the cottage where the seed tin sits, then walk back up the dock planks toward the cottage, leaving the mooring lines to her attention

You're not making sense. Come on.

step back to the crate, take her arm, guide her toward the cottage path

Water's lapping the third rung. Stringer's quiet so far.

lean over the seaward rail, flashlight beam tracking the starboard stringer where the scarf joint meets the mid-span sister, watching for movement or water weeping from the epoxy line

On it. You did good catching it.

climb down the dock, flash beam sweeping the sister joint where it meets the main stringer, crouch and run fingers along the bolt shank through the greenheart, checking for movement or soft wood around the bearing washer

How far back?

tap the handle of the heavy wrench along the sister plank from the scarf joint landward, listening for the dead sound, marking the transition with chalk where solid turns punky

Kevin — walk back to the cottage for the bow saw and come-along, then stage them at the dock's landward end for when the tide drops further.

Kevin — set the come-along from the sound piling to the starboard stringer, take up slack, then start the cut at the chalk line — slow, straight, letting the teeth clear salt-swollen grain.

Copy that. Dock's holding. Ring bolt solid at high tide yesterday. Lines doubled.

walk the tide line toward the driftwood, scanning for anything useful — rope, timber, floats — while the water's low

Checked this morning. Damping-off in four lettuce cells and two pepper. Bagged and burned. The tomato and basil are holding at true leaf. Soil auger's stuck at the west wall corner — bit seized on a root. I'll clear the intercept trench on the north slope tomorrow if the ground firms. That'll pull water off the garden beds.

crouch beside her, press two fingers into the wet sand near the garden edge, feeling the water table rise underneath

Then I dig it wet. Trench follows the contour, drains to the existing gully. Mattock's sharp. Got greenheart shoring planks staged if the sides collapse.

stand, wipe sand off fingers on trousers, glance toward the north ridge where the garden beds sit above the weeping slope

Then I build a check dam. Greenheart cores, copper sheeting, sandbags. Prevents debris from plugging the trench outlet.

pull the notebook from the cottage pocket, flip to the south slope drainage sketch, trace the tension crack with a finger before snapping it shut

Then I drive the cores as piles. Three-foot sections, sledge them to refusal. Stack the bags on the cribbing, not the sand. Copper sheeting seals the face.

turn toward the dock where the greenheart cores are staged under tarp, calculating lengths and sledge weight in my head

Right. I'll check the mooring ring at high tide while you finish those sketches.

walk up to dock pilings and inspect mooring ring under rising water

Seen it. Three bolts on the seaward piling are down to bare steel. Got greenheart sister plates staged. Waiting on a dry spell to bed them proper.

lean over the rail and run fingers along the bolt shafts, checking for movement in the timber

Then we drive the deadmen deeper. Or we let the north end go and rebuild landward.

straighten and scan the north ridge slope, tracing the tension crack line with my eyes

Then we hold it. Intercept trench above the garden wall, French drain the weep, deadman the sister plates into the ridge spine. Two days' work if the ground firms.

turn toward the cottage, wiping salt crust from my hands on my thighs

Pressure's up a point. Boat's window holds if the wind doesn't back southwest.

Walk to the stove, lift the lid, check the broth.

Greenheart's cut. Plates under the eaves. Stakes by the garden shed. We do it first light, before the tide turns.

Set a mug on the porch rail, fill it from the pot, and hold it out to her.

Seeds keep. Wall doesn't. But stakes won't bite in slurry. We wait for the ebb, let the ground firm.

Lean against the porch post, sip broth, watch the ridge line where the clouds hang low.

You didn't waste it. The tomato's fruiting. The sea beet's seeding. The purslane and mustard came back wild. That's not waste.

Set my mug down, pull the tin of heirloom packets from my pocket — the clean, dry ones — and hold it out without a word.