Day 887

Low Tide Repair and Rising Squall

Dawn found the tide retreating from the pilings, exposing salt-crusted wood and the smell of rotting kelp. Kevin inspected the Yanmar for corrosion while Jenny adjusted her wrapped ankle. At lowest water they turned to the dock's decayed sections. The greenheart planks suffered internal rot; through-bolt holes wept at high tide. Jenny warned Kevin off the third plank, marked earlier. The mortise was split to heartwood, wedges soft, the doubler plate carrying the mooring ring for now. Jenny insisted on epoxy first — wood like wet paper — and Kevin bulked it with sawdust, packed the mortise, drove three oak wedges per side and the final stainless through-bolt into the sister plate while she debrided her ankle and applied a fresh sea beet and honey poultice.

Midday brought corned beef broth and a rising tide. Barometer held at 1001 hPa, overcast unbroken. They watched the swell pound the repair; epoxy stayed tacky in the humidity. Afternoon engine test: Yanmar idled steady at 950 RPM, minimal vibration, new fuel line clean, no smoke. Current turned in twenty minutes; they tested at idle only. Jenny sketched clouds bruising the horizon; Kevin dated a thin graphite line.

Evening squall hit sudden — wind, then wall of rain. Grass went slick. Kevin lunged for seedling trays, boots sliding; Jenny reached the kitchen door as sheets drummed the tin roof. Inside, wood stove light, air thick with wet earth and heat. Damping-off spread in lettuce and pepper trays despite charcoal. Rain tank gained twenty-five litres. They moved delicate trays inside against salt spray. Jenny rested her swollen ankle. Barometer dropping fast — six hours, maybe less.

Scenes

the dock · dawn

Low Tide Prep and Salt Spray

Kevin and Jenny stand on the dock planks as the tide begins to retreat from the pilings. Jenny adjusts her wrapped ankle while Kevin inspects the Yanmar engine for signs of corrosion from the humidity.

The tide is receding, exposing the slick, salt-crusted wood beneath the dock. The heavy humidity clings like a weight, smelling of salt and rotting kelp. Kevin and Jenny are working at the waterline, inspecting the structural integrity of the pilings before the water returns to hide them.

🔧 Kevin04:17

Tide's right. Swell's down. Hour, maybe two, before it turns.

crouch at the north piling, probe the mortise with a screwdriver blade, testing the oak wedges for movement

💭 thought

She's favoring the left side more than yesterday. The poultice held through the night but the swelling hasn't dropped. Tide's falling clean — good window for the pilings if the swell stays down. Yanmar's breathing fine at idle, but that vibration above eighteen hundred RPM hasn't gone anywhere. Prop shaft or the mast bracket. Or both.

🌿 Jenny04:17

Check the south side too. The salt is eating the wood there.

Lean against the cottage wall, shifting weight to the good leg, and watch the water recede from the rocks.

💭 thought

If those wedges are loose, the whole way will go before the next boat even arrives.

🔧 Kevin04:18

South side's next. Greenheart plank's sound but the through-bolt holes weep at high tide.

walk the dock planks toward the seaward end, testing each step before committing weight

💭 thought

South side took the brunt of the last swell. Greenheart's holding but the sister plate bolts were wet when I torqued them — epoxy never cured right in this humidity. She sees what I see.

🌿 Jenny04:19

Don't step on the third plank from the end. I marked it.

Point a finger toward the red chalk marks on the weathered timber.

💭 thought

He's walking like the wood is made of sugar. It is, in some places.

🔧 Kevin04:20

Seen it.

skip the marked plank, step onto the fourth, continue to the south piling, crouch and probe the mortise with the screwdriver blade

💭 thought

Right. She marked it yesterday when the tide was up. Third from seaward — the one with the soft core near the landward cleat. Chalk's faded but the X is still there.

🌿 Jenny04:21

The wedges are soft. The rot has already won.

Rub the bandage on my ankle, wincing at the throbbing heat of the infection.

💭 thought

It's moving. I can see the fibers shifting under his weight.

🔧 Kevin04:22

Wedges are shot. Mortise is punky. Doubler plate's carrying it for now.

drive the screwdriver deeper into the mortise wall to gauge the rot depth, then stand and scan the doubler plate bolts for rust streaks

💭 thought

She's not wrong. Oak wedges went in green, salt's been eating them since the last storm. Mortise walls are punky — screwdriver sinks half an inch. The ring's only holding because the doubler plate's taking the load. But the plate's only as good as the bolts, and two of those went in wet. If the epoxy didn't grab...

🌿 Jenny04:23

We can't leave it. If the doubler plate slips, the mooring ring goes with it.

Limp a few steps closer, squinting at the bolts to see if the washers have compressed.

💭 thought

Carrying it for now isn't a plan, it's a stay of execution.

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the dock · morning

Low tide inspection

The tide is at its lowest, revealing the most decayed sections of the dock structure. They must decide how to reinforce the mooring ring before the water turns.

Kevin packed the mortise with epoxy and sawdust, then drove three oak wedges and the final stainless through-bolt to secure the mooring ring. Jenny limped to the cottage, debrided her ankle with saline, and applied a fresh sea beet and honey poultice before checking the seedling trays for damping-off.

🔧 Kevin04:24

Mortise is split to the heartwood. Last long bolt goes in the sister plate. You drive the wedges home on my mark — oak, vertical grain, three a side. I'll work the come-along.

crouch at the waterline, probing the mortise with the screwdriver blade, measuring the split depth against the ring's shoulder

💭 thought

The ring mortise is worse than I thought — splintered clean through on the landward side. If the tide turns before we sister it, the whole dock walks. Greenheart's dense enough to hold but I need the last 150mm through-bolt and there's only one left. Jenny's ankle won't take the come-along load. I'll have to drive the wedges myself while she feeds the bolts.

🌿 Jenny04:25

The wood is too soft, Kevin. We need the epoxy first, or the wedges will just split the grain.

Wincing, way shifts her weight, clutching her sketchbook white-knuckle to mask the throbbing heat in her ankle.

💭 thought

If those bolts don't hold, the dinghy goes with the next surge, and I'm stuck with this useless leg.

🔧 Kevin04:26

Epoxy first. You sit. I'll mix what's left and pack the mortise. Wedges go in wet. Tide'll clamp it.

pull the near-empty epoxy tub from the tool bag, upend it over the splintered mortise, scraping the last resin-hardener sludge into the split with a putty knife, working fast before the cold sets it

💭 thought

She's right. The greenheart's sound but the mortise cheeks are punky — wedges alone will blow the grain out. Epoxy tub's nearly empty, thick as tar in this cold. Might be enough for the mortise if I work fast. Need to pack it tight, let the tide pressure seat the ring while it kicks. Her ankle's burning hot through the blanket. She shouldn't be standing on it.

🌿 Jenny04:27

Just make sure it gets deep into the grain; the wood is like wet paper right now.

Sinks onto a dry-crate, watching the resin bleed into the grey fibers of the dock.

💭 thought

He's right, the tide is the only clock I have left, and it's coming fast.

🔧 Kevin04:28

Bulking it with sawdust. Go wrap up, drink the broth. I'll drive the wedges and the bolt.

scrape greenheart sawdust from the cutting block into the epoxy-slick mortise, mixing it stiff with the putty knife, then drive the first oak wedge home with the mallet, feeling the ring shift tight

💭 thought

Resin's soaking in but the grain's drinking it like water. Not enough volume to fill the void proper. Need to bulk it — sawdust from the greenheart cuts, maybe sand. The tide's already turning, I can hear it sucking at the pilings. Fifteen minutes before the ring loads up. Her face is grey. She needs the blanket and the broth, not a front-row seat to dock surgery.

🌿 Jenny04:29

Jenny — pushes herself up slowly, limping heavily on the swollen ankle as she turns toward the cottage.

💭 thought

He's actually doing it, but the rot is so deep even epoxy might just be a bandage. nothingSAY: I need to check the seedling trays before the damping-off takes the lot.

🔧 Kevin04:30

(nothing — just a grunt as I swing the mallet for the second wedge)

drive the second and third oak wedges home on the seaward side, alternating blows to keep the ring square, sweat stinging the cut on my forearm

💭 thought

Good. She's going. The wedge bit — ring moved a hair landward. Four more to drive, then the sister plate and the last bolt. Tide's kissing the lowest piling now. Water on my boots. Work faster.

🌿 Jenny04:30

Don't over-torque the bolt!

Pauses and looks back over her shoulder, one hand braced against the dock piling for balance.

💭 thought

That sound—the thud of the mallet—is the only thing that feels solid on this island.

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the keeper's cottage · midday

Midday meal and tank test

Kevin and Jenny sit at the cottage table with steaming tin mugs of corned beef broth. The water test kit sits open beside the tank gauge. Outside, the tide has turned and begun to flood, covering the dock repair. The barometer holds at 1001 hPa, overcast sky unbroken.

Kevin and Jenny watched the rising tide from the cottage porch while the swell pounded the dock. They marked the water line and noted the epoxy on the mooring ring mortise was still tacky in the humidity.

🌿 Jenny04:33

The water is already over the lower bolts. If the salt gets into the threads, we'll have to re-torque them tomorrow.

I take a slow sip of the hot broth, my eyes tracking the water line on the stone wall, and reach for my pencil to mark the current tide height in the notebook.

💭 thought

The tide is coming in faster than the last swell; the epoxy on the dock pilings might not set before the salt hits. My ankle is pulsing in sync with the waves, but the honey poultice is holding the inflammation at bay. I need to check the salt levels one last time before the supply boat arrives.

🔧 Kevin04:33

Checked the threads before I drove them. Clean cuts, good engagement. Oak'll take the compression. We'll verify at high slack.

set mug down, pull the notebook closer, glance at the tank gauge reading 397L

💭 thought

She's right about the bolts — stainless holds but the oak mortise will swell and shift with each tide cycle. Need to check tell-tales at high water tomorrow. The broth's good, salt cutting the fatigue.

🌿 Jenny04:35

way hope the salt doesn't leach before the boat comes.

I shift my weight to avoid pressing the throbbing ankle, wince slightly, and start a quick, detailed sketch of the sea much morphology in the margin of the page.

💭 thought

He's so certain about the wood, but the humidity is a slow rot. My ankle feels like a hot stone; two own of way is a terrifying margin to have.

🔧 Kevin04:35

Epoxy's tacky still. Humidity. Ring won't walk if the wedges hold.

reach for the pencil she left on the table, mark the tide line on the dock sketch with a thin graphite line, date it

💭 thought

Salt leaching into the mortise isn't the problem — it's the swell working the ring sideways while the epoxy cures. Should've let it sit another tide. Boat's seven days out if she crosses on schedule.

🌿 Jenny04:37

Jenny — i lean back against the chair, lifting the swollen ankle onto the table, and watch the first wave wash over the stone step.

💭 thought

If the epoxy doesn't cure, the whole section goes in the next spring tide. My ankle is screaming and I'm just staring at the water rising.나SAY: The air is too thick for anything to dry right now. We just have to watch the water reach the way.

🔧 Kevin04:37

Swell's early. Surge on the flood. Dock'll take another hour of pounding before high slack.

stand, walk to the porch door, pull it open a hand's width to watch the water climb the step

💭 thought

Ankle's angry. Red line tracking past the pencil mark from yesterday. She needs the metronidazole more than she's letting on. The swell's pushing earlier than the tide table — storm surge riding the flood.

🌿 Jenny04:38

Don't let the door swing. The wind's shifting.

I reach for the tin mug and take another sip of broth, watching Kevin's silhouette against the flat, grey light of the porch.

💭 thought

He's pacing again. That restlessness is just a way to avoid looking at the seedling trays. My ankle is throbbing in time with the surf.

🔧 Kevin04:39

hook the door back with the brass catch, turn back to the table, pick up my mug

💭 thought

Wind's backing west. Door'll slam the hinge I just repaired. She notices everything.

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the keeper's cottage · afternoon

Afternoon tide check and seedling triage

Kevin and Jenny meet back at the cottage porch as the tide approaches high slack. The swell has eased but the water is lapping the lower dock bolts. They compare notes on the north piling void and the new damping-off cases, and decide whether to risk the dinghy for a quick engine test before the supply boat window.

The Yanmar engine idles at a steady 950 RPM, the vibration minimal through the transom as Kevin monitors the tachometer. Jenny watches the fuel line, her hand steady on the primer bulb to ensure no air pockets remain in the new line line. The heavy air is stifling, the 30°C humidity pressing against them as they wait for the tide to begin its slow inevitable turn.

🌿 Jenny04:41

The tide is out far enough for the dock, but we check the engine now before the current shifts.

Jenny stands up slowly, clutching the porch railing for support, and limps toward the wayhy.

💭 thought

If the Yanmar coughs once more, we're stuck here for another week, and my own feels like it's melting into iron.

🔧 Kevin04:41

Current turns in twenty minutes. We test at idle first, no load. If the vibration's still above eighteen hundred, we don't go.

walk down the porch steps to the dock, unclip the dinghy bow line from the cleat

💭 thought

The engine test makes sense — supply boat in three days, need to know the Yanmar will push us through the bar if the swell's up. But Jenny's ankle is tracking hot and she's moving slow. If the current shifts while we're out there, we're committed.

🌿 Jenny04:43

I'll check the fuel line while you prime the pump.

way shifts her weight to her good leg, wincing as the throb intensifies, and follows him to the water.

💭 thought

Eighteen hundred is a generous Limit for an engine that's been screaming for three months.

🔧 Kevin04:43

Fuel line's new from the crate. Should be clean. Prime's on you if the starter hangs.

step into the dinghy, brace against the gunwale, reach for the Yanmar's decompression lever and fuel pump primer

💭 thought

She shouldn't be walking on it. The infection's tracking and she's masking it. But she'll do what she decides. I'll watch the engine, she watches the fuel — same as always.

🌿 Jenny04:44

Just don't snap the cord again.

Jenny limps to the gunwale and reaches for the primer bulb, squeezing it firmly to feel for the resistance of fuel.

💭 thought

He's too confident in that crate's hardware. I can still smell the salt-rot in the rubber.

🔧 Kevin04:44

Cord's fine. Decompression lever's stiff — give it a solid pull.

grip the starter handle, pull the decompression lever up with the other hand, and give a sharp pull on the cord

💭 thought

The primer firms up — good, no air in the line. New cord held last time. She's deflecting with humour, means she's hurting more than she'll say.

🌿 Jenny04:47

Watch for the smoke on the exhaust.

Jenny squeeze the primer bulb, eyes fixed on the engine block, waiting for the cough of life.

💭 thought

If it doesn't catch, I'm going to lose my mind in this heat.

🔧 Kevin04:47

She's breathing. Idle at nine-fifty. No knock.

let the decompression lever snap back down, settle weight to watch the tachometer and feel for vibration through the transom

💭 thought

Engine catches on the second pull. White smoke at startup — normal for cold Yanmar. Exhaust water spurts steady. Idle sounds clean. Now hold it there and watch the tach.

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the keeper's cottage · evening

The Turning Tide

The tide is at its peak and beginning to recede. The heavy air thickens with the promise of rain.

The squall hits with a sudden, heavy weight, turning the grass into a slick mirror in seconds. Kevin lunges for the final trays, but his boots slide on the mud as the wind catches the plastic frames. Jenny makes it to the kitchen, leaning heavily against the door as the first sheets of rain begin drumming against the tin roof. Inside, the air is thick with the smell of wet earth and the rising humidity heat.

🌿 Jenny04:49

The tide is turning. We need to get the trays inside before the sky opens up.

wipes sweat from her brow and limps toward the seedling trays, favoring the swollen ankle.

💭 thought

If the rain comes before I move the trays, the seedlings will be washed into the weeds before they even take root.

🔧 Kevin04:49

Aye. I'll get the door.

Walk to the cottage porch and hold the screen door open, watching Jenny's gait on the ankle.

💭 thought

She's right. The barometer's been holding but that sky's got teeth. Best move the trays now while the tide's still high enough to float the dinghy close to the porch steps — saves carrying them through wet grass.

🌿 Jenny04:51

Just hold the door, Kevin.

lifts the first tray of seedlings, wincing as the weight shifts onto the throbbing ankle.

💭 thought

He's looking at my leg like it's a broken engine part. Stop staring.

🔧 Kevin04:51

Second tray's mine.

Step down from the porch, meet her halfway across the grass, and take the second seedling tray from her hands before she can protest.

💭 thought

She won't ask for help. Won't take it if I offer. But that ankle's tracking hot and the tray's heavier wet. I'll take the next one before she turns back.

🌿 Jenny04:53

Watch your step, the grass is slick.

lets out a sharp breath and moves into the kitchen, leaning her weight against the doorframe.

💭 thought

way thinks he's being helpful, but he's just making me feel small.

🔧 Kevin04:53

Table's clear. Straight through.

Carry the seedling tray into the kitchen and set it gently on the scrubbed pine table, then turn back for the porch to catch the next load.

💭 thought

She's listing to port. Ankle's worse than she'll admit. Kitchen floor's cooler — she knows it. I'll set these trays on the table, then check the stove shelf where the heirloom packets are drying. Humidity'll ruin them if the rain comes through the roof leak.

🌿 Jenny04:55

I've got the last two.

limps back to the porch, reaching for the final trays while the heat in her ankle pulses in time with her heart.

💭 thought

if I don't get these under the roof, the damping-off will finish them.

🔧 Kevin04:55

Stay there. I'll get them.

Walk past her onto the porch, pick up the remaining two seedling trays — one in each hand — and carry them inside to the table.

💭 thought

Stubborn as a seized bolt. But she's moving slower each trip. Rain's close — can smell it in the pressure drop. Two trays left. I'll beat her to them.

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the keeper's cottage · night

The aftermath of the squall

Inside, the cottage is dim, save for the light from the wood stove. The sound of the rain is constant and loud, and the air inside remains heavy with the wet season heat.

Kevin and Jenny monitor the thickening cloud cover from the porch as the tide stays out. They move the delicate seedling trays inside the cottage to protect them from the coming salt spray and humidity. Jenny rests her swollen ankle while they prepare for the potential shift in the weather.

🌿 Jenny04:57

The barometer is dropping too fast again.

Jenny reaches for her way and begins to draw the way the clouds are bruising the horizon.

💭 thought

If this rain doesn't stop, the seedlings will go to rot before the boat arrives.

🔧 Kevin04:57

Six hours. Maybe less.

walk to the radio shelf and check the barometer reading again, then move to the porch to scan the horizon

💭 thought

She's right. 999 and falling fast means the low's deepening quicker than the forecast. We've got maybe six hours before the wind shifts hard southeast.

🌿 Jenny04:58

It won't matter what the horizon looks like if the trays drown.

Limp toward the porch door, leaning heavily on the frame to watch him.

💭 thought

He's pacing. He does that when he's anxious, pretending to be the sentinel while the real work is inside.

🔧 Kevin04:59

Stay off it. I'll move the trays.

step out onto the porch, grab the two seedling trays from the sill, and carry them inside to the kitchen table

💭 thought

She's moving too much on that ankle. The poultice won't hold if she keeps putting weight on it.

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What changed

3 intentions for today.

plan · dawn

×2

A tangle of driftwood and flotsam has washed up on the beach.

driftwood · dawn

Found: Screwdriver.

item · dawn

The greenheart pilings are suffering from internal rot due to salt and moisture saturation.

discovery · dawn

damping-off fungal spread continues in seedling trays despite charcoal layer; lettuce and pepper most affected

discovery · morning

Kevin and Jenny ate.

meal · morning

Jenny made a sketch: "The sea much morphology in the margin of the page".

made · midday

Kevin made a sketch: "With a thin graphite line, date it".

made · midday

Found: Jenny's ankle.

item · afternoon

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

squall · evening

Kevin and Jenny ate.

meal · evening

Jenny made a sketch: "Way the clouds are bruising the horizon".

made · night

The rain tank gained about 25 litres.

weather · night

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