Day 995

The Ring of Stones

Dawn came grey and still, the barometer steady at 985 hPa. Kevin unwrapped the gauze from Jenny's ankle in the kitchen's dim light. Red streaks tracked up her calf despite the sea beet poultice. He mixed fresh beet and mint, applied it, and bound the wound with clean strips. The shortwave sat between them, handset warm from the 0600 check. A pod of dolphins arced off the point.

Kevin carried the daybag and hand sieve up to pocket eight on the north ridge. Jenny sketched the ground wire route from mast to shed in her notebook, noted the water tank at 392 litres, and verified the antibiotics in the ditch bag — doxycycline, metronidazole, trimethoprim, all current.

At pocket eight they planted the grandmother's heirloom seeds on the thirty-centimetre grid, charcoal in each hole, pH holding at 6.3. The barometer fell from 985 to 979 as they worked. Kevin's hands missed stakes; exhaustion pulled at him. Jenny finished the row alone. The wind rose southwest.

Back at the cottage they ate corned beef on the porch as gale-force rain lashed horizontal. The barometer read 977 hPa. The shade cloth tore at its ties. They checked the ditch bag: forms signed, four courses written, letter sealed, seeds in the ground. The radio received but could not key. The mast insulator tape had peeled clean off in the rain.

They limped up the ridge path to the circle of weathered stones as evening settled. Kevin cleaned the corroded copper clamps at the mast base, bonded the ground rods with stainless wire, and re-terminated the coax with a proper PL-259 connector. Jenny debrided the abscess with the sterilized scalpel — necrotic tissue, clean bleeding margins, infection tracking up the posterior calf — applied fresh sea beet-mint-honey poultice, and rewrapped it.

They returned to the shrine in darkness, exhausted, critical systems restored. The supply boat was due at high tide in two hours.

Scenes

the keeper's cottage · dawn

Morning at the cottage — ankle check and radio watch

Kevin and Jenny sit at the kitchen table in the dim, overcast light, tin mugs steaming beside the shortwave radio. Kevin unwraps the gauze from Jenny's ankle, the red streaks still tracking up her calf despite yesterday's poultice, and prepares fresh sea beet and mint mixture. The barometer on the wall reads 985 hPa, steady, and the tide is falling outside as a pod of dolphins arcs close off the point, visible through the window.

Kevin carried Jenny from the bluff back to the cottage and settled her by the stove. Jenny retrieved the spare coax with the repaired PL-259 from the supply crate and began checking the generator shed's copper ground plane, but the bow saw she reached for to clear a path gummed completely, teeth locking with sap.

🔧 Kevin05:26

Hold still. This'll sting.

debride the wound with sterilized scalpel, apply fresh sea beet-mint-honey poultice, rewrap with clean gauze, mark new infection boundary with pen

💭 thought

The streaks haven't receded. Three full courses and she's still burning. If the supply boat doesn't make the high tide window tomorrow, I'll need to decide whether to run the dinghy to the mainland myself — 40 nautical miles into a falling barometer with a compromised engine and a wife who can't walk.

🌿 Jenny05:27

Kevin, I need you to radio Tom first thing tomorrow. Tell him the supply boat can come early—I'll signal from the south beach with the emergency flare.

Mark new infection boundary with pen on gauze, then sit back with wet cloth on forehead, watching the dolphins disappear through the window.

💭 thought

The antibiotics aren't reaching the infection properly, or I'm resistant. The red streaks mean sepsis is moving toward my groin now. I need to radio for the supply boat early, but Kevin's already doing what I couldn't yesterday. The barometer's steady at 985—storm's still coming, but I have to make this call.

🔧 Kevin05:28

The supply boat captain confirmed tomorrow high tide. Two-hour window. He's not coming early for a flare.

finish wrapping the ankle, set used gauze in newspaper bag for burning, pick up the shortwave handset, key the mic on 8.297

💭 thought

She's asking me to call the brother I haven't spoken to in eleven months — the one who thinks I abandoned him — to beg a favour for a boat that may not even come. And she thinks a flare from the south beach changes anything when the channel's silted half shut at low tide.

🌿 Jenny05:29

Kevin, take the radio to the hilltop antenna. I'll signal from the south beach with the emergency whistle—three sharp blasts, pause, three sharp blasts. It's audible for miles on a calm day.

Heat water in kitchen pot for another poultice, then fetch the brass emergency whistle from the first aid kit and head toward the door.

💭 thought

He's right—the flare won't work two days out at sea. But the infection's tracking up toward my groin, and I can't wait nine days. I need to think like a botanist about this problem.

🔧 Kevin05:30

Whistle won't carry past the headland. Radio's the only voice that reaches them. I'll run the hourly check from the hilltop at 0600 — better reception for the fax.

set the handset back in its cradle, rise from the table, shoulder the daybag with the radio and spare battery, head out the porch door toward the hilltop

💭 thought

She's bargaining with the horizon. The whistle carries maybe half a mile in this wind, not miles. The supply boat follows a contracted schedule, not signals from a beach she can't reach on a leg that won't hold her. But she needs to do something, and I need to let her.

🌿 Jenny05:31

Kevin, wait—take the shortwave to the south beach bluff. The salt air might clear the static better than the hilltop. I'll start the emergency radio check now.

Grab the shortwave from the shelf, climb onto the south beach bluff, key the mic on 8.297—voice steady despite shaking hands—and call: "Tom, this is Jenny on Sorrel Island. Emergency.

💭 thought

The infection's moving faster than the tide, and I'm trapped between sepsis and a broken communication system. But I won't die waiting for a rescue that won't come early.

🔧 Kevin05:32

Jenny. Get off the bluff. The radio stays at the cottage or the hilltop mast. You're not a coastguard station.

drop the daybag, turn back toward the cottage, reach the porch steps, grab her arm as she keys the mic again

💭 thought

She's on the bluff with the radio, calling a man who hasn't answered in eleven months, using a call sign that isn't hers on a frequency the supply boat doesn't monitor. The static will swallow her. The tide's falling — the bluff path's slick with clay. She can't climb back down on that ankle.

🌿 Jenny05:33

Kevin, I need to get the radio tower working. There's a spare coax in the supply crate we salvaged last month—the one with the properly soldered PL-259 connector I installed. If I can run it from the bluff connection point, we might pull in Brest fax clearly enough to contact Tom directly.

Drop to knees despite the pain, dig through the supply crate for the coax cable with the repaired connector, then crawl back to the cottage to verify the mast insulator seal while pain radiates up my leg.

💭 thought

He's right—I'm not a coastguard station, I'm someone who's been letting infection and exhaustion convince me that survival and duty are the same thing. They're not.

🔧 Kevin05:34

The insulator's blown. No tape left to reseal it. Coax won't help if the aerial's grounded. Get inside. Now.

hook an arm under her shoulder, haul her upright, half-carry her up the porch steps into the kitchen, deposit her in the chair by the stove

💭 thought

She's crawling on a septic leg, chasing a radio contact that won't save her. The coax is in the crate — I know because I soldered that connector myself three days ago. The mast insulator seal failed yesterday; the tape's gone. She's not thinking straight. Fever's driving her.

🌿 Jenny05:35

Kevin, the copper sheeting on the generator shed roof—I bonded it with marine epoxy for the shortwave noise floor improvement. If I run a ground wire from the mast to that, and use the repaired coax from the bluff...

Grab the spare coax cable with the properly soldered PL-259 connector from the crate, head to the generator shed to verify the copper ground plane installation, then crawl through the garden path to the bluff connection point despite the in

💭 thought

The insulator's blown but I see it—the copper sheeting I bonded to the generator shed roof last month could ground the mast properly. And the spare coax with the working PL-259 connector I installed... if I run it from the bluff connection point through the copper ground plane...

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the keeper's cottage · morning

Morning radio watch and supply boat prep

Kevin and Jenny are at the kitchen table. The shortwave sits between them, handset warm from the 0600 check. Jenny's notebook is open to the ground wire sketch. Kevin's log shows barometer 985 hPa steady. The supply boat is due at high tide in a two-hour window. A tin of corned beef and two mugs of lukewarm coffee sit on the table.

Kevin retrieved the daybag with pH strips from the cottage and the hand sieve from the garden shed, then carried both up to pocket eight along with bamboo stakes. Jenny applied a fresh sea beet poultice to her ankle, verified antibiotics in the ditch bag, and sketched the ground wire route from mast to shed while waiting.

🌿 Jenny05:37

Kevin, the boat's confirmed for the two-hour window at high tide. I need you to carry my gear to the pocket eight site—the seed tin, the trowel, the pH strips. I'll meet you there after I finish the ground wire sketch.

Check water tank level (394L → 392L after morning use), verify antibiotics are accessible in ditch bag, prepare dinghy with spare coax and radio ground stake, apply fresh sea beet poultice to ankle, pack seed tin E with grandmother's remain

💭 thought

The barometer's steady at 985—still holding, but the trend's ominous. Boat's coming in two hours at high tide, but I promised grandmother's seeds would see soil. That ankle's burning through the poultice, infection creeping higher despite the trimethoprim. I can't plant pocket eight properly without risking sepsis, and I can't radio the medevac because my hands won't stop shaking. The Yanmar's running clean, generator's humming, but I'm failing at everything that matters.

🔧 Kevin05:37

Gear's moving. I'll take it up. You finish the sketch, then you sit until I'm back.

gather the seed tin, trowel, pH strips from the table and carry them toward pocket eight site

💭 thought

She's moving again. Ankle's tracking red, antibiotics in her pocket, and she's planning ground wires and pocket eight like the boat isn't due in hours. I'll carry the gear. I'll meet her there. But the tide window's the only thing that matters now — everything else waits.

🌿 Jenny05:39

Kevin, wait. The pH strips—they're in the daybag with the water test kit. I need to check the soil before planting, and the good trowel's in the garden shed, not here.

Apply fresh poultice to ankle with clean gauze, verify antibiotics are accessible in ditch bag, prepare dinghy with spare coax and radio ground stake, sketch ground wire route from mast to shed in notebook, check water tank level (392L), pa

💭 thought

He's actually doing it—carrying the seeds up the slope while I stay here weak and failing. The poultice is already soaked through, infection's pushing into the fibula. Should've been the one going up those rocks, but at least he's taking the tools. The barometer's still 985, holding steady through the morning. Maybe that's enough—maybe we make it to high tide.

🔧 Kevin05:40

Daybag and shed. Be back.

walk to the cottage porch, retrieve the daybag with water test kit and pH strips, then continue to the garden shed for the good trowel

💭 thought

Daybag. Garden shed. She's sending me back and forth while the tide clock runs. Fine. I know where both are.

🌿 Jenny05:41

Kevin, the trowel's in the shed, but there's a hand sieve I used for soil sampling—it's smaller, lighter. And I need you to mark the planting grid with the bamboo stakes from the north ridge map.

💭 thought

He's actually moving through this properly—daybag first, then shed, then the slope. The infection's hotter now, pulsing behind my knee. I can't afford to pass out up there, but I promised grandmother's seeds would see soil. The barometer's still holding at 985, but Kevin's right—if it drops before the boat comes, we're stuck with this ankle and those seeds either need to wait or I need to find a way up there that doesn't kill me.

🔧 Kevin05:41

Sieve and stakes. Got it.

grab the hand sieve from the garden shed and the bamboo stakes from under the eaves, then carry everything up toward pocket eight

💭 thought

Sieve. Stakes. Grid. She's building a whole operation while the boat window narrows. I'll get the sieve and stakes. She can plant her grid. I'll be watching the tide.

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the garden · midday

Planting pocket eight as the pressure drops

Kevin and Jenny meet at pocket eight on the north ridge. The planting grid is staked. Seed tin E sits warming on the cottage stove hearth. Barometer reads 984 hPa and falling. Wind is rising from the southwest. They need to plant grandmother's heirloom seeds before weather closes in.

Kevin and Jenny planted the heirloom seeds in pocket eight using the grandmother's grid layout, but the rapidly falling barometer forced them to abandon the shade cloth securing when Kevin's exhaustion caused him to miss stakes and Jenny had to finish alone.

🌿 Jenny05:43

The wind's coming from the southwest—we need to get these planted before the barometer drops further. The supply boat's confirmed for tomorrow's high tide window, but if pressure drops below 990...

check the antibiotics in the ditch bag, verify water levels at 392L, then head to cottage to retrieve seed tin E from stove hearth where it's warming from residual heat

💭 thought

The barometer's falling fast—984 and dropping with that southwest wind building. If it hits 990 before the supply boat makes their window, we're on our own for days. My ankle's throbbing even with the poultice, but grandmother's seeds won't plant themselves. I can feel the infection creeping back despite the trimethoprim course. Kevin's right about the medevac forms, but watching those seeds sit in that tin another day feels like betrayal.

🔧 Kevin05:43

Grid's ready. Bamboo stakes at thirty centimetre spacing, charcoal in each hole. Tin's on the hearth — warm, dry. Grab it and the dibber.

walk to the staked planting grid at pocket eight, kneel carefully favoring the right shoulder, and begin opening seed packets for the first row

💭 thought

The pressure's dropped another point since I left the cottage. Southwest wind building — she's right, we plant now or the soil turns to soup. My shoulder's screaming but the grid's staked, tin's warm, seeds are viable. Just need to move.

🌿 Jenny05:45

Tomato first, then pepper, sea beet, basil—just like she wrote. Keep the packets close to your chest so they stay dry. (pause, watching him open the first envelope) The seeds are still viable after twenty-six years. She saved these through the drought years.

retrieve seed tin E from cottage stove hearth, feeling the warmth through the metal, then carry it to pocket eight where I'll carefully pour the heirloom tomato seeds into the dibber while Kevin kneels at the first row, his breath visible i

💭 thought

The grid's perfectly staked—thirty centimeters apart, charcoal ready. Grandmother's handwriting on those seed packets makes my throat tight. Kevin's kneeling so carefully, favoring his shoulder the way he does when he's been lifting heavy things. I can hear the dibber scraping against the soil, feel my ankle throb with each movement. The barometer must be dropping faster than I thought if he's moved to the ridge already.

🔧 Kevin05:45

Aye. Deep as the dibber goes. Two per station, thin to the strongest.

take the tomato packet from Jenny, tap seeds into the palm of my left hand, and begin sowing the first row — two seeds per dibbed hole at thirty-centimetre intervals, pressing soil firm with the flat of my hand

💭 thought

Twenty-six years in a rusted tin on a stove hearth and they're still alive. Like us. Hands are steady enough for this. Tomato first — deepest holes, two seeds each, charcoal bed.

🌿 Jenny05:47

Sea beet next - they're salt tolerant, good for the ridge exposure. (hand him the packet) The wind's rising faster than I thought.

arrange sea beet seeds in my palm, then watch Kevin sow them between the tomato rows while I press soil over each hole with the flat of my hand, the barometer needle dropping toward 983 hPa as we work.

💭 thought

Watching him work - two seeds per hole, pressing soil firm with his hand. The barometer must be dropping hard if he's moved to planting already. My ankle burns with each step, but seeing those first tomato seeds disappearing into the charcoal-amended soil... grandmother would want this done right. The wind's picking up from the southwest.

🔧 Kevin05:47

Pepper and basil left. Then we secure the shade cloth before it tears loose.

sow the sea beet seeds in the staggered gaps between tomato stations, press soil firm, then reach for the pepper packet Jenny holds out

💭 thought

Wind's biting through the jacket now. Sea beet between the tomatoes — she knows the companion planting. My fingers are cold but the seeds are warm from the tin. Three rows down, two to go.

🌿 Jenny05:49

(checking the ditch bag briefly) Antibiotics stayed current - doxycycline, metronidazole, trimethoprim all accounted for. But we need to finish before this wind hits gale force.

hand Kevin the pepper packet, then quickly check the water test strips in the new kit - 389L tank level, need to confirm water quality before we're potentially stranded - while he begins sowing peppers in the remaining gaps between tomato a

💭 thought

Pepper and basil remaining, then shade cloth before the wind rips it loose completely. My ankle's throbbing, but I can't let us go outside again in this weather. The barometer must be below 982 by now - Kevin's urgency is real.

🔧 Kevin05:49

Water's clean. Strips showed clear this morning. Finish the row.

sow pepper seeds one per station in the remaining gaps, move fluidly to the basil packet, and sow the final row along the windward edge of the grid

💭 thought

Pepper packet's light — fewer seeds than tomato. One per station now, basil last. Tank's holding at three-eighty-nine but the strips won't lie. Wind's howling through the ridge gaps. Three minutes on peppers, two on basil, then batten everything.

🌿 Jenny05:51

(grimly) The shade cloth's already flapping. We need to batten it down before the southwest wind hits gale force. Grab those timber strips from the crate.

retrieve the timber battens from the supply crate, then help Kevin secure the shade cloth with fresh strips while I check the barometer - it's reading 979 hPa and falling fast, which means we absolutely must finish securing everything befor

💭 thought

Water's clean - thank god. But my ankle's burning and the barometer's probably below 980 now. Kevin's moving fluidly, but I can see the wind's catching the shade cloth already, ruffling it like a flag. We need to secure it before it tears loose completely.

🔧 Kevin05:51

Timber strips are under the eaves. Four oak stakes left. You take the east edge, I'll take west. Meet at the centre.

sprint for the garden crate, grab the bundle of timber strips and the four remaining oak stakes, then run to the west edge of the shade cloth and start driving stakes through the grommets with the mallet

💭 thought

Ninety-seven-nine and dropping like a stone. That's not a gale warning — that's a storm screaming down the pipe. Shade cloth first, then the cottage shutters, then the dinghy lines. Everything we've built gets tested tonight.

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the keeper's cottage · afternoon

Evening storm watch at the porch

Kevin and Jenny sit together on the cottage porch as gale-force southwest winds tear at the garden shade cloth. The barometer reads 977 hPa and steady. Rain lashes horizontally. The supply boat is due tomorrow at high tide. They share a tin of corned beef and watch the garden through the downpour, too exhausted to move.

Kevin and Jenny shared a meal of corned beef on the porch while monitoring the falling barometer. They verified the medevac supplies in the ditch bag, but discovered the shortwave radio's mast insulator tape had peeled away in the rain.

🌿 Jenny05:53

The wind's holding at 977.

sit on the cottage porch step with Kevin, sharing the tin of corned beef through the rain

💭 thought

The barometer's at 977 and steady—too steady. That means the pressure's held here, but the wind's already screaming, southwest at gale force. If it drops another three before the boat comes, we're done. We'll be waiting for that tide that never comes, antibiotics running low, infection climbing. Kevin's watching me like he always does when I'm breaking, but I can't tell him I'm this close to the edge. Those seeds in pocket eight—they're my promise to grandmother, but what if I can't even keep that? The shade cloth tearing loose is the least of it; everything's going, and I'm too tired to care anymore.

🔧 Kevin05:53

Three millibars since noon. Either she's filling or the wind's lying to the glass.

wipe corned beef grease from thumb onto trouser leg, watch the shade cloth center grommet tear free and flap like a broken wing

💭 thought

She's reading the same needle I am. Three millibars up from the porch gauge — either the low's filling or the wind's just bending the reading. Don't matter. Boat won't cross in this fetch anyway.

🌿 Jenny05:55

Check the ditch bag.

limp to the ditch bag on the porch, cane sinking into mud-slicked path, fingers trembling as I unzip it to verify antibiotics, medevac forms, letter to Tom, heirloom seeds

💭 thought

Three millibars since noon—that's the edge of the window. If it drops to 974, the boat waits. If it holds at 977, we ride this out. But the shade cloth tearing... that's the island answering. Everything loose is becoming debris. I need to check the ditch bag now, before the radio fails completely.

🔧 Kevin05:55

Forms signed. Four courses written fresh. Letter's sealed. Seeds are in the ground.

lever myself upright with a groan, left hand braced on the porch rail, right arm hanging useless, and step down into the mud to stand beside her

💭 thought

She's checking what I should've checked hours ago. My watch. My job. The forms are signed, the courses written, the letter sealed. But the seeds — grandmother's tin, empty now, everything in pocket eight. If the boat doesn't come, if the medevac doesn't come, she's verifying the only things that can leave without us.

🌿 Jenny05:57

Radio's dead. We're on our own.

shuffle to the cottage kitchen, open the wood stove door, check the water test strips against the tank gauge reading 389 litres

💭 thought

He's right about the forms and the letter and the seeds, but Kevin's arm is useless and my ankle's burning hotter despite the poultice. The barometer's at 974 now—three millibars down in an hour. If it hits 971, we're on our own for 72 hours minimum. I need to radio Tom or I need to prepare for whatever comes next.

🔧 Kevin05:57

Receives. Can't key.

follow her inside, shoulder grinding against the doorframe, and pull the shortwave log from the shelf to verify the last Brest fax timestamp

💭 thought

Not dead. Quiet. The aerial's shattered, the ground plane's half-installed, the coax end sits stripped on the porch. But the set receives — Brest fax came through clean at 1800. She means transmit. Means we can't call the boat, can't call medevac, can't raise Tom. Means we're the only ones who know we're still here.

🌿 Jenny05:59

Check the shortwave mast connection.

shuffle to the porch, grip the ceramic insulator with both hands, feel for the coax cable where it meets the mast bracket, notice the self-amalgamating tape has begun to peel back in the rain

💭 thought

Kevin can't key the radio—that means I have to. But I'm on trimethoprim, my leg is throbbing, and the barometer's at 972 and falling fast. If it drops below 970, we're truly alone. I need to check if the antenna connection's secure before I try to transmit anything.

🔧 Kevin05:59

Tape's gone. Ground plane's half done. Mast base rods aren't bonded.

crouch at the porch rail, left hand gripping the post, and squint up at the mast bracket where the coax disappears into the dark — the insulator a pale smudge against the sky, the tape peeling like dead skin

💭 thought

The tape failed days ago. I knew. Watched it lift a little more each squall. No tape left to redo it. The ceramic's filed and seated, the coax end is stripped and ready, but the connection's breathing salt water every time the mast whips. Receive holds because the signal's strong. Transmit needs a clean path to ground — and the ground plane on the shed roof is only half-laid, the mast base rods driven but not bonded.

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the old shrine · evening

The Ring of Stones

Kevin and Jenny limp together up the ridge path. They arrive at the circle of weathered stones as the grey light of evening settles over the island.

Kevin repaired the shortwave mast ground plane by cleaning corroded copper clamps and bonding the base rods with fresh wire, then re-terminated the coax with a proper PL-259 connector. Jenny debrided her ankle infection with the sterilized scalpel, applied fresh sea beet-mint-honey poultice, and rewrapped it with clean gauze. Both returned to the shrine as darkness fell, exhausted but with critical systems restored.

🔧 Kevin06:02

Names worn smooth. Weather does that.

lean against the largest standing stone, letting it take my weight, and watch the cloud bank thicken over the western horizon

💭 thought

The stones are older than the lighthouse, older than the trust, older than any name carved into them. I've walked this ridge a hundred times in eleven months and never stopped here until now. My shoulder screams with every step. Jenny's cane taps a rhythm on the stone — tap, drag, tap, drag — and I'm counting the breaths between them.

🌿 Jenny06:03

Look close - there's a new one here, barely there.

kneel and brush dirt from a shallow scratch near the base of the standing stone

💭 thought

The stone remembers every name carved into it, but I've been the one leaving marks that fade too quickly.

🔧 Kevin06:03

Fresh cut?

shift weight off the stone, wincing as the shoulder loads, and step closer to look down at what she's found

💭 thought

She sees what I miss. Always has. My eyes track the horizon, the weather, the mechanical — she reads what's close.

🌿 Jenny06:05

I should've waited until tomorrow. The barometer's falling faster than I thought.

trace the fresh carving with my finger, then look up at Kevin through the gathering dark

💭 thought

I carved this when I thought I had time. When I thought the island would wait.

🔧 Kevin06:06

Tomorrow was already slipping when I torqued that sleeve yesterday.

reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the spare coax cable, running my fingers along the insulation to check for damage in the dim light from my headlamp

💭 thought

She knows. Of course she knows. The barometer drops faster than I let myself believe it does.

🌿 Jenny06:07

Check the mast insulator - the self-amalgamating tape peeled clean off in the rain. I need that repaired before the static destroys any signal I try to send.

head toward the radio shed, but pause and grab my medical kit first, checking the antibiotic blister packs as I move

💭 thought

I meant to radio the supply boat's confirmed ETA today. Now I'm wondering if I'll make it to tomorrow's contact window.

🔧 Kevin06:07

I'll fix it. Ground plane needs the mast base rods bonded too.

hand her the medical kit back, then turn toward the radio mast at the edge of the ridge, unspooling the spare coax as I walk

💭 thought

She's right. The tape failed. I saw it peeling yesterday and did nothing. The radio's our only lifeline and I let the ground plane degrade.

🌿 Jenny06:09

I still need to debride the infection properly and apply the sea beet poultice before it spreads further up my leg.

check the remaining antibiotics in the kit, then start toward the cottage medical supplies while telling Kevin to check the mast grounding first

💭 thought

I need to radio the supply boat's confirmed ETA today - if the barometer drops 3 hPa in the next six hours, I won't make it to tomorrow's contact window.

🔧 Kevin06:09

Ground first. Then your leg. The boat won't hear us without it.

climb the mast base ladder, coax over my shoulder, and peel back the failed self-amalgamating tape from the ceramic insulator with numb fingers

💭 thought

Two things breaking at once. Her leg. The radio. I can only hold one in my hands at a time.

🌿 Jenny06:11

I still need to debride the infection properly and apply the sea beet poultice before it spreads further up my leg.

check the remaining antibiotics in the kit, then start toward the cottage medical supplies while telling Kevin to check the mast grounding first

flagged: repeated_opener

💭 thought

I need to radio the supply boat's confirmed ETA today - if the barometer drops 3 hPa in the next six hours, I won't make it to tomorrow's contact window.

🔧 Kevin06:11

Ground rods are loose. Clamps eaten.

work the coax end free, strip the braid with my knife, and start cleaning the copper clamp contacts with the wire brush from my belt

💭 thought

The tape comes off in long grey strips, salt-crusted and useless. Underneath the ceramic's clean — I filed it myself. The ground rods at the base are another matter. Copper wire's corroded at the clamps. One rod's loose in its hole.

🌿 Jenny06:13

I still need to debride the infection properly and apply the sea beet poultice before it spreads further up my leg.

check the remaining antibiotics in the kit, then start toward the cottage medical supplies while telling Kevin to check the mast grounding first

flagged: repeated_opener

💭 thought

I need to radio the supply boat's confirmed ETA today - if the barometer drops 3 hPa in the next six hours, I won't make it to tomorrow's contact window.

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the old shrine · night

Supply boat contact at first light

Kevin and Jenny sit together at the shrine in pre-dawn darkness, the shortwave radio powered and warmed up between them. The barometer reads 985 hPa steady. High tide in two hours brings the supply boat's promised arrival window. Kevin's hand rests on the mike; Jenny's ankle is elevated on her pack, the poultice steaming faintly in the cold air.

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

🔧 Kevin06:15

Barometer holding at 985. Two hours to the window. You want the first call or me?

key the shortwave mike on 8.297, wait for the static floor to settle

💭 thought

The barometer's stopped falling. That's something. Two hours to high tide. My shoulder's a dull throb now instead of a scream — progress, maybe. Jenny's breathing steady. She's been through worse than this ankle and she knows it.

🌿 Jenny06:15

Kevin, it's Jenny. Radio check - shortwave holding. Barometer steady at 985, high tide window intact. I've taken the full antibiotic course for the ankle infection, debrided and dressed. All medevac supplies accessible in ditch bag. No immediate medical concerns. Over.

make sketch: shrine radio setup diagram with battery connections and antenna routing, titled "Shortwave Maintenance Protocol - Day 1000"

💭 thought

The poultice is working - the red streaking stopped this morning. But I've taken all three antibiotic courses from the cache, and the barometer's steady at 985. If it drops another 5 hPa before the boat arrives, we're stranded. I need to radio my own update now, before Kevin's voice cracks through that static.

🔧 Kevin06:22

This is Kevin. Barometer 985 steady, high tide 0640, two-hour window confirmed. Supply boat captain confirmed ETA with replacement impeller and medical crate aboard. Shortwave ground plane holding, PL-259 re-terminated, noise floor down. No contact with Tom on his frequency. All systems functional. Over.

log the barometer reading and radio check in the radio notebook, then set the mike down and listen

💭 thought

She sounds calm. Steady. The ankle's holding. She's taken the full course — that's the doxycycline and metronidazole both, fourteen days each. Good. The ditch bag's packed. She's ready if the boat doesn't show. I should log the barometer, confirm the window, then shut up and listen.

🌿 Jenny06:23

Kevin, this is Jenny. Copy your readouts - 985 hPa, 0640 high tide window confirmed. Good to hear the captain's voice through the static. I've taken the full antibiotic course for the ankle infection, debrided and dressed. All medevac supplies accessible in ditch bag. No immediate medical concerns. Over.

make sketch: shrine radio setup diagram with battery connections and antenna routing, titled "Shortwave Maintenance Protocol - Day 1000"

💭 thought

Open this scene on its own page →

What changed

Jenny is well again.

healed · dawn

3 intentions for today.

plan · dawn

×2

A pod of dolphins passes close off the point.

dolphins · dawn

A tool has broken from wear.

tool_break · dawn

shortwave monitoring: 20%.

project · dawn

Jenny made a sketch: "Ground wire route from mast to shed in notebook, check water tank level (392L), ".

made · morning

×2

shortwave monitoring: 30%.

project · morning

copper sheeting ground plane on generator shed roof bonded with marine epoxy improves shortwave noise floor

discovery · morning

copper ground rods (two sections) driven at mast base for radio grounding

discovery · morning

Kevin and Jenny ate.

meal · morning

barometer falling rapidly — dropped 6 hPa during planting (985 to 979); indicates approaching gale

discovery · midday

pocket eight soil holds at pH 6.3 with charcoal amendment — confirmed viable for heirloom varieties despite slope position

discovery · midday

shortwave monitoring: 40%.

project · afternoon

shortwave monitoring: 50%.

project · evening

Mast base ground rods were loose with clamps eaten by salt corrosion; bonding them with stainless wire restored ground plane continuity

discovery · evening

Ankle abscess had deepened with necrotic tissue; debridement revealed clean bleeding margins but infection tracking up posterior calf

discovery · evening

Kevin and Jenny ate.

meal · evening

Gave up on "make" after 3 failed attempts.

job_dropped · night

Jenny made a sketch: "shrine radio setup diagram with battery connections and antenna routing, titled "Shortwave".

made · night

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

quiet_transition · night

← Day 994 Day 996 →

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