Chapter 9 The Repair

Naomi noticed the damage to the research dock during her morning sampling on June 25th. One of the support pilings had shifted, causing the boardwalk to sag dangerously. The structure was still usable, but it was unstable, and if left unrepaired, it could collapse entirely, taking her equipment with it. She stood on the dock, testing the boards with her foot, feeling the give beneath her weight. The piling in question was old, rotting from constant submersion, its wood soft and spongy. She had seen it deteriorating over the past few months, but had hoped it would hold until the end of the season. Now it was clear that immediate action was necessary. Naomi pulled out her phone and called the university facilities office. The line rang twice before being answered by a recording that directed her to leave a message. She did so, explaining the situation and requesting repair assistance. Then she hung up and waited. The response came three days later, in the form of a work order that estimated two weeks for completion. Two weeks was too long. The dock could fail in that time, especially with the upcoming storm season. Naomi needed to stabilize it herself, using materials she could source locally. She drove to the hardware store on Main Street, a small establishment that stocked basic building supplies, fishing gear, and household items. The owner, a man named Earl who had worked there for thirty years, greeted her with a nod and asked what she needed. Pressure-treated lumber, Naomi said. Four-by-four posts, eight feet long. And galvanized bolts, three-quarter inch by four inches. Enough to secure a dock piling. Earl disappeared into the back room and returned with a list. That will be eighty-six dollars. Plus tax. Naomi handed him a credit card and waited while he processed the transaction. Then he led her to the outdoor storage area, where the lumber was stacked in neat piles. She selected four posts, checking each one for straightness and quality. The wood was fresh, green, still heavy with moisture. Back at her truck, she loaded the lumber carefully, securing it with straps. Then she drove to the dock, parking on the gravel shoulder near the research station. She unloaded the materials and began assessing the damage. The rotted piling needed to be replaced, but cutting it free would require tools she did not have. She considered using a handsaw, but the wood was too thick and wet. Then she remembered Arthur Penhaligon, the boatbuilder who lived down the hill. He would have the right tools, and possibly the willingness to help. Naomi drove to Arthur's house and knocked on the door. He answered wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, his hands stained with sawdust. Dr. Okafor, he said. What can I do for you? I need help with a repair, she said. The research dock has a damaged piling. I need it stabilized before the storm season. Arthur nodded. Show me. They walked to the dock, Naomi leading the way. She pointed out the damaged piling, explaining the situation. Arthur examined the structure, running his hands over the wood, testing its stability. It is worse than you think, he said. The rot extends up into the crossbeams. You will need to replace more than just the piling. I can handle the lumber, Naomi said. But I do not have the tools to cut through the old piling. I do, Arthur said. And I know how to secure a new one. Lead the way. They spent the afternoon at the dock, Arthur directing the work while Naomi handled the physical labor. He showed her how to brace the structure, how to align the new piling, how to bolt it securely to the existing framework. His instructions were clear, precise, delivered in a calm, measured tone. Lena, who had come down to observe, watched with interest. She had heard about Arthur's boatbuilding skills, but seeing him work on the dock was different. This was practical repair, immediate problem-solving, the kind of work that required experience and intuition. You have done this before, Lena said. Many times, Arthur replied. Boats need maintenance. Docks need maintenance. Everything does, if you want it to last. But nothing lasts forever, Naomi added quietly. Arthur looked at her, then nodded. True. But we repair what we can. That is how we honor what is left. By late afternoon, the dock was stable. The new piling held firm, the crossbeams secured. Naomi tested the structure, walking across it, feeling for weakness. It was solid, functional, ready to withstand the coming storms. Thank you, she said to Arthur. Do not mention it, he replied. Good research depends on good infrastructure. Naomi smiled faintly. I will make sure the data reflects that. As they packed up their tools, Lena noticed something in Arthur's expression: satisfaction, pride, the quiet joy of having solved a problem. It was a feeling she recognized from her own work on the dory, the pleasure of seeing pieces come together, of creating something functional and enduring. On the drive back to her truck, Naomi reviewed the day's work. The dock was repaired, the data collection could continue, the funding review might still be salvageable. Small victories, but victories nonetheless. She thought about Arthur, about his hands, about the way he moved with deliberate care despite the tremor. She thought about Lena, watching, learning, present in a way that suggested growth. And she thought about the eels, still disappearing, still unexplained. But for now, there was work to do. Data to collect. Problems to solve. One step at a time. At the research station, Naomi washed the dock grit from her hands and opened the maintenance log, a composition book she had begun three summers ago for exactly this kind of entry. Piling four replaced, crossbeams reinforced, June twenty-eighth. Materials: eighty-six dollars, plus tax. Labor donated. Under labor she wrote Arthur Penhaligon, paused, and added the word neighbor, which was accurate as far as it went and did not go nearly far enough. The kettle ticked as it cooled. Outside, the new piling stood darker than its brothers, green wood still drinking the tide, and she stepped out once more before dark just to feel the boards hold under her heels. Solid. Borrowed time, but solid. She checked the day's trap counts one last time. Seven, seven, five. Unchanged, as if the water were holding its breath along with everything else. She wrote the numbers down anyway, because writing them down was the work, because a number recorded in the evening was a small act of faith that there would be another morning to compare it against. --- ---