Crescent moon and mandala on upper back

The tide tables came on Tuesday, the same as ever, though Father's pencil is still down the margin of March where he circled the spring tides. I've kept them the way he liked, a little moon drawn in the corner of each page, full, then a sliver, then full again. Mrs Pellow from the chandlery asked why I bother with the drawings when the printed heights tell you everything. I said the drawings are how you remember which night the water came over the quay.

The boat is still on the slip at Porthkerris. Jim Arnold has been looking at her hull for a week and says the planks are sound, only tired. I've started sanding the inside of the transom myself, mostly because I can't sit in the front room with that clock. You'll laugh, but I found the old brass compass case in the drawer under the stove, the one with the pattern cut into its lid, petals stacked round a small star with a dark dot at its heart. I scrubbed it with vinegar and salt until the lines came up sharp, and I thought of you saying it looked like a sun that had been persuaded to become a flower.

Here is what I meant to tell you. The crescent on the spring page is nearly new again. In eleven days the dark comes in from the west and the harbour lights will be the only thing to steer by, and I want you home before then. Come on the Thursday tide. I'll leave the lamp lit at the end of the mole and the kettle on.

Your sister, Nell