End of the World. Maybe limited to this old bod; but the signs are written up on the wall in a bold and legible hand.

I started one before, but it sounded too depressed and my editor wouldn't publish it, in spite of the danger of your hearing about it in the Times, or the New England Journal of Medicine.

I became conscious of a funny feeling of tiredness, loss of a little control, kept getting worse, but without pain or feeling of sickness. I was on my way out to the trash barrel, and a two-pound load slipped out of my left hand twice. I was making an extra step that needed special attention to command. OK, I made it, came back walking slowly, concentrating on the function of the left leg, and slightly surprised at the way my left arm hung as if dead. I moved slowly and carefully, to show nothing to people that were in my house. They left soon.

Now what? Nothing much seemed to happen, no flashing lights, whistles, sirens. Control got worse. Difficulty cooking simple supper. Washing dishes was right hand only. To bed with a drink.

Morning was strange but coping was not impossible. Taxes were nearly done, ready to file. That seemed the most important thing to get done NOW. I did. Walked the mile to the corner, got the publico for Yauco, publico to Ponce, taxi to the IRS where last Ts were crossed, Is dotted, copies made. Now I can die. Nope, death didn't even look over the horizon. I did call a recommended MD who said it was probably a stroke, take aspirin, go slow, get a cat scan.

I went to the Veterans Administration in Mayaguez. Yes, it's a stroke, not a big one, but a serious matter. Put me in for physiotherapy, but the PT man threw me out. With my lifestyle, he needs me more than I need him. I'm out of that one doing whatever I have to do to go on, nearly as able as I was before, but slower and a bit less confident. Some drag to my left foot, but I can control it and walk normally by paying close attention. Getting up and down from sitting stooping, or top and bottom of stairs always leaves me a moment of staggers. I'm learning to live with it. Not yet ready to throw in the sponge, but the grip is less sure. Staggers and Save have been the rule, but I've been able to take care of myself, am able to negotiate the motora, and suddenly I have a lot of friends who are willing not only to help, but to tell me how to live, and even why!

Quite a lot of company, Olivier and Petty, returning from a not so successful charter season. Close friends, good partying. Another boat with a couple on it, waiting for return of a sail from stateside. A single hander on Pearson 36.

I've been without my motora for a while, hired a truck to take it to Ponce, when one of my guests returned it with no transmission working. Had to wait an interminable time for parts. Found it tiring to row across the bay and then walk to the PO and for groceries. But sticking close to home has helped me get all the preparation done for a fan to provide some indoor relief from the hot weather that is settling in. Bud Harter, the guy who sailed back from Venezuela with me a year or more ago, managed to get one down to me, and it is now installed and providing welcome relief.

Refixed a housing, and worked over my sander in preparation for making a sewing machine stand for my neighbor to the back who has admired the one I made for myself. Slight burn from the motora exhaust has made me appreciate an enterprising Puerto Riqueno, who is putting out a version of our Maine/Vermont standby Bag Balm, right down to the 3/4 back picture of the cow. Calls it Manteca Maslac. Par uso externo. It's a hard way to learn Spanish.

Let me hear from y'all, hear!

All HandsCatalog