Tom, fold it, seal in waterproof mailbag with the pebble from the tide line

Tom, Generator's holding. Jenny's patch on the fuel line lasted three months. I owe her a proper weld when the tide lets me at the dock. Weather's been decent. Two gales, one proper blow. Radio picked up a Mayday off Ushant — fishing boat, lost power. Coastguard got them. Sat listening for three hours. Felt like old times, minus the salt in my boots. The pebble's quartz. White with a pink vein. Picked it from the strand line at spring low. Thought of you and the rock pools at Polperro. You'd have known the geology. I just know it feels right in the hand. No grand revelations. Just — I'm still here. Still breathing. The water doesn't wake me as often. If you get this, write back. Don't have to be profound. Tell me what the pub charges for a pint. Tell me if Dave still tells that joke about the priest and the engineer. Your brother, Kevin P.S. Jenny says hello. She doesn't know I'm writing. She'd make me rewrite it proper.