Dr. McCoy seems like such a tense, stressed-out man, always on the verge of exploding. Perhaps if he sat down with a Mint Julep more often, feet propped on the table, his mind allowed to wander to those wonderful days with Nancy, the salt monster, he would be less likely to snap at Spock.
But then again, Spock, with his unflappable calm, no doubt brings out the worst in McCoy’s hot southern temper. This is the area, after all, that came up with Coke-batter-dipped, deep-fried peanut butter and bacon sandwiches. And sweet tea. McCoy’s battles with his emotions are nothing compared to his dietary challenges.
So the prescription for the good doctor is to forget that he is not a sailor and to spend the afternoon sailing, on a craft like Zephyr. Better yet, he should hire someone to sail Zephyr while he sits on the deck chair, in the sun, with the Mint Julep and memories of Nancy.
But of course the ultimate cure for Doctor McCoy would be if an ancestor of his, say, in the early 21st century, purchased Zephyr through Steve Henderson Fine Art Galleries and passed it on down the family tree. Then Dr. McCoy could sit in his little white room with the pulsating heart sounds, sip his Mint Julep, and reflect on how he is “a doctor, dammit, not a painter!”