The week began with the wind from the southeast, and Elizabeth Harbour felt a little unsettled because of it. Nothing dramatic—just sloppy. The swell was wrapping its way in through the cut south of Stocking Island and finding its way into the anchorage. Enough motion to remind you that even “protected” water is still connected to the ocean.

By Wednesday, things began to sort themselves out. The wind eased and clocked around—east for a stretch, even northwest at one point—and with it the harbor smoothed over. The difference was noticeable. Boats stopped bouncing. Dinghies stopped tugging at their painters. Coffee sat a little more calmly in the mug.

Then Thursday morning arrived like a postcard.

At 6:30 a.m., with the water glassy and the sun just beginning to burn, a group of kids from Denmark were out “skurfing” in the anchorage—yes, in between the boats. They must still be on European time. It was early enough that I imagine a few skippers below decks weren’t thrilled by the hum of a towboat, but I was already up. From my cockpit it was more entertaining than irritating.

They had plenty of open water they could have used, but instead they zigzagged carefully through the anchorage, laughing, falling, climbing back up. It was bold. Maybe a little foolish.

I ran into them Friday afternoon as I was coming back from playing pool up at Da Sandbar. They were climbing aboard their boat, and we ended up talking for a bit. Four boats had come over together from Europe—crossed the Atlantic as a loose fleet. When they asked what I was on and I said Celtic Cross, the Amel, they told me they’d seen her at anchor.

They invited me to come skurfing with them next time.

I haven’t committed yet.

The wind is supposed to tick up again this weekend, but overall it’s been a good week here in Elizabeth Harbour. For a few mornings at least, it felt like summer arrived early—even if only until the next front decides otherwise.

Saturday night update:

By Saturday evening, the slop from earlier in the week worked its way back into the harbor. The wind has settled in from roughly the same direction as before, and with it the swell is wrapping around the cut south of Stocking Island again and finding its way into Elizabeth Harbour.

It’s not uncomfortable. Just rolly.

📝Harbor Notes

Last Sunday covered a lot of ground.

It started, as many good Sundays do here, at Da Sandbar for the weekly pool tournament. The draw wasn’t particularly kind to me. First round, I pulled Ron, the guy who’s won the last two—or maybe three—weekends in a row. He’s solid. We’d played earlier in the week, just knocking balls around for a couple hours, and we split the games pretty evenly. I felt good about my chances.

Tournament energy is different, though.

He edged me out and that was that. Early exit. Quick handshake. A spectator for the rest of it.

But the day was just getting started.

It was Super Bowl Sunday, and even down here in Georgetown, that’s a big day. Over at Fish Fry, a few of the bars pooled their resources and set up a large projector screen. By late afternoon, the place filled in—locals, cruisers, and tourists.

There’s something about watching a big game in a place like this. You’re a long way from home, but not really. Accents mix. Jerseys appear from storage. Someone inevitably explains the rules to someone else who’s never quite followed American football but enjoys the spectacle anyway.

The cheers carried out toward the anchorage. For a few hours, Fish Fry felt like a small stadium on the edge of the sea.

That’s one of the things I appreciate about being here: there’s always something happening. A pool tournament. A beach barbecue. A harbor concert. Or a makeshift Super Bowl watch party stitched together from extension cords and goodwill.

It’s not an official holiday, but you wouldn’t know that by the turnout..

Today’s stage floated.

Out behind Stocking Island, in Hole #1, there’s a houseboat that’s become something of a permanent fixture here in Georgetown - Tangelo. This afternoon it turned into a concert venue. The roof became the stage. Dinghies circled like floating front-row seats.

At one point I counted six guitars, a banjo, and a keyboard all going at once. That’s either chaos or chemistry depending on the players—and somehow it worked. The mix gave everything a layered, campfire-meets-festival feel. Rhythm stacked on rhythm. Strums and rolls weaving together.

Earlier in the week I’d heard it was happening and reached out to the houseboat’s owner to see what the format was. Word on the Net had been “open mic.” What I learned was that it was more of a house band with a set playlist, and if you wanted in, you needed to know who to contact ahead of time. A little bit of a handshake network. Not impossible—just not as casual as it sounded from the chatter.

So I listened instead of played.

And honestly, there’s something good about that too. Any time someone stands up—especially in front of a beach full of cruisers who have heard just about everything—you’ve got to respect it. It takes nerve to carry a tune over open water.

It turns out this is an annual event here in Georgetown. A floating tradition. I’m glad I went.

Maybe next time I’ll figure out the way in and put my name in the hat early. Maybe bring the mandolin or guitar over by dinghy. For now, it was enough to sit back, and let the chords drift across the beach.