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.

This week’s maintenance was subdued. No major overhauls. Just steady progress.

The dinghy chaps project continues to move forward. All the panels are cut, and I’ve started reinforcing where the handles on the boat will be. It’s starting to feel less like a pile of fabric and more like something that will actually wrap the dinghy. My goal over the next few weeks is to get everything fitted and sewn.

I have decided to go with Velcro on chaps right above the rub-rail instead of a drawstring below it. It feels more durable long term. With a draw-string, the chaps will cover the rub rail itself, which means they’ll likely take the wear when the dinghy rubs against a dock or another boat. Eventually, they’ll wear through and require me to replace the fabric.

I also installed a Standard Horizon loudspeaker under the solar arch. Not for music — this one’s strictly business. It gives me the ability to hail boats that aren’t responding on the radio, and more importantly, to broadcast fog signals or emergency tones.

It would have been invaluable a couple years ago pushing north toward New York, sitting in that thick fog bank off the Jersey coast.

Originally, I wanted to mount it on the mizzen mast below the radar. That would’ve been ideal from a projection standpoint. But when I went up the mizzen mast and tried dropping a mouse line down the mast to pull the cable, I discovered a graveyard of old wiring inside — abandoned antenna cable, mystery conductors, who knows what else — all tangled enough to block the run.

So for now, it lives under the solar arch. Practical wins over perfect.

Next time the mast comes down for paint, I’ll clean out the unused cables and run it properly.

For now, it works.

There’s a lull here right now.

Not the kind that feels stagnant. The kind that feels preparatory.

I can sense that I’m in that in-between stretch—the quiet stretch before a longer arc begins to take shape.

Most of my energy lately has been directed toward readiness. Maintenance lists. Small upgrades. Systems checks. Thinking not just about the next island, but the next ocean.

Celestial navigation has, once again, been front and center the past few days. I’ve been back at it—sextant in hand, almanac open, sight reductions spread across the salon table. There’s something grounding about the process. Archaic, yes. But also deeply connective. When you take a sight of the sun or a star and reduce it to a line of position, you’re participating in a chain of mariners stretching back centuries.

I’m getting better than I was.

I’m not precise yet.

Fifteen miles. Twenty miles off sometimes. That tells me something in the workflow still needs tightening—maybe my timekeeping, maybe my corrections, maybe the way I’m handling the sight reduction tables. But the gap is shrinking, and that’s what matters. I’ve been revisiting old webinar recordings, pulling books back off the shelf, and diving into a couple of excellent YouTube channels that explain the mechanics with more clarity than I remember the first time through.

It feels less theoretical now. Less like an academic exercise. More like preparation.

The lithium upgrade was one of the main reasons I lingered in the Bahamas. I wanted sea time—but controlled sea time—before committing to something larger. I’ve got a good rhythm now between solar and generator. I know when to let the panels carry the load and when to top off deliberately. The system feels stable. Predictable.

The days are stretching a little longer. Not dramatically. Just enough to notice if you’re paying attention to the solar contributions for the day.

Monday morning delivered a reminder that competence is situational.

I was stepping off the stern onto the dinghy to head in for a haircut. The last step on the sugar scoop was still wet with dew. I didn’t notice. My foot slid, balance disappeared, and just like that I was in the water.

Fully dressed. Backpack on.

It wasn’t dramatic. No injuries. Just sudden immersion and a quick mental inventory. My phone and wallet were in the backpack, so instinct took over—I held it above my head while treading water and deciding how to recover with at least a shred of dignity. I climbed into the dinghy first, then back aboard Celtic Cross, dripping and mildly irritated with myself.

Dry clothes. Quick reset. A slightly delayed haircut.

I’m planning a short break from the boat in March. Between leaving the Bahamas and the eventual Atlantic crossing—pause, reset, recalibrate. I’ve got some people to see. But underneath it all, I can feel the forward pull again. The next phase isn’t abstract anymore. It’s forming.