This week I’m anchored just inside Matanzas Inlet near St. Augustine, and the past week has been about as easy as it gets.

Light winds, mostly under 15 knots, and long stretches where it barely felt like they were trying at all. The kind of conditions where the boat just settles in and stays there—no constant adjustments, no second-guessing the set.

The bigger story here isn’t the wind, it’s the current. The inlet and river are driven hard by the tides, and when it’s moving, it moves with purpose. At anchor, it’s manageable—just a steady reminder of what’s underneath you. At the dock, though, it’s a different game entirely. Timing matters more than technique when it’s really running. I pulled into the fuel dock earlier this week and made sure to time it at slack tide when I wouldn’t need to worry too much about the current.

Otherwise, it’s been a good stretch. Clear skies, plenty of sun, and the solar has been carrying its weight without needing much help. Batteries stay topped off, systems stay quiet, and the days feel a little simpler because of it.

No complaints this week.

📝Harbor Notes

I’ve written about St. Augustine before, and coming back here always feels familiar in a way that’s hard to fake. There’s some personal history tied up in this place, and it still holds up.

What stood out this week is how easy everything is.

There are really two landing spots that make life simple. The dock at the municipal marina puts you right into town—an easy walk to find some music, wander a bit, or sit down for dinner without much planning. On the other side, the Vilano Beach Public Pier dock serves a different purpose. Quick access to a Publix, an Irish pub nearby if you’re in the mood for a pint, and just a more practical run for supplies.

After a winter in the Bahamas, that kind of access doesn’t go unnoticed. Out there, you make do with what’s available. You adjust meals, projects, and plans based on what you can actually find. Here, you walk into a store and it’s just… there. Fully stocked shelves. Options.

Even on the boat side, it’s the same story. I stopped by First Mate Marine Services and was able to order a new cover for the water pump—something I’d been putting off. The old one’s been worn down over the years, and it was time. No workarounds, no improvising—just walk in, order the part, done.

It’s a good reminder. Access like this is easy to take for granted until you don’t have it for a while.

This week I was reunited with a very special instrument.

The fiddle was built for me by a luthier in Austin, Elaine—someone who’s become a close friend over the past few years as my sailing life and music have slowly intertwined. It’s an instrument that carries more than just sound. There’s history in it.

Last year, though, the environment out here caught up with it. The constant humidity, heat, and motion eventually did what they do—the glue binding the neck to the body let go. It wasn’t dramatic, just final. I dropped it off with Bob Parsons here in St. Augustine back in November on my way south, hoping it could be brought back.

This week, I got it back.

And I’ll be honest—it shows how long it’s been. There’s a layer of rust, not on the instrument, but in my hands. Intonation, timing, even just settling into it again—it’s taking some work.

But that’s part of it.

On Tuesday, I was over at Grace O'Malley's Irish Pub for open mic, and my friend Harold played The Mingulay Boat Song. It stuck with me. Simple, steady, and about heading home—hard to ignore the timing.

So I took a crack at it.

Singing and playing fiddle at the same time is still something I wrestle with. I’m not very good at it yet. But that’s not really the point. Recording something a little rough, putting it out there anyway—that’s part of getting better.

So here’s my version of The Mingulay Boat Song. A song about sailing home, recorded while sitting somewhere that feels a bit like it.