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.

Another lighter week on the maintenance front, but one item that’s been lingering finally got some attention.

I ordered a new cover for the raw water pump. The old one had visible scoring—years of the impeller spinning against it had worn grooves into the surface. It’s subtle, but enough to raise suspicion. That wear has been on my list of possible culprits behind the intake-side vacuum issue I’ve been chasing.

The symptom hasn’t changed: after a stretch of rougher conditions, I’ll start the engine and it struggles to pull water. Air gets into the intake line, and the pump can’t quite overcome it to self-prime. Once I manually prime it—disconnect the intake hose and feed water into it—it’s fine. Reliable, even. Just not automatic.

With access to parts here in St. Augustine, I was able to order a proper replacement instead of continuing to work around it. That at least removes one variable from the equation. Whether it was the issue is something I won’t know until I’m back offshore and the system gets tested the same way it’s been failing—some motion, a little air introduced, and see if it recovers on its own.

Next step is going through the intake side more methodically—tightening hose clamps, checking for any small air leaks that wouldn’t show up at rest but might open up when things start moving.

The upside is I’ve gotten very efficient at priming the system. It’s no longer a scramble—just a process. Still, it’s one of those things you’d rather not have to do at all.

Otherwise, a quiet week. Systems behaving, nothing new demanding attention.

Being back in St. Augustine always has a deeper effect on me than I expect.

I walked streets this week that I’ve known for most of my life—from being a kid to now. Same corners, same rhythms, just seen through a different lens. Getting home last weekend, seeing family and friends, spending real time with them—it resets something. It’s grounding in a way that’s hard to replicate anywhere else.

There’s also a comfort in the logistics here. A place where I can pick up a mooring ball, step off the boat for a few days, and not carry that constant low-level awareness of the boat’s every movement. It gives you space to think a little further ahead.

And that’s where my head’s been drifting this week—north.

I’ve been watching the weather, looking at windows, thinking through stops. Part of me wants to push straight to Morehead City—just get on with it. But that’s a longer run than I like to do single-handed this close to shore. Two, maybe three days, with a couple of overnights, and not a lot of room to really rest. I’m fine with short naps offshore, but hugging the coast like that, with traffic and everything moving around you, it’s not the place to disappear for hours.

So the more likely plan is to break it up. Savannah or Charleston both make sense—manageable legs, one overnight or so, something that keeps it reasonable.

It may end up being more of a slow crawl up the coast than a straight shot. And that’s fine.

There’s a waypoint in all of this: Norfolk. I’ve got a rendezvous there next month—fiberglass work, solar upgrades, a bit of time to get things dialed in before the next leg. I need to be there by May 8th, so the pace between now and then will sort itself out around that.

Beyond that, the line keeps extending north. Nova Scotia for the summer. More time underway, more places to settle into for a while.

For now, though, I’m still here. And it still feels like home.