I’m writing this from Elizabeth Harbor, just off Georgetown, Exuma Island on Christmas Day. It’s been windy the last few days—but comfortable. The kind of steady breeze that keeps the boat cool this time of year and reminds you why this harbor has drawn sailors here for generations.

That calm came after the work.

Last Monday, Antony and I were underway, crossing west to east from the Exuma Bank through Galliot Cut and out into the Exuma Sound. The weather was not good. Not ambiguous. Not improving. It was very clear that the sail to Georgetown was going to be rough.

A strong high-pressure system off the Carolinas was pushing stiff wind south, and the Sound had plenty of room to build on it. I connected with Jeff, a friend who’s been sailing these waters for years—someone whose judgment I trust. We walked through the forecast, the timing, the tide, and the cut. His assessment was straightforward: uncomfortable, but not dangerous—spoken from experience, not optimism.

Uncomfortable, but not dangerous.

There were reasons to move. Antony was flying out Tuesday. My friend Scott was arriving the same day. Schedules should never dictate whether you sail, but they do exist, and in this case the decision came after careful consideration and consultation—not hope.

We went through Galliot Cut at high tide. The wave action was challenging and focused, the kind that demands attention. Once clear and turned south, the Exuma Sound delivered exactly what was expected—and maybe a little more.

They were calling for six foot waves and 30 knot gusts. It felt bigger and faster. Steeper. Tighter. Right on our beam. It was a five-hour passage where nothing overly dramatic occurred, save a couple waves breaking into the cockpit.

We were sailing with just a little genoa out, and I wanted to start the engine to make sure we had it if needed. That’s when the engine cooling issue surfaced again. I went below, broke the seal on the raw water pump, and manually primed the line. That confirmed it: the debris I had cleared wasn't the only issue. There’s something else going on. A problem for later, but not forgotten.

We made it into Georgetown tired, salt-stiff, and settled. The decision held. The boat did her job. We did ours. Sometimes the sea state isn’t a forecast—it’s simply the conditions you agree to meet.

📝Harbor Notes

It’s hard to describe this place without feeling like you’re leaving something out.

Elizabeth Harbour isn’t just an anchorage—it’s a cruising community. Right now, there are probably a hundred boats here: sailboats and catamarans, monohulls and trawlers, powerboats mixed in among them all. Boats at anchor, boats arriving, boats preparing to leave. Dinghies moving constantly between shore and boat. It feels lived-in and connected.

Every morning at 8:00 a.m., the harbor comes alive on VHF Channel 72 with the Cruiser’s Net. It’s part weather report, part tide and sunrise briefing, part community bulletin board. Arrivals and departures are announced. Swap-and-sell items get airtime. And every day, there’s something happening—water aerobics, beach yoga, dinghy meetups, happy hours—shared openly with anyone listening.

On Christmas Day, that broadcast included an invitation for a harbor-wide potluck. No reservations, no sign-ups—just cruisers bringing a dish, a plate and cutlery, and themselves. It felt like a natural extension of the place: strangers by name, familiar by voice, gathering because someone simply said, “This is happening—come if you want.”

Across the harbor, Georgetown feels like the other half of the rhythm. A Bahamian town with the essentials—grocery store, bank, pharmacy, restaurants—but more importantly, people who carry real warmth. Conversations come easily.

I’ve been here since Monday afternoon, and it’s already clear why so many cruisers make Elizabeth Harbour a seasonal home. It’s social without being loud, organized without being rigid, and welcoming without effort.

Listen to the Cruiser’s Net broadcast from Christmas Day below. It captures this place better than I can—voices on the air, plans being made, and a community forming in real time.

So far, I’m really enjoying Georgetown. And I’m looking forward to staying a little longer.

Last year, while I was in the Bahamas, I wandered into a restaurant one night where a local band was playing rake and scrape—a distinctly Bahamian style built on rhythm, movement, and participation. It’s not background music. It’s the kind of sound that pulls you in whether you plan on dancing or not.

One of the songs they played that night stayed with me. It was called I’m a Boatman.

Boatman is rooted in the daily life of Bahamian fishermen—the boatmen who head out every morning, working the banks and the sound, providing food for their families and income for their communities. It’s a working song at heart. Plainspoken. Proud. Closely tied to the sea.

The fisheries here are remarkable—lobster, conch, reef fish, mahi—and Boatman fits naturally into that world. It’s a song that belongs to the islands as much as the water does.

On Christmas Eve, my friend Scott and I were at the Exuma Yacht Club, listening to a local group called True Love Band. After their first set, they asked if anyone had a request. I walked up, dropped a few bills in the tip jar, and asked if they could play I’m a Boatman.

They didn’t hesitate.

Hearing that song again—played by Bahamian musicians, in the Bahamas, on Christmas Eve—felt exactly right. I love the rhythm. I love the lyrics.

Take a listen to I'm a Boatman. Some songs don’t just tell a story—they carry a place with them.

There are people you meet at exactly the right time. Ones who help you find your footing when you land somewhere new. Scott is one of those people in my life.

When I moved to Mueller (a neighborhood in Austin, TX), Scott was already deeply connected to the music scene. He knew who was playing, where they were playing, and which rooms were worth your time. He’d text about shows, point me toward venues I might not have found on my own, and quietly helped me learn the rhythms of a city built around live music. Looking back, he didn’t just show me Austin—he helped me feel at home there.

One Friday night, I showed up at BD Reilly, the neighborhood Irish Pub, and slid into a seat at the bar just as the band was getting settled. The lead singer—Daithi —looked at me, sized me up, and in a thick Irish accent said, “You look like you could sing.”

Little did I know that sentence was about to set a lot in motion.

I got up that night and sang Folsom Prison Blues, which remains my go-to any time someone asks me to stand up and sing. Standing to my right was a guitar player whose playing immediately caught my ear. His solo during Folsom was effortless—confident, and very well done. That was Scott.

Over the next few months, that night turned into a regular rhythm. A small circle formed—musicians, regulars, late nights, shared songs. Somewhere in there, Scott and I stopped being guys who knew each other at a bar and became friends. Over the years, that friendship settled into something deeper—one of those rare, durable connections that holds across time, distance, and different chapters of life.

Scott is an exceptional blues guitarist. Like many musicians, he came to Austin to learn by immersion—to play with other players, to be part of the scene. I understand that pull well.

But beyond the music, Scott is the kind of person I’m genuinely glad is in my life. He’s someone I can rely on. Someone I call just to catch up, to talk things through, or sometimes to say nothing much at all.

One night, Scott texted me and said, “Andy, we need to go to C-Boy’s.”

C-Boy’s is a small, intimate club—no distance between the music and the room. That night, Jimmy Vaughan was playing—Stevie Ray Vaughan’s older brother, and the one who reportedly taught Stevie Ray how to play in the first place. A friend of Scott’s told him that Jimmy had been with Steve Miller that day and that he might be in the crowd.

The rumor turned out to be true.

We were leaning against the wall near the bar when Jimmy was on stage setting up. At one point, he started looking around—clearly searching for something. Then he stepped off the stage, walked straight over to Scott, and said, “Scott, do you have any picks on you? I need to borrow a few.”

Scott reached into his pocket—which naturally contained picks—and handed him a few.

Jimmy took them, and said, “I’ll get these back to you after the show.” Then he walked back on stage and got into his set.

Scott looked at me, a big grin on his face and said, “If you had told 16 year old Scott I’d be loaning picks to Jimmy Vaughn, it would have blown my mind”.

A childhood guitar hero had borrowed his picks—then brought another legend on stage. Right before the break, he called Steve Miller up. Steve stepped onto that small stage and sang a couple of songs with Jimmie. Two giants, twenty feet away, in a room that small.

The fact that Scott flew down here to be with me for Christmas—out of his life, his schedule, his world—means more to me than I probably say out loud. I’m glad he’s here. I’m glad he’s in my life. Some people really are tides you’re lucky to catch at exactly the right moment.

Scott and I had a little Celtic Cross cockpit session Friday afternoon. Check out our rendition of Robert Earl Keen’s “Merry Christmas from the Family” I was testing a new microphone setup so it’s really low-fi. But it was so fun we decided to keep it.

This was a quiet week on the maintenance front.

We didn’t tackle anything major, and that was intentional. It’s been a holiday week, and the boat didn’t need much beyond attention and care. Most mornings, after breakfast, we’d spend about an hour knocking out small tasks—nothing urgent, just the steady kind of work that keeps things from piling up.

We did some general cleaning. Rails, deck surfaces, and some stains we’d picked up over the last couple of weeks. Having someone else aboard made that easier—and honestly, more enjoyable. There’s something nice about sharing the rhythm of those small routines, getting a little done before the day opens up.

The one technical project we did take on was installing a new data cable between the MPPT solar charge controller and the Cerbo monitoring system. That ties the solar input into the same display as the lithium batteries, generator, and AC/DC loads. It doesn’t change how the system works, but it does put everything in one place, which makes it easier to understand what’s happening at a glance.

Alongside that, I’ve been quietly watching the lithium usage—getting a feel for the rhythm of discharge and recharge as the days go by. Nothing scientific yet, just observation. Patterns are starting to emerge, and it’s already changing how I think about power onboard.

I’ll save the deeper dive for later. I plan to put together a full post focused on the lithium install itself—the components, the layout, and how it feels to live with it after some real time aboard. That’s a story worth telling once it’s had a little more sea time.

For now, it’s been light-duty days. No big maintenance pushes, no systems torn apart. Just small improvements, regular cleaning, and letting ourselves enjoy the holidays.

There’s a particular feeling that comes when the boat is settled, the weather has eased, and the days stop demanding decisions. You wake up knowing where you are. Not just geographically—but personally.

This week felt like that.

After the push to get here, after the rough water and the moving parts, things have slowed into a rhythm. Mornings have structure. Afternoons open up. Evenings arrive without urgency.

Having a friend aboard mattered more than I expected. Not for help—though that was welcome—but for the shared pace of the day. Coffee, a little work, conversation, music, meals. Nothing dramatic. Just presence. That kind of companionship quietly resets your internal compass.

I’m also noticing how much I’m enjoying not fixing things. Paying attention instead. Watching how systems behave. How the boat responds. How I do. There’s a temptation, especially after a big upgrade or a demanding passage, to stay in problem-solving mode. This week reminded me that learning doesn’t always come from action. Sometimes it comes from letting things run and seeing what they tell you.

Georgetown seems to have a way of reinforcing that. The harbor hums, but it doesn’t rush. The community connects without forcing itself. You can participate as much—or as little—as you want, and either choice feels acceptable.

Right now, the bearing isn’t about distance or direction. It’s about staying long enough to feel aligned again. Letting the boat, the place, and the people settle into something that feels sustainable.

For the moment, that’s enough.