The weather in St. Augustine this past week has had that November rhythm—light mornings, breezy afternoons, and evenings that cool just enough to remind you winter isn’t far off.

Most days have opened calm and glassy, the river smoothing itself out like it’s trying to convince you to stay another day. By late morning the breeze fills in from the northeast, steady but rarely aggressive, enough to set the boats in the anchorage swinging gently on their rodes. The afternoons have been the busiest, with the wind stiffening across the river and the chop starting to build just enough to slap the hull when the tide opposes it.

Nights have been the reward. The air settles, the wakes die down, and the Matanzas turns reflective and dark—only the anchor lights and the glow of Christmas lights adjourning the old city breaking the surface. It’s the kind of weather sailors come to Florida for: workable, predictable, forgiving… with just enough personality to remind you you’re not tied to the dock.

The tides here have been doing their usual dance—two strong ebbs each day that can swing a boat nearly 180 degrees, especially in the north anchorage. Between the current, the breeze, and the weekend traffic, it’s been lively, but never unkind.

All in all, St. Augustine has served up a week of weather that matches the city itself: gentle, steady, and full of small shifts that keep you paying attention.

10 days ago, I entered the St. Augustine Inlet with the Great Cross off my bow and the sea buoy sliding astern, feeling the strange, familiar tug of a place tied tightly to my past. As a child I spent a lot of time here—touring the fort, wandering the old streets, I even learned to swim at a KOA campground pool off A1A. I returned as an adult for my first wedding anniversary, in the same city where my grandparents first met during World War II. This place has always been part of me.

I started out anchored south of the Vilano Bridge in twenty feet of water. Good holding, but busy boat ramp, plenty of wakes to keep me honest. (29°54.767N - 81°18.212W)

Later in the week I moved north of the mooring field next to the Bridge of Lions. (29°53.993N - 81°18.375W) It put me closer to the dinghy dock, perfect for slipping into town for dinner or early-morning breakfasts. The spot I chose to anchor was deep (29 feet), and I tucked in right near the channel—figuring most boaters wouldn’t choose to anchor that close. It worked fine until Friday. Weekend crowds filled the anchorage, and a couple on a newly purchased Oceanis dropped anchor and settled right off my beam. With the way boats danced on the current here, I felt like our boats would surely make contact at some point. A quick, polite conversation, and they re-anchored without hesitation.

St. Augustine is one of those rare places where memory and present time overlap. I’m living on the hook now, drifting with the tide, but in a place I’ve known all my life. Somehow, that makes the swing feel steadier.

Tuesday night at Ann O’Malley’s open mic, my friend Harold and I dusted off an old favorite—Long Black Veil—but our inspiration was not the version most people know. We listened to the Chieftains’ take, the one with Mick Jagger’s weathered voice drifting over Irish pipes and fiddle. It’s a version that feels half folk ballad, half ghost story—perfect for a room full of sailors, wanderers, and late-night storytellers.

There’s something fitting about bringing that song into this particular week, here in St. Augustine. This whole issue—or maybe this whole stop on my voyage—has been about revisiting the past from a distance, stepping back into a place that shaped me while seeing it through the eyes of who I am now.

Long Black Veil carries that same kind of echo. It’s a song rooted in memory, in the weight of choices made long ago. But in the Chieftains’ version, with the Irish instrumentation beneath it, the whole thing feels like it comes from somewhere old and tidal—something carried on the wind.

Playing it here, in a city where I had experienced so much in the past —there was a symmetry to it. A song about the pull of the past and regret performed in a town threaded so deeply through mine. It felt right for this harbor, for this moment in the journey.

And as I played mandolin and Harold on guitar and vocals, the song became less about its story and more about the way music can anchor us. How it can tether a sailor to memory as surely as a line holds a boat to its cleat.

Give it a listen and let me know what you think.