I’m still tucked into Harbor Town Marina in Dania Beach. The weather has been doing its usual South Florida routine—short bursts of rain drifting through, just enough to cool things off without interrupting much. It’s been a good backdrop for boat work. The marine electrician is deep into the lithium installation and making good progress, lately the overcast skies have kept the heat manageable inside the cabin. This would be a different experience in summer’s heat and humidity.

Between the rain, the hum of tools, and the trickle of marina traffic, the week has felt quiet but productive. No deadlines, no rush—just steady progress from one task to the next. At this point, it looks like I’ll stay put through next week as the installation wraps up.

The only real interruption came from the no-see-ums. They drift in at the edges of daylight—dawn and dusk—small enough to overlook, persistent enough that you reach for bug spray almost automatically. It doesn’t take many of them; a few minutes without protection and the calm air suddenly feels like it’s turned on you.

Since not much is happening around here, it feels like a good moment to reach back to the Nova Scotia stretch from July through September and talk about the marina there.

Some of my time in Nova Scotia this past summer was spent at the Armdale Yacht Club tucked up at the far end of the Northwest Arm in Halifax (44°38.119' N 63°36.902' W). I ended up there on the recommendation of my buddy Alex, who I’d met the year before in the Bahamas. He said it was the place to stay if I made it to Halifax, and he was right. The marina was comfortable—welcoming without trying too hard, and populated with just good people.

I worked out a week-to-week rental on a slip owned by one of the permanent residents. He was off cruising, and the Dockmaster told me they’d give me a heads-up if he returned. If I needed to move, there was plenty of room to anchor just outside the marina, and the holding in the mud there was excellent. But it never came to that—I stayed in the slip until the day I left.

Armdale sits on surprisingly historic ground. The stone building near the docks once served as a British prison during the War of 1812, housing American POWs. Before that it held captured French from the Napoleonic War. Deadman’s Island lies just across the water, where many of those prisoners were buried. Each year, the U.S. military still sends a delegation to honor them. Today the prison is used as storage for slipholders, but walking inside, you can still feel that it was built for confinement.

Finn, my 10 year old Weimaraner, loved dock life. The residents—people who lived aboard or spent most of their summers there—took to him immediately. Evenings, they often gathered around a small sitting area on C dock with a few beers, and Finn made himself part of the routine, pulling empties out of the recycle bin under the table and ripping them open to make sure nothing went to waste. He also claimed the calm water off the dock as his personal swimming hole.

Armdale ended up feeling less like a stopover and more like a place I lived for a while— welcoming and layered with history.

After last week’s open mic at Grumpy Gary’s, where Ken Overbay joined me on stage for our version of Paradise by John Prine, I’d heard he played regularly at Riptides Tiki Bar on Hollywood Beach on the weekends. I checked the schedule, saw his name on for Saturday night, and decided to go listen. I’m really glad I did.

Ken has an easy, unforced presence on stage. He’s clearly comfortable there, not performing at the room but working with it. He talks with the crowd between songs, takes requests without hesitation, and makes them feel like part of the set rather than an interruption. Nothing feels rehearsed or stiff—it all comes across as natural, like this is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

There’s a definite Jimmy Buffett thread running through what he does—not imitation, but tone and attitude. South Florida was one of Jimmy’s old stomping grounds, and Ken feels like he fits right into that tradition: coastal, relaxed, and confident enough to let the songs carry the moment.

Ken just belongs in that space. Open air, cold drinks, salt in the air. The kind of musician who settles in, connects with the room, and makes the night feel exactly right.

Have a listen to Ken’s version of Into the Mystic by Van Morrison.