There�s a large rectangular room on the second floor of the building that houses the office at my marina. It features a television with a remote that�s wired to the wall, a selection of videotapes, assorted weight machines, and about 2,000 books left by tenants or transients. The room is known as the Boater�s Lounge, because whether by sail or power, we tenants are boaters. Not yachties, not sailors, just boaters. It�s a little disheartening to be categorized only by one�s mode of transportation, but if the truckers can take it, then 10-4 good buddy, I can acclimate as well.

The Keelhauler and I had a race yesterday, and afterwards went to dinner with our friends Anthony and Lara, so by the time we got back to the marina, it was late. According to a promise he�d made, the Keelhauler felt obligated to fix one of the weight machines, so even though it was midnight, we went up to the Boater�s Lounge and he set to work. I amused myself by looking through the shelves of books, mostly romance and self-help, with some Dean Koontz and Stephen King thrown in. Mostly beach reading�unchallenging, suitable for reading out on the deck of a boat, while drinking rum and Coke to a Jimmy Buffett soundtrack. It�s the library of an uncomplicated group of people, mildly curious about religion or self-improvement, but happy with the latest best-seller, which they�ll drop off when finished, to pick up another.

I found a couple of books to while away the time, one a kid�s chapter book called �Fangface,� starring a group of teenagers modeled after the gang from Scooby Doo. The book concerned a mad creature resembling the Incredible Hulk, who breaks into a lab, busting up a computer as big as a waterbed, then running away. �Is it human?� one �Professor� asks. �If he was once, he�s not now,� another replied. (�The Gang from Scooby Doo.� Wasn�t that an Orson Welles film?)

One of the books, so small but thick that it was nearly a cube�was titled 14,000 Things to be Happy About. Perhaps you�re familiar with this book. It�s a list, uncategorized in any way, of things that bring the author�Barbara Ann Kipfer�happiness. The book was published in about 1990, so apparently I�m lagging behind the happiness train. I guessed that my low tolerance for cuteness ensured that I would find hours of entertainment in its pages, and I was right. I understand that happiness is relative and its causes idiosyncratic and sometimes inexplicable. Still, upon opening the book, I began finding things that I had trouble imagining as sources of joy. Witness:

• quarts -- Is it the size? The shape? The volume? Is this entry meant to have ended with a Z, perhaps?


• a serious present for a birthday�like a desk -- �My darling, my love for you is so intense that it transcends humor and bleeds over into office furniture. Be mine always. And just spray it with Pledge from time to time.�


• the position of your head as you bite into a taco -- �Just a little to the left. No, further. Ah! Too far. OK, now hold the taco up toward your mouth, and tilt your head forward so the light from the fluorescent tubes highlights your elegant cheekbones. Ahhhhhhhhh. Happiness!�


• stuffed calico yo-yos -- This smacks of small-town craft fairs, and while those do make me happy, I am unfamiliar with the item in question. I think my unfamiliarity with it makes me happier than the actual item ever would.


• dropping a pound cake on your big toe -- �Thunk.� �YAY!"


• sash-wrapped waists -- �Did you see that?� �What?� �Dude. That WAIST!� �I missed it! Was it sash-wrapped?� �It was. And it made me happy.� �Yea, verily.�


• watching a craftsman whip up a straw hat -- This used to make me happy, but now it inspires ennui. Familiarity breeds contempt, you.


• Pontiac Fieros -- Ooo! Like the one Marilyn Manson drove, back before he was a rock star!


• Ali McGraw, actress -- �nuf said.

About a third of the way into the book, I saw a notation in the top margin, where someone had added her own thing that made her happy: Making love on the deck of the Analogy. I recognized the name as belonging to a boat a few docks away, and added my own note: �TMI!� I don�t know the owners of Analogy, but I was getting a mental picture I wished would dissipate. I was not in luck. A few pages later, in the same hand but different ink, was this note: Vibrators. Then, suggesting a course of events I think we can all understand without me spelling it out, batteries.

Turning the pages using a pair of needle-nosed pliers, I flipped through the book to discover the rest of the notes:

• secret e-mail


• juicy phone sex


• Mega-bubbles!!!


• Foggy Audi windows� tiny back seats�


• Tequila stained lips�


• Really bad movies� (Monster-in-Law)
; and the puzzling:

• chocolate chip stomach

Who were these people, these neighbors of mine, these boaters, with their batteries and tequila-stained lips? The dark side of boating. I closed the book and replaced it on the shelf, not mentioning it to the Keelhauler. As I walked back home, I turned to look out over the water, aware of each little floating den of iniquity.

Star of the day. . .Wallace Stevens