Aside from the awesome rock stylings of Jay Ferguson, it's a quiet night here on the boat. The water is still and dark, and the sky clear enough to see Orion waving back at you. I waved to him just recently, when I went out to investigate what I assumed was a person making very amateurish owl sounds out on the dock. (Note to self: is it possible to make professional owl sounds? Potential career niche.)

Anyway, as I say, I assumed one of the neighbors was making owl sounds to alert me to his or her presence, so I went outside. Seeing no one, I shined a flashlight about the neighboring masts, startling a large owl, which took off in what I assume was bitter silence for parts East. "Sorry, Hootypants," I called. He circled back and gave me the feather before he flapped off again. I can take it, but really, if I didn't have so many hoodlum friends with unorthodox greeting methods, I would never have disturbed him.

Part of living in a marina is the necessity of developing a tolerance for all manner of noise and chaos. Neighbors knocking on the hull to announce their presence. Halyards clanging. Snuffling sea lions breaking the surface of the water, chasing a school of sardines. Arrogant blue herons squawking in protest at being disturbed in their fishing. The Jimmy Buffett enthusiast on the next dock. On every dock, really. Jimmy Buffett is highly over-represented on the playlists of most of the residents here, me excluded.

It makes me laugh, secretly, when friends come to visit and talk about the peacefulness of the harbor, and how they would love to live in such a relaxing environment. There are many relaxing moments, it's true, but in general, the marina has the calm atmosphere of a bus station. A bus station that is also a wild animal preserve and the central loading platform for the Margaritaville Express, a thing I just made up for the purposes of exaggerating the noise level of my environment.

But at the moment, it is quiet, especially since I chased away that owl. Sorry, owl, but you were kind of giving me the creeps. It did cross my mind, hearing the totally fake-sounding hoots, that the noise was coming from a team of burglars signalling each other before busting through the forward hatch of my boat. Life is hard, out here on the water. The mind plays tricks. (I guess. It sounded kind of salty, so I went with it.)

And, because there is great potential for misunderstanding in written communication and I do not relish getting a bunch of crap about it: I was not really listening to Jay Ferguson, as I stated in the opening sentence.

Star of the day. . .David Bowie