We woke up this morning with the luxury of time, thanks to yesterday’s strategic planning, which had put us in prime position for a quick hop to Cambridge. No rush, no alarms, just sun on the deck and breakfast in hand. And let me tell you, Aldi’s sour cherry marmalade deserves a round of applause. Spread thick on a slice of homemade farmer’s bread, it’s the kind of thing that makes you pause mid-bite and say, “Well, that’s just lovely.”

The anchor came up without protest, just a smudge of mud clinging to the tip like it couldn’t quite let go. We motored out of the bay, the water wide and calm, and soon caught a whisper of breeze. Sails up, engine off, and there we were, drifting along at a leisurely three knots. No need to hurry today. We reached Cambridge around 14:20 and slid alongside the T-Dock like we’d rehearsed it. I’ll say it: today, we nailed the docking.

Koko’s sitting pretty now, though the pilings here are a bit of a nuisance. Fenders don’t stay put, so we finally broke out the fender board. First time using it, and what a difference. Koko’s snug and secure, no drama.

After a bit of lounging, we wandered off for a shower. The walk took us through a public park with a lovely view of the marina. You could spot Koko from the path, bobbing gently like she knew she looked good.

Clean and refreshed, we helped a slip neighbor wrangle his boat back into the slip, then headed out to poke around the screwpile lighthouse at the edge of the marina.

We strolled along the waterfront, admiring other sailboats…

… and eventually found ourselves in town at a cosy Italian spot for dinner.

After dinner, we wandered through town, which has a bit of an artsy streak: galleries, home décor shops, and a few open bars spilling music into the street. Some murals too, colorful and slightly odd, which is exactly how murals should be. And who recognizes the courageous lady extending a hand to Bettina?

We got back to the marina just after sunset. The screwpile lighthouse was lit up and looking rather sharp, like it knew it was the star of the show. Just in front of it, a colorful fountain was putting on its own little performance with jets of water catching the light and tossing it around like confetti. The two together made the whole waterfront feel like it had dressed up for the evening.

We were sitting in the cockpit, digesting both the pizza and the day, when a dark pontoon boat drifted past. No lights, no engine sound, just a shadow sliding by. It came within ten feet of us, engine dead, no steering, and clearly no plan. We stood up, ready to help, maybe toss a line and pull them in, but the crew onboard was… well, let’s say they were deep into their drinks. Loud, laughing, and swearing like it was a sport. They didn’t want help, didn’t seem to care they were drifting uncontrolled, and eventually bumped into an open T-Dock where they stayed put.

An hour later, a friend of theirs showed up in a small motorboat and towed them off into the river. It’s moments like these that remind you—most motorboaters are just… built different. And some are just drunk.

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