I've never quite understood the connection behind Man and his Vehicles of Locomotion. In fact, I've spent most of my life concerning myself with the natural modes of locomotion: walking, swimming, and dancing (we can't fly, but geese can't dance). So it is with interest that I note, as I sit here atop Dame Carver herself—perhaps she is a Ms., being of the disco decade—that in my mind, considering her to be a woman denotes respect and deference.

Which brings me back to last night. D. gone, and back in my own space half-lonely, I spent some relaxed time piddling about on the boat: re-gluing the Velcro that I'd put on the salon hatch to hold down a square screen (unfortunately useless as I don't really have anything for the stern hatches and doors) and gluing in a screw that supports the forward cabin hatch. Being covered in wood glue is a lovely sort of dirty.

Satisfied with my yawning hatch and the view of the stars, I impulsively switched my pillows to the bow, below the anchor, wanting more natural light to sleep by. It is really something to be able to sleep under open sky—a simple pleasure most don't often experience, unless it is at the beach by day. I slept easily as I most often do, exhausted, and heavily. But at some point late in the night, I awoke suddenly aware of a bright light shining directly into my salon. Sitting up, I realized that it was actually my own port side light. I blinked. This meant that the salon was flooded with light. I stood up and grabbed for my clothes in the dark, trying to process which item might cover enough of me to allow my passage into the light. Nothing availed itself fast enough, so I just grabbed my down comforter, wrapped it about myself under one arm like a toga, and went out to turn out the light, which was indeed on. It is a row of three square fluorescent lights, slightly curved at the corners like knishes, and slightly stained from inside with age. The frame is a brownish maroon. I wasn't sure how the light had come on, but I knew that I hadn't heard any footsteps in the boat, nor any other sound that should have woken me, so I went back to sleep.

There does not seem to be a logical explanation for this, particularly since I don't often use that light. I tend to use the starboard fixture, if any. The switch, which is curved at center and fits nicely with one's finger as the switch is flipped—an old and beautiful design—may have been tilted slightly to one connection or another, but had it been so close, why did it come on in the middle of the late night? If it was an electrical circuit completed by dampness, why didn't it happen on a rainy evening? Who would have come aboard, quietly enough to not disturb my sleep? If they came aboard to steal, why didn't they steal anything?