One of the biggest struggles for a relatively young person in New York is deciding what to prioritize. It can be almost impossible to choose one's main application. For many New Yorkers, the City is about closing in on a small area, a neighborhood, an existence of closeness and convenience, a village. But as an adventurous young freelance musician, mine was all about extending reach, branching ever outward to touch all shores, all remote locations. Every distant bus line was an addition to my repertoire. One foot in Queens, another in Jersey City; a palm on Brighton Beach and another in Yorkville, with the forehead delicately touching furthest, dear Chelsea. In this subway-map twister, I strived to know all the nooks and crannies of the City through musical engagement. I think that most of us doing this sort of thing take great pride in our knowledge of obscure neighborhoods, disused transit, cultural air-pockets, and areas of linguistic anomaly.

At another point, it became necessary for me to seek out other worlds, as a balm for the chaos; classical Indian-music world; swimming world. And here is yet another option: a beautiful place, a world unto itself, full of loving people and excellent community, everyone coming from something to get away. Or rather, to get back in. We're all here because we want to slow down when we're not moving fast. That's why I'm here—because I can't live in anonymity, but I might be able to feel like I do for part of the time, without feeling that I've holed up in order to hunker down and recover from the world. Social intensity overwhelms nearly every activity one can get involved with; here, most seek quiet, and there are no luncheons, only scattered grilling, and drinking.

A fish jumps. Denis is shining a green laser on my dashboard, trying to get my attention. He is Russian, owns some kind of equipment-manufacturing company, and spends most of his time now in Phuket, Thailand, teaching kite-surfing.

Across the way, a large Beneteau appears to be doing a complicated parking maneuver. The day before yesterday, I took a last-minute gig for a Food Network show called "World's Weirdest Restaurants". I performed a couple of hours' worth of Bach in a small gallery in SoHo, for a dinner party of entirely naked (save for shoes) members of a nude dining club. Compared to all this other stimulation, it seemed mundane.

Our friend Joe's sailboat is grey and can barely be seen, even with all the ambient light. Somewhere nearby, somehow, someone is screaming and fighting.