I quite clearly recall the frigid snap in January when one night the freshwater lines froze up just after I’d finished the dishes, leaving the pump to grind away with a distressful rattle until I reached over to hit the circuit breaker. The next night, the saltwater intake for the head went solid, even though the thermostat in the adjacent saloon read a quite balmy 58 F. I’m sure I wasn’t alone when I prayed for warmth. It came the very next week. Fifty-degree temperatures were forecast to blow our way—but on southwesterly gusts of 50 and better, which would turn our corner of the harbor into a washing machine. Hell, I thought as I adjusted dock lines, couldn’t it just be cold again? It’d be calmer.