This evening, I rowed the boat up the creek to the sloop Clearwater for the monthly community potluck dinner. The water was tranquil and a gibbous moon shone overhead. The air was so still that Danny, one of the Clearwater crew members, said that he could hear oarlocks squeaking for ten-minutes before I showed up. A chilly, starry night. For warmth, people gathered around the woodstove in the shop or hovered around the simmering cauldron of soup. A few hours, a plate of food, a bowl of soup, and several beers later, Iset out in the rowboat for the return trip to the lighthouse. By that time, a thin layer of ice had formed on the creek. Each stroke of the oars crunched as the bow of the boat plowed through the ice. A noisy mayhem on an otherwise peaceful night.