It is 2am. I am anchored in front of an uninhabited island with my friend Don. There is nothing protecting us from the wind and waves. We are rocking just enough to keep me awake and I feel fortunate. Things could go either way. They rarely stay the same. I am checking an app on my IPhone every hour to make sure we are not dragging our anchor. Kay is back in Chapel Hill and she too would be able to detect our movements on her phone, but she sleeps, and she would if she were here. It would take a gale and a command of, “All hands on deck.” For her to do otherwise. I am not complaining, just explaining. We make our choices, and my choice is to be here, gently-ish rocking. Don and I are on our way to cross the Gulf Stream on our return voyage to Chapel Hill. The island we are in front of, either has no name or it is called, ‘No Name Island’. It has become famous for pigs that swim, (walk on tippy hooves really) to get food from approaching boaters. There are quite a few chickens too but they do not understand the ‘tourist thing’. We are floating outside of pig range but I can’t help but giggle every time I hear what sounds like hoofs scratching against the hull. Don says it’s a pig offering us three chickens for some food. We got here one hour before sundown and I used the remaining daylight to dive for a couple conchs, which I chopped up for the conch salad Don prepared. We will visit the pigs in the morning. They are probably not laying awake thinking about it.