Newport Naval Station Marina located between the formidable Naval War College and the Newport Naval Station Hospital.
 
This log is rated MA: For Immature adults.  All others should leave now or suffer the musical fruits of our labor.
 
This is dedicated to every father who has ever asked his off-spring during a quiet moment to “pull his finger”.
 
There is a constant nattering just now.  There are dust swirls, mini whirlwinds through the boat if you will.  The air is warmer and humid inside, items strangely deposited.  A child is here.  Not any child, but our thirty five year old, the eldest.  An attorney.  Thus the nattering, swirls and humidity is simply the hot air of constant jabbering of yet another lawyer as he bullies his way into his assigned berth, with teenage grunts, groans and gas, while raising a figurative swirling cloud of dusty pejorative words, much like one seen following Pigpen in the comic strips. 
 
I am happy.  He is one of my prodigy, He is good, damn good.  It is the story of the prodigal son returning from whence he came, the grasshopper returning to grasp the pebble quickly from the master’s hand. However, the father, even in age, does not yield quickly.  I am comforted, to prove yet again, that I remain the teacher.  My bold gaseous darts of methane are formidable, with over- powering intensity, direct, boldly capitalized, juicy.  His brazen youthful pressures cannot produce the full and eloquent forms needed to surpass my efforts.  His are but loosely ill form, pathetic, little farts.  He has come to pay me homage for I am yet the master.
 
From the pilothouse with the doors and hatches open, we compete.
 
Skinwalker,

(Capt’n Lynnie asked to be excluded from this log.)