The fact that tides change by an hour a day is counterintuitive if you didn't grow up with it. It seems like it should be more gradual, like the changes in daylight. If you did grow up with it, I figured, you'd never forget the power of nature--or not power, really, but force; its rhythmic tenacity. Geography was different when you were on the water. There weren't roads mandated, cut into the earth and paved; there weren't right angles. You reckoned with winds and waves and tides instead. Across the way, a man had bought an already outsized mansion and added a big tower to it and cut down trees in front to offer the best possible views from the water. Malcolm railed against that. But not as much as he railed against the partiers on boats out on the water who spoiled his place of quiet contemplation.

So one night, standing on the shore shaking his fist wasn't enough and and shouting insults back and forth wasn't enough either and he went down to get the rowboat to go out there with a plan to board the boat like a pirate and physically assault the owner, or whoever was loudest. Eleanor and Sally tried to stop him, but he was not to be stopped until he got out into the cove and noticed the boat was leaking badly. As he slunk back a single shot rang out--well really, how cliched, but on the water there are such acoustics that all you can really say is that it rang out--from somewhere up in the rocks overlooking the water to the north of the house. Antonio got a grim look and said "I have an idea." Anyway, the music and the shouting and guffawing stopped.