Stuck Inside of George Town with the Long Island Blues Again

It’s our third week here in George Town. It's been quite peaceful so far, except when they’re robbing the bank. They Three errant youths tried that last week, not realizing that a getaway car is a liability on a small island. They stole a woman's car on an island with only one road that dead ends into the water. A mask and snorkel would’ve been infinitely more practical. Perhaps they’re thinking that one over as they stew in the slammer in Nassau.
Week one here was intentional. Week two was spent hiding from the wind and waves which was fine since we needed to kill time before heading across the sound to the Long Island Regatta that we heard about. The sea’s as smooth as silk now, but now it’s questionable whether we’ll make it at all. We’ve got mechanical troubles again. This time it's our electrics, also again.
The Captain and a retired electrical engineer have spent the better part of three days vainly attempting to trace the problem. My role has been critical; it involves staying out of their way, although I occasionally pop into the salon and nod knowingly as they discuss resistance, conductivity and Ohm’s Law. That Ohm was quite the intellect. Meditation will do that. Unfortunately, progress appears to be avoiding us like a distant relative who owes you money. At one point they got everything working as long as the television was on. (I am not making this up.) That didn’t last long which was just as well. There are no stations this far out and we only have two movies on board. 
The more I learn about engines, the more I’m amazed that they work at all. If one little thing is out of whack you get zilch. They remind me of that board game we played as kids. Mousetrap. We’ve substituted the ball and mouse with a generator and an inverter. Both work equally as well.
While they’ve been busy testing and cursing, I’ve been kayaking between rain squalls. I’ve walked the trails on Stocking Island enough times to hire myself out as a guide. I found a cool place called “John’s Beach” way up on the north end of the island. Someone built it as a memorial to a local mariner. They put up a shelter and built a bar that has a dartboard! It’s there for anyone to use, if they can find it. Unlike the beach side grave I discovered in Norman’s Cay, I don’t see any signs of John being interred here, unless they stuck him underneath the surfboard they planted next to the bar. It does seem fitting.
Desperate for dialogue, I’ve taken to visiting other boats in the harbor. It’s easy to sneak up on them with the kayak. Once you’re bobbing off their stern, there’s little they can do except converse with you. I believe they’ve organized a watch committee after I insulted one of their icons, “Jimmy $##!ing Buffet.” They speak of him in hushed reverent tones. 
“Come on” I said one day a bit too loud at the beach bar. “The guy’s been playing the same insipid shit for over 40 years!”
When I called him a marginally talented alcoholic who, I was told, used to fall off his stool at Captain Tony’s in Key West, it suddenly got really quiet. “Blasphemy” and “heresy” was hissed as I cautiously backed my little boat away. When I make my rounds now, I’m greeted with the sound of slamming hatches.
That’s fine. I can always join in the ongoing discussion with the repair crew here onboard. I’m sitting cross-legged now with a book on marine electronics perched on my lap. My eyes are fixed upon the page. My thumb and forefinger touch as I whisper “Amps x Volts = Watts.”