Fifteen years or so ago: We tucked our Bayfield 29 into an abandoned slip beside the US 59 bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway canal at Gulf Shores, AL for the night. Across the ICW was an RV campground. Following morning, a Sunday, I was awake in the pale light before sunup. Misty-foggy. Nobody stirring across the canal or anywhere else in sight. I see an old Ford sedan on the high bank off our stern -- I'd backed in -- with its lights on. Front passenger door open. A couple fishing off the bank near it. Uh oh. Crusader Rabbit wants to save them. Picked up the air horn intending to give a quick toot to get their attention. Button wouldn't move. The last thing anyone should do with an air horn with a stuck botton is pound the button. So . . . horn went off and wouldn't stop. Everything alive and wild for a half-mile around fled. I was trying to pry the button up. No success. Ear-splitting blast continuing. Can got very cold. I threw it in the water. Ferocious burble and then, finally, silence. Silence so profound the surface tension on water droplets could be heard humming. A head had popped out of the car and was siloudetted in the V between the side of the car and the leading edge of the upper door. I called out, as meekly as I could, "Your headlights are on!" Head disappeared, lights went out. I fished the horn out of the water. Turned toward the cabin, saw across the canal a line of people in various aggressive postures. I ducked into the cabin and stayed there. When we left I had first to motor toward the campground, within bottle-throwing distance of it. No bottles went airborne but ever after, when we motored past the campground, I couldn't resist crouching down in the cockpit.