The weather was quite benign over the past week – a spate of tiny snow flurries interspersed with enough sunshine to warrant the arrival of mud season during the day, and ice capades where the sun had not yet exposed bare ground.

We had guests from the coast over the holiday, went to the Doggie Dash and were surprised at how empty the streets of Winthrop were at 9 a.m. when we had breakfast in town. Leaving Three Fingered Jack’s, more cars had appeared the closer we got to the new bridge and it was a solid line from the bakery on one side and The Duck Brand on the other, and there was indeed a crowd at the canine frolics.

Speaking with our company over dinner here, what emerged was probably the ultimate Brush With Stardom – sort of by marriage – but significant enough that it could be considered a matter of national security.

If you see any black helicopters or drones hovering over West Boesel, this may be the reason.

Our guests were in Hawaii on an island whose name cannot be disclosed, renting a house fronting an ocean whose identity likewise can’t be given. Between their cottage and said body of water was a narrow strip of beach and then a canal of sorts.

The first clue, stated our unidentified guest, was when a large inflatable watercraft slowly cruised up the canal, and in it were several persons with stern visages accompanying the assault rifles they were carrying as they looked at the shoreline. The next clue, our informant noted, was on the mainland side, where behind the cottage was a group of black SUVs, in a line maybe 40 to 50 yards long, parked with people around them, some donning black vests. Or so we were told.

You know where this is going by now. Right there, albeit out of sight, was the President of these United States and his family on vacation, this being sometime around the Christmas holidays. On another day our friends observed another craft cruising the channel, this time peopled by men in Hawaiian shirts. They waved and several of the men in the boat waved back.

But I mentioned the brush with stardom by marriage. Our friends went to dinner in a local steak house, wherein they observed Michelle Obama deeper into the establishment.  (Subsequent conversation at our dinner table here revealed that a fashion writer had criticized Ms. Obama’s hairstyle.)

This recitation put me in mind of a cliché of sorts that has long been in circulation. It goes, “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.” Now, having told you, my days may be numbered. However, I consider this a “need to know,” as well as a need to fill in the space here.