My severe temptation would be to grab the air horn from the lazarette closest to the helm and deploy it without mercy until it died a natural death. Alarm clock with prejudice. Crank up Iron Butterfly Innagadadavita beyond the reach of any earplugs.
My actual response would be to go back into the Bight mooring field and pick up a mooring, perhaps the one we had just released, invite the crew to brew and enjoy another pot of coffee ( make it Irish, Swiss or Bailey's ) and make some finger food lunch, swish their little laundry items and chill.
Discretion is sometimes the only viable course of action to stay out of [censored] territory.