Robin left Newport Harbor just behind Puma, the Volvo Ocean Race 70-footer. By the time her crew had her mainsail up, we were just beginning to raise Robin's.
But there was little wind, and what wind there was was on our nose. So we began motoring on a southwesterly slant out of Narraganset Bay, aiming toward Point Judith and the western side of Block Island ten miles beyond.
We had delayed our departure until 11 o'clock because we knew the favorable wind were not forecast to arrive until later in the day. If they did not arrive, we could always bail out and head down Long Island Sound, to the west.
Some place past Block Island and, to the west, Montauk Point, Robin's mainsail did begin to flutter, and soon, we were enjoying a westerly breeze.
The wind built and came around to the northwest, and we began sailing without the engine.
Then the wind veered to the north, as predicted, and we were on a broad reach. As the wind speed built, so did the weather helm -- the tendancy of the boat to steer up into the wind.
In fact, the weather helm became so strong -- despite our trimming of the sails to counter the effect -- that we were no longer able to steer the boat with the autopilot.
Being thoroughly modern sailors -- which translates into "too lazy to steer the dang boat ourselves" -- we doused the sails and returned to motoring. It was, by now, well into the dark of night.
I was on watch in the early morning hours as we crossed the shipping lanes from Europe to New York. I saw several ships before the one that, on the radar, seemed to be heading our way.
I saw it first at ten miles. Then I saw it (on the radar screen) at six miles. It was about two miles west of another ship, but I physically saw that ship and saw that it was not headed for us.
(You tell the direciton that a ship is traveling by two white lights on masts. The shorter mast is on the front of the ship, the taller one at the rear. If the shorter one is to the left, the ship is traveling from right to left. If the two lights are one directly above the other, it is headed for you.)
When the second ship was two miles away, its lights were one over the other. I radioed our position and asked the ship what it wanted us to do. The master called back and said he saw us and was turning to go to our rear.
The next photo is of that ship, whose lights can be seen if you really strain.

You can see the first light of day seeping into the picture to the right, which, of course, was the east.
It was some time later in the morning that we first began to discuss in honest terms my desire to sail outside of Cape May. I'd heard a couple of professional captains tell of doing this -- of ducking inside the shoals that sit offshore of Cape May Point and taking a narrow channel that leads very close to the beach. One captain told of talking to the bathers on the beach as he passed.
The alternative is going through the Cape May Inlet into Cape May Harbor, then running the four or five miles of the Cape May Canal with its shoal banks to get out to the Delaware Bay.
I thought that if we could take the outside route, we'd save ourselves the stress that the inlet, harbor and canal involve.
John wasn't too sure of my sanity.
"It's your boat," he said, suggesting that if I wrecked my boat, he would be happy to swim ashore.
So John got out the Eldridge tide charts in an effort, I think, to dissuade me.

Later, when John was taking another nap and I was on watch, Robin hooked a bluefish. I discovered this fact when I looked aft and saw a gaping jaw dragging behind us. When I began to reel, the fish fought. But it must have been on the line for a while, because its strength was low.
I finally hauled the 31-incher aboard, thanked it for its meat (acknowldging that we, too, would be meat for some species in time) and then butchered it on deck. I took the picture to prove to John the nature of the meat that I would serve him that night.