On the mooring in Newport, we found a 3/4 inch stainless steel nut on the deck. We checked everything at deck level and found no missing nuts. Then I climbed the mast and checked all fittings. To this day, the stray nut case is unsolved.

Still there was no wind, so on Saturday Morrison and I steamed out of Newport early and headed east. We expected to anchor for the night in Vineyard Haven, a funnel of a port open to the north but protected from southerly winds that had been forecast. As we crossed the mouth of Buzzards Bay in calm seas, we trolled a silver lure. John was below when the reel began zinging, paying out line. I grabbed the rod from its perch on the stern pulpit -- the fish had nearly yanked the whole thing overboard -- and began reeling in.


It wasn't a record bluefish -- 31 inches -- but it was good, with lots of flesh. After thanking it for its meat, I slaughtered it on the starboard deck and took the carcass below for fileting while John washed the blood from the teak.
By noon, we were near the entrance to Woods Hole and not five miles away from the mouth of Vineyard Haven Harbor and I decided to check the charts once more. To my astonishment, the chart indicated that we were within four or five hours of Chatham, MA, at the very elbow of the bent arm that is Cape Cod, and very close to Pollock Rip Channel. We decided to spend the night in Chatham and then go for it.
At the same time, the sky to the west was changing, first becoming hazy and then folding into the most strange cloud formations -- smooth slabs of opaque gray against rolls of lighter gray and more slabs that appeared like ribs in a skinned animal's chest.
Then the lightning began, the thunder crashed and the rain blew in sheets that stung your eyes when you tried to look into it around the edge of the dodger. One thunder clap seemed to come from directly beside us. Had we decided to enter Vineyard Haven Harbor, we'd have been attempting to anchor in this blow, so we happily steamed ahead, the sky clearing and bringing back a brilliant sun about forty-five minutes later.
The entrance to Chatham Harbor seemed daunting on the chart -- a tight channel between sandbars -- but the actual passage was so simple that a large ketch handled by a man and woman entered before us under sail. We followed them well into the harbor, where we'd called for a mooring, and watched as they sailed beyond to their mooring.
More consultations with Beta Marine caused me to search the wiring thoroughly, trying to resolve the electrical problems. But I made no more progress, so as we settled down for the night after our bluefish dinner, we had the same plan.


In the morning, we'd sail around Monomoy Point and enter the Atlantic Ocean, where we would head due north for Maine, about 30 hours away. We had the Honda generator as our backup, so we knew we'd have enough electricity to run our navigational lights, our radio and, in short bursts, our radar.