Cuttyhunk, Friday 22nd
Dawn is a low red glow, 2 boats are already leaving, black against the sky. I row to the neck, tie the dinghy to a rock, cross the neck - and there is the ocean, waves rushing noisily on to the shore. I take off my teeshirt and trousers and stand in the water, with the undertow pulling the sand from under my feet. It's my last swim, in cold cold water.
Later, I tie up at the wharf and ask a fisherman if I can buy coffee. I can't help but tell him how beautiful his island is and it's the last day of my summer sailing and trying not to cry and biting my wobbly upper lip. But he's very polite and agrees with me about Cuttyhunk, and points me back to the store up the road for coffee.
At the top of the hill is a plaque to the unknown Indian, companion to Bartholomew Gosnold, who founded this English colony in 1602. This tiny town is called Gosnold. I am struck by the wording - Indian is not now used - then notice the plaque is dated 1972.
They use golf carts to get around, but really everywhere is just a short walk away. A notice tells me there are 35 people resident here in winter, and 400 in summer. All this not counting the boatfuls of sailors who fill the pond and the jetties. I would like to spend a winter here.