Squall
Low-lying ground cover of heath and bayberry seemingly rewind along the far shoreline as I sail from the cove and into the bay. Off to my port, a bevy of black-hooded terns hovers in the updraft created by a red and white lobster boat as it bounds out from Namequoit Point. To my starboard, trap fishermen work the outwash plain, bringing up scores of blue crab in their crippled, outdated nets. I ride the wind a while before setting the bow chuck over the Chatham Yacht Club, standing bleach white behind a rippling sea of beach grass. I spot workers erecting catering tents on the crochet lawn and festooning them in red, white, and blue bunting.
“Bit late, ain’t they?”
According to my calculations, it should be the 7th or possibly the 8th of July, but no way can it be the 4th. We pus
