Within a few minutes the mainland had vanished and the ferry's great engine ground on, pushing us further out to sea, further out into that pea-soup fog. Why pea-soup? It maybe thick but it is not green. Why not an old grey chowder?

My wife and I sat on the open deck in front of the bridged and watched the horizon pitch back and forth, and back and forth. I expected to be seasick, but wasn't. The world, the ocean, was too captivating, too dynamic to leave time to think about my stomach. However a great many of the passengers were not so possessed by this excitement. The ferry pitched back as we rose up the waves, then forward as we skidded down the other side. We are crossing waves on a diagonal so we not only pitch, but roll, and at the moment when we sit on the crest of the wave I can feel the whole ship yaw, twisting around the smoke stack.

Nearly an hour later, Sandy Point, the northern most cape of Block Island appeared off our starboard. Then the bluffs and Ball's Point, Clay Head and finally the breakwaters of the Old Harbor. Terra Firma.

After an hour on an aqueous roller coaster, we disembarked at the old harbor into a downpour and the village which surrounds this haven. We couldn't hear the call of the beaches through the drizzle, and so wandered about the village for awhile, locating coffee shops, lunch cafes and restaurants for later reference.

Map of Block Island - 1899

This village has many of the places you expect in a New England seaside town; toffees and tee-shirts shops, ice cream emporiums and art galleries, but the thing which strikes you as unique are the old Victorian grand hotels. These grand old ladies, with rows of windows on their clapboard face above the wide verandas and below the mansard roofs, are from another age. Block Island is resplendent with them. The Spring House, The Atlantic, The National and a half dozen more. It is not very hard to imagine President Ulysses S. Grant strolling along their promenades. The cigars may have vanished but the wicker and rocking chairs are still there. Inside are parlors with views of the ocean, grand dining rooms and dark wood paneled bars.

Our first restaurant, however, is a small place tucked away on a side street behind the National Hotel. Eli's is very busy on this chilly and rainy night, so after leaving our name on their waiting list we tour the grand hotels, sampling various appetizers. Finally, back at Eli's, we are tempted by the Cioppino, a fishermen's stew which is zesty and reminded us not at all of the fog in our crossing. But the swordfish and the lamb sausage are also hard to ignore, and one must save room for dessert. Because of our pre-dinner grazing around town we end up packing precious leftovers home with us.

The rain is falling in curtains as we walk home that evening. Curious the words we might use to describe the rain, "sheets" or "curtains" are provocative of the waves of water we see. But here the "waves" are stretched, drawn up into a the dark brooding sky.

The morning dawned grey, but not raining. Still, it felt like at any moment the clouds might change their minds. We walked into town to find a latte and newspaper. Off of the beach was a large rock covered with a dozen cormorants, huddled in the spray and mist. I remembered that some type of birds have special names for their flocks. For instance a gathering of eagles is called a "convocation". We also speak of "a murder of crows" and "a parliament of owls". My suggestions for a gathering of cormorant is "a commiseration". They looked like old men in long black coats, huddled together in the rain in some type of communal misery, participating in a communal "commiseration".

Lunch on Sandy Point

Gulls on Sandy Point

After finishing our eye-openers we packed our bikes with rain coats and leftovers from last night and headed north.

One of the delights of Block Island is that it is well suited to bicycles. Leave your car and worries on the mainland and step onto the ferry without that baggage. In fact booking a crossing for a car requires a great deal of planning ahead, but there is always room for a few more bikes. You can even rent bikes and mopeds just as you disembark at the old harbor.

The island is three miles wide at the southern shore and stretches six miles north to Sandy Point. In the middle of the island is the Great Salt Pond, nearly a mile across. Since we are staying near the Salt Pond, everywhere is within a twenty-minute bike ride.

The road north, Corn Neck, is twisting and flanked with stone walls. But most drivers understand that they are out numbered by cyclist and so drive accordingly. The road runs up the spine of the north end of the island, with a number of dirt lanes, tributaries, branch off to houses, ponds and bluffs. There is a slight grade up Lot Hill and then we coast downhill past Chaqum Pond and Settlers' Rock to the end of the road.

The sky is still grey and foreboding as we walk out Sandy Point. But a grey day is a day when you can own the whole beach and have it to yourself.

We tuck ourselves up against a bit of log which has drifted ashore and have our lunch. The log has clearly come from the mainland, it is much thicker then any tree on this island. For lunch we have bread with garlic paste, salad, swordfish and lemon cheesecake. The advantages of having not finished dinner last night.

The surf is still rough and I enjoy listening to the pebbles tumbling over the cobbles on the beach. They remind me of popcorn, when dozens of kernels all pop at once, but a bit muffled by the water. Or perhaps like fireworks, not the initial boom, but when the long dandelion arms reach out and pop in a spray of magnesium white. Fireworks at a distance.

There is a classic stone lighthouse on this cape which dates from 1867, and beyond that the Block Island Sound on the west and the Atlantic Ocean on the east merge over Block Island Reef. The last sandy spit is covered with gulls. The Great Black Backs are a bit up wind, the Herring Gulls downwind, and the Cormorants, in their commiseration, shunned and relegated to the last few wet meters of sand. If the Gulls are the "jets", the cormorants are the "sharks". If the cormorants gather in commiseration, what do the gulls gather in? They are not gangs or mobs because they really are without malice. Maybe they gather in parties? But they are so clueless, sheep-like. Perhaps flock is the right term for them.

Sandy Point and the North Lighthouse

Our time on Block Island fell into a pattern. Everyday exploring a bit, and returning to beaches, restaurants and walking paths which we enjoyed. And as the days continued the weather cleared and our circle of exploration grew.

Beach below the bluffs

Clay Head & Ball's Point

Just south of Sandy Point is Clay Head. This land is owned by the Nature Conservancy. Over forty percent of this island is protected land. Some of that through the Nature Conservancy, some through the Block Island Land Trust, conservation easements, and a few parcels through a local organization, the Block Island Conservancy. This means the island is a patchwork of undeveloped land and every lane seems to end in a parking lot and trail head, most of these equipped with bike racks.

At Clay Head we left our bikes and walked on a trail which started arched over and thick with trees , but then broke out of the foliage at Clay Head Swamp. This wetland is on the Eastern Flyway, and so it is a birder's paradise during the migration seasons. Beyond that the trails break out of the woods on top of the bluffs. You can stand here and see northeast into Naragansett Bay and the bridges by Newport. To the southwest, there is nothing between you and Africa except the wide sea with fishing, lobster and crab boats working their nets and pots. The trail trips along the top of the bluffs to the north, past "The Maze" and over a mile later back to Settler's Rock and Sandy Point.

A side trail drops into a ravine and a jungle of reeds and then spews you out onto a remote cobble and sand beach.

At the other end of the island is Rodman's Hollow, protected by the Block Island Conservancy. On another outing we collected sandwiches from the "Sister's Cafe" and headed south. Bikes are allowed on the old "Black Rock Road", but loose sand can make the pedaling tricky. Down past the hollows and open meadows with lively bird life, bayberrys and shadbush. Past Plover Hill, eventually the old lane brings you out onto a bluff and beach by Black Rock Point.

We sat in the sun, surrounded by our lunch, beach towels and our pile of books. A pleasant afternoon caught between mesmerizing waves and leisurely words.

One clear morning I cycled out West Beach Road to explore the sandy spit of land between the Great Salt Pond and the open waters of Block Island Sound. The road ends at West Beach which is well off the beaten path and barely used. There is a side lane which parallels the beach for eighty meters. A few trucks and an SUV are parked here, and just below on the sand a few guys are fishing in the surf. I stashed my bike in the tangled undergrowth and walked out the lane past the trucks. This lane use to run the length of this spit of sand but the beach has been eroded over time and the lane abruptly ends with a two meter drop from the dunes to the beach.

Sandy cart track

The 1889 Channel

Beach Plumes (Prunus maritima)

Beach Plumes and Sandy Lane

Fifty meters later the lane reappears and runs inland a few dozen meters. Where I climb off of the beach to follow the lane you can see that the spit is build of cobble stone mortared together with sand. This part of the lane sees only occasional foot traffic. Walking here I step back a century into the world of an old Joseph Lincoln novel, wandering down the duel ruts of a cart track on a remote sandy coast. The path is lined with cape grass and beach plums. Occasionally there is some poison ivy intertwined among the roots of the beach plums.

It is a slow walk in the loose sand, like wading through a foot of new powdered snow or the way one runs in a dream when speed is important.

There is a trimaran washed up into the marshland on the pond side of the spit. What sort of event would cause the owner to not seek after a boat which lost its mooring in a storm, but didn't drift for more then half a mile? By the state of the boats paint I think it must have sat here grounded for a half dozen years.

The marsh is populated with snowy egrets, tall thin birds wading in the brine and fishing.

In the middle of the spit is the remains of the 1889 channel which was dug across the neck. Before that the Salt Pond was cut off from the sea. The cut is distinct on the pond side, but there is almost no signs of it on the ocean side, the cobbled beach is seamless and shows no scab or scare, except for three post marching into the waves. Yet I find it hard to imagine that those post have stood there for 130 years, but they do line up perfectly with the cut on the pond side.

At the end of the spit the land rises up a meter and there are a few acres of trees. This copse is gated and marked with a sign telling us that it is a National Wildlife Refuge - No Trespassing. I like to think that I know how to not disturbed wildlife, but recognizing that if I was to step across that gate other would be embolden to do the same. So I turn aside and walk down to the beach instead.

I sit on the beach for awhile with my thermos of tea and watch boats going in and out of the new channel (cut in 1895), and then start to wandering back down the sandy lane.

The lane is crowded with Beach Plumes (Prunus maritima) and if you crouch down so you are out of the sea-breeze the air is thick with their sweet smell. Why is it that I have never eaten a Beach Plum? I am certain that they are not poisonous since Beach Plum jams and jellies are a staple of these summer towns. So I venture a tentative nibble and am immediately enlightened. Despite the similarity of taste, it is not the eating fruit that one expects from a plum. It doesn't have a center stone pit. Instead it is filled with dozens of small seeds, the size of grape seeds. The flavor is strong, and one bite later I understand why it is usually cooked and pressed into a preserve. I suck the juices out and spit out the seeds, satisfied with my experiment.

The walk back is slow, in part due to the deep loose sand, and in part because I am in no rush to rejoin the twenty-first century.

Much as you might enjoy the biking, the food and the walks, the reasons to come to Block Island are the beaches. In September these are quiet beaches, crisp and clean sand. They may be waiting for the winter, but there are still days were they dazzle with sunlight. We take our backrest chairs strapped onto the bike rack, lunch, piles of books and a thermos of tea and head off to the east coast of the island.

On the map there appears to be a number of beaches here, Crescent Beach, Scotch Beach, Mansion Beach, but in truth it is one long beach stretching from the Old Harbor to Clay Head. If there is a division it is only in recognition of the access points. In truth Crescent Beach is the whole arching sand and not just the south half which is accessible through the town's beach pavilion.

A beach which stretches over two miles from end to end has space for all taste. The town beach is for everyone. It is the place with a pavilion, shower house and life guards. By mid September it is not as busy as high season, but there are still a number of families camped out here, with kids crashing into the surf, and the ocean returning the compliment.

Scotch Beach is a transition. Easily accessible from a parking lot on the main road. This is the beach of the daily dog walkers.

And then there is Mansion Beach. It was a long bumpy dirt road on our bikes to get here. We left our bikes near the ruins of the old mansion and walked out onto the sand. We naturally gravitated to the north end of the beach, where we are sheltered from the wind by the start of the bluffs. Today the sun is dancing on the waves and I am tempted in to swim. This close to the bluff there are a lot of cobbles on the sea floor below the waves, so I work my way south to sandier stretches. The water is still warm and it is a pleasure bobbing up and down on the waves for awhile.

Back on shore we lunch on rolls and cheese and smoked blue fish. We sip our tea and read novels and stare out into the open waters and watch fishing boats, as well as lobster-men and crabbers pulling pots.

After awhile I grab my binoculars and wander north along the base of the bluffs. I met a man covered with tattoos. His wife had a few designs on her arms too, but most interesting to me was their dog, a collie, which was buried in sand. They told me that the flies were bothering it, and it was perfectly happy to lie in the sand buried except its face.

I met the three of them that evening walking by the Salt Pond and they were excited to show me how their dog's fur shined, "polished by the sand."

Past Jerry's Point and Roile's Harbor to Ball's Point. I think somebody has put a name on every bump, hollow, point and cove, no matter how shallow, on this island. And then back to our picnic place.

The day is starting to wane, and the shadows from the bluff are marching across the sands and when they reach us we pack up and head home.

One day we decided to explore the south coast of the island. We cycled out to where Old Town Rd. meets Center Rd. This cross roads use to be the business and culture center of the town. The building of the "Old Harbor" breakwaters in 1870 and the "New Harbor" in the 1890's - and the establishment of the Grand Hotels shifted the town's center. The Spring House (1853) predates the old harbor break water, but is next to the Old Harbor Landing. The Atlantic (1879) and The National (1888) surround the old harbor. Over on the new harbor is the Narragansett Inn (1909). And back at the Center and Old Town cross roads - almost nothing. A few nice old houses - but hardly a trace of a town center.

Stairs to the Beach

Beach below Mohegan Bluff

Shower of aqueous gems and light

Mohegan Bluff

We continued south on Central past the airport and the old Indian Cemetery, Fresh Pond and Seneca Swamp and finally up onto the Mohegan Trail. The Mohegan Trail is a road that runs along the top of the Mohegan Bluff. In 1590 a band of about 40 Mohegan Indians set out from Montauk, about 15-20 miles west-southwest of here, to attack Block Island, or "Manisses", the "island of the little god". The natives at that time were the "Manises", which are a branch of the Narragansett tribe. The Manises repelled the Mohegan, throwing some of them from the top of this bluff. It is about 160 feet down, most of that is a soft crumbling sandstone. We parked our bikes (the island is well equipped with bike racks), and climbed down the steps to the beach.

A woman on the steps told us that it was the most perfect beach. I will grant her that it is very nice and pristine. But "perfect" is a tough standard. Two dozen people were clustered near the foot of the stairs, so we walked a hundred meters west, down to Sheffield's cove, where we were all alone. My wife sat with her toes in the sand and surf while I walked on another half mile down to Fishing Rocks and watched a few surfers riding the waves - much much diminished since we first arrived on the island.

On this day the sun was bright and radiant. When the waves crashed on the rocks and were shattered the shards of waters looked like an arm full of diamonds broadcast into the sea! And then again and again, a brilliant shower of aqueous gems and light. After soaking up some sunshine we climbed the stairs past a tangle of beach plums, cycled to the old Southeast Lighthouse and then back into town.

This is a beach we returned to several times, and each time it presented a different face. One gray day we had the whole beach to ourselves. We sat in our rain coats, wrapped in our beach towels. A warm mist, and then a light rain drifted off the sea. Still we enjoyed reading, carrot cake and tea. I commented to my wife, "Tea, cake and stylish hats. We are quite the sophisticated couple!"

On another evening we couldn't get down the steps at first because they were filled with a wedding party and we had no desire to try and slip by the best man as he toasted the young couple. We sat on the top steps and listed to the toast from the bridesmaid too and then watched the champagne propagate up the steps. The party offered us a glass. We only smiled and laughed and wished them the brightest of futures. The top of the steps is a wonderful spot to watch the evening colors gather.

Part of each day we explore, walk and bike. Part of the day we sit on the beach. In the evening we have long, slow dinners. But before dinner, we have developed the habit of gravitating to the New Harbor, in the Great Salt Pond, and have hors d'oeuvres at the Oar House. The Oar House has a deck covered with an awning and a view of dozens of boats in the harbor.

New Harbor from the Oar House

All the colors of Sunset

The daylight is starting to do interesting things on the water, across the sky and on the landscape. Colors you can not find in the big box of crayons. Another whole spectrum of brilliant hues crammed between yellow and orange, and then a whole separate pallet between navy blue and indigo.

The bar is full of characters. "Why do I live on a boat?" a grizzly yatchmen next to me asked. "It's cold and wet -- but I couldn't imagine not living there too", he answered himself. The season is winding down and there is a lot of discussion about pulling boats out of the water for the winter. For us our time on the island is also winding down.

Lights start to appear across the water before the sun has kissed the horizon. Today it is clear and we can see the sun touch down just on Cormorant Point and the sea beyond it. The sky is filled with splashes of light, golds and oranges, violets and beach plum reds. And then these great splashes are gathered together like curtains or the hem of a flouncy dress, and are pulled down over the horizon. All that fire quenched in the sea.

The stars, countless as the sands on crescent beach and as brilliant as the diamond spray on the rock on Mohegan Bluff. The silver river of the Milky Way stretch across the deep black sky and inspire us as we sit on our island, out in the midst of the vast sea.