May, 1979. I have been living alone for three days now in a cottage on the west shore of North Beach, a long and narrow barrier spit of low sand dunes and salt marsh lying a mile or so east of Chatham at the elbow of Cape Cod. Now, after forty-eight hours of fog, the evening is blessedly still and clear. Only a few high, thin clouds trail among the simple stars in a rich, dark-blue sky. The night seems to be calling me with its clarity, so in the last of the light I slip my skiff from its