Out in the Atlantic, about forty miles southeast of Montauk, we saw whales spouting in the distance and we headed toward them but could not keep up. While still not a common sight, in recent years I've seen more whales, which is good news. But an hour later, we had a less happy sighting; not fifty yards off our port bow, the conning tower of a huge black submarine broke the water and rose up like some ancient obsidian monolith, dwarfing the thirty-six-foot Morgan. The tower had numbers on it but no other markings, and Edward gasped. "My God… is it ours?"

I replied, "No, it is theirs."

"The Russians?"

"The government's. Russian or American. The Sutters don't own any nuclear submarines."

And that, I think, completed the conversion of John Sutter from right-thinking, taxpaying patriot to citizen of the world, or more precisely, the sea. With a few hours of usable light left, and a strong southwesterly wind, I headed back toward the south shore of Long Island and sailed west along the magnificent white beaches. We passed by East Hampton and Southampton, then turned into the Shinnecock Inlet and sailed past the Shinnecock Reservation, putting in at The Southampton Yacht Club where we anchored for the night. The next morning, Sunday, we took on fresh water, then navigated through the canal into the Great Peconic Bay. For small and medium-size craft, the sailing in Peconic Bay is some of the best on the East Coast, offering the appearance of open seas with the safety of protected water. Also, there is a lot to see in terms of other craft, seaplanes, islands, and spectacular shoreline, so we just explored for the entire day. Edward explored with a pair of binoculars, spotting four topless women. He kept offering the binoculars to me, but I assured him I wasn't interested in such things. Susan and Carolyn, on the other hand, told him to give them the binoculars if he spotted a naked man. What a crew. On Sunday evening, we put in at the old whaling village of Sag Harbor for provisions. Susan, as I mentioned, is not much of a cook, even in her modern kitchen at home, so we don't expect much from the galley. Susan and Edward thought that provisions should consist of a decent meal at a restaurant on Main Street, but Carolyn and I voted for roughing it. Since I am the captain of the Paumanok, we had it my way. You see why I like sailing. So we took a walk through the village, which was quiet on a Sunday evening, and found an open deli where we bought cold beer and sandwiches. We took our provisions back to the ship, which was docked at the Long Wharf at the head of Main Street. As we sat on the aft deck drinking beer and eating baloney sandwiches, Susan said to me, "If we get scurvy on this trip, it will be your fault."

"I take full responsibility for the Paumanok and her crew, madam. I run a tight ship and I will not abide insubordination."

Susan shook a bottle of beer, popped the cap, and sent a stream of suds into my face.

Normally, this sort of horseplay between Susan and me is actually foreplay, but there were children present, so I just joined in the laughter. Ha, ha. But I was horny. Boats make me horny.

We played cards that night, talked, read, and went to bed early. Sailing is exhausting, and I never sleep so well as when I'm on a gently swaying sailboat. We rose at dawn on Monday morning and set sail for home. Out in Gardiners Bay, we sailed around Gardiners Island. The Gardiner family came to the New World about the same time as the Sutters, and the island that was granted to them by Charles I is still in their possession. The present occupant of the island, Robert David Lion Gardiner, has what amounts to the only hereditary title in America, being known as the Sixteenth Lord of the Manor. My father, who knows the gentleman, calls him Bob.

Anyway, the circumnavigation of the big island was a tricky piece of sailing, but the crew was up to it. As we sailed away from the north coast of the island, I couldn't help but reflect on the ancient idea that land is security and sustenance, that land should never be sold or divided. But even if that was true today, it was true only as an ideal, not a practicality. Still, I envied the Sixteenth Lord of the Manor.

We rounded Orient Point and lowered the sails, letting the Paumanok drift as we finally broke out the fishing gear. Susan, Carolyn, and I were going for bluefish, using as bait a tin of herring that we'd brought along for the occasion. Crazy Edward had brought a much bigger rod and reel with a hundred-pound line and was out for shark. He proclaimed, "I'm going to get a great white."

Carolyn smirked. "See that he doesn't get you."

Edward had kept a whole chicken in the refrigerator as bait, and he secured it to his big hook with copper wire. Bubbling with his old enthusiasm, he cast his line in the water.

We pulled in six blues, which we kept in a pail of seawater to be cleaned later by the captain. And indeed, Edward did tie into a shark, specifically a mako, which is prevalent in these waters in July, and I could tell when the mako broke water, and by the bend in the rod, that it weighed about two hundred pounds. Edward shouted with delight. "Got 'im! Got 'im! He's hooked!" The Paumanok has no fighting chair, which is a requisite if you're trying to land something that size, but Edward fought the fish from a kneeling position, his knees jammed against the bulwark. The shark was powerful enough to tow the boat and even to make it list whenever Edward locked the reel. Eventually, Edward reached the end of his line, literally and figuratively, and he was so exhausted he could barely speak. The fish, however, had a lot of fight left in him. I recall a similar incident involving me, my father, and a blue shark. I had refused to let anyone relieve me on the rod and refused to let anyone cut the line and end the uneven battle. The result was that after an hour my arms and hands were paralysed from fatigue, and I lost not only the shark but the expensive rod and reel as well. What I was watching now seemed like deja vu. A sailboat is not the ship you want to go shark hunting in, and there were a few times I thought that Edward was going to go over the side as the shark dived and the boat heeled. Finally, after nearly an hour, I suggested, "Let him go." "No."

"Then let me relieve you awhile."

"No!"

Carolyn and Susan had stopped fishing for blues and were watching Edward silently. Edward, of course, was not going to blow it in front of the women, or in front of me for that matter. I tried to think of a graceful way out for him but couldn't. Actually, it was his problem, not mine.

Carolyn poured a bucket of fresh water over Edward, then wrapped a wet towel around his head and shoulders. Susan held cans of cola to his lips, and Edward drank three of them.

I could see that Edward was not in good shape. His skin was burning red, and his tongue was actually lolling around his mouth. His eyes had a faraway glazed look, and I suspected he was about to pass out from heat exhaustion. His arms and legs were wrapped around the pole in such a way that I didn't think the pole could get away from him but would take him with it if the fish gave a long, powerful lunge.

I wished in a way that he would pass out, or that the line would snap, or even that the shark would take him over the side; anything rather than his having to let go.

Carolyn said to him, "Let it go, Edward. Let it go."

He could not speak any longer, so he just shook his head. I don't know what the natural outcome of this would have been, but Susan took matters into her own hands and cut the line with a knife. Edward seemed not to understand what had happened for minute or so, then he sprawled out on the deck and cried.

We had to carry him below, and we put him in a bunk with wet towels. It was an hour before he could move his hands and arms. We set sail for home. Edward was quiet and sullen for some time, then said to everyone, "Thanks for helping out." Carolyn replied, "We should have thrown you to the shark."