Night had fallen several hours earlier. The full moon was bright enough to cast shadows on the deck. But as we reached along through the tropics, an ominous line of black clouds slowly obliterated the stars behind us. A squall line was overrunning us from behind.
I had been warned about the swirling currents of Hell Gate, but it was the profusion of lights from ships, shore and navigational aids that overwhelmed me as I entered Lower New York Bay after sunset in search of an overnight anchorage.
The fog was rolling in quickly, and the sun would soon be setting. I was bound for Provincetown at the tip of Cape Cod, a long peninsula that extends east and loops north like the tip of an elf’s shoe.