A real estate agent once told me of a client who rented a house for a month unseen, made ferry reservations, and drove out to Chilmark, only to discover that his Porsche didn’t have enough clearance to get down his mile-and-a-half dirt driveway. Dirt roads do much to give the Vineyard its rural character, but don’t let their natural appearance fool you – they require more upkeep than Joan Rivers.

By Geoff Currier


“You should try yoga.” It was a suggestion I’d been hearing for years – everyone from my mother, to my doctor, to any number of bendy, mat-toting friends seemed to have an opinion – but it wasn’t until a well-meaning pharmacist delicately noted my frequent splurges on over-the-counter sleep aids that I finally sat up and took notice. “I hear it helps you sleep,” he said, eyeing my basket full of Benadryl and Tylenol PM.

By Alexandra Bullen Couts


When Antonio “Tony” Grillo was three years old, he and his mother, Kate, were at Farm Neck Golf Club in Oak Bluffs picking up his father, Joe. As it happened, President Clinton and his entourage were on hand. Seeing the adorable little shaver, who had white-blond hair and was missing a front tooth, a Secret Service agent envisioned a perfect photo op with the chief executive. “Do you know who that was?” someone asked Tony after he posed with Clinton.

By Jim Kaplan


It’s a lucky thing for Steve Ewing that he works on the water. If he toiled on the land, he’d never earn a dime, because he’s one of those Vineyard guys who can’t walk more than twenty-five yards down a village street without running into someone he knows.

By Tom Dunlop


Sporting buttery leather boots that seem a tad handsome for farm chores, Ed Child makes his way down the path from the backyard, through the grape arbors and to the sheep pen. Five merino sheep greet him with gentle baaaas. They hope they’re in for a mid-morning snack. They settle for pats on their heads. “The brown ewe is especially affectionate,” says Barbara Child. “Her nose feels like velvet.” Barbara is bent over double, deadheading in her perennial garden.

By Shelley Christiansen


It is seven o’clock on a Monday, a time when most Vineyarders are settling in for the night. Few drivers are out and the lights in the houses that line the roads are on. Parents have returned from work, children from school, and together they gather around the table for dinner.

By Julia Rappaport


I know it’s called the Martha’s Vineyard Striped Bass and Bluefish Derby, but for a lot of anglers it’s all about the false albacore, or albies. These little ocean-going baby tuna invade the shorelines of the Vineyard sometime late in August and might stay as long as early November, with the peak of the season falling smack dab in the middle of the five-week fishing frenzy known simply as The Derby. For shore-based fly-fishermen, the albie is the perfect Derby fish.

By David W. Skok


Steve and his brothers’ childhood adventures included jumping into the Atlantic from the concrete bunker, a relic from World War II, that still stood defiantly in the surf at South Beach a generation later. “The Bunker Is Leaving” When I was a boy I swam at South Beach We played in the waves My brothers and me We laid on our stomachs