Forget about the waves and the sand, the bluefish and the beach umbrellas. There is another Vineyard, an inner network that is largely hidden, usually shady, and rarely paved.

The reigning queen (and her husband the king) of the off-road live in Chilmark.

Bill Eville

Ask David Weagle, Mike Broderick, or Mary McConneloug where to mountain bike on the Vineyard and they will just shrug their shoulders and say everywhere.

Bill Eville

Pickleball is a kind of scaled-down tennis, except easier. (No overhead serve! No long racquet!)

Jim Kaplan

As the wooden fishing boat slows to a halt, twenty-three rods rest perpendicularly on the red metal railing waiting for the signal. When the motor cuts, the weighted and squid-baited lines drop immediately into the water, finding their way down about fifty feet to the bottom. Tap, tap, tap, the hits come nearly instantly. Within minutes, maybe even seconds, amid shouts and whoops, silver fish dangle from multiple lines.

Catherine Walthers

Excuses, excuses. That’s what I had when it came to pickles. Or I should say, that’s how I avoided making pickles. I’m a farmer! I’m busy at pickling time! Who has time for canning? No place to put those jars! The list went on and on. Good Lord, I even turned down an opportunity to write a preserving cookbook (and this was several years ago before the Return of the Age of Preserving – which of course never went away on the Vineyard), because, I told the editor, I am not a preserving expert.

Susie Middleton

I walked into the Portuguese-American Club in Oak Bluffs on a mild Monday evening with my mom in tow and was greeted by a blast of music and a mix of excited twenty-somethings. We were all there for one reason, and one reason only – to learn how to paint. Well, maybe two reasons: we could enjoy some refreshing alcoholic beverages as we channeled our hidden Caravaggio or, in mom’s case, awakened her previously undiscovered inner Dalí.

Nicole Grace Mercier

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