the string of lights on the horizon was bouncing like a pearl necklace on a trampoline, the main cabin reeked of diesel fuel, dog breath and yesterday's fish and chips, and we were about to blow our bouillabaisse, so we stepped out on deck and looked the other way. What a nasty evening it was — brutally cold, Atlantic waves jumping the railing — but through the fog and rain we could still make out the lights of the small port we'd left behind. It too was bobbing up and down to a sickening rhythm, so we looked at each other. We looked like hell. We'd both had the flu all week but were so desperate for a couple of days off, a little time alone and some good seafood that we decided to leave town regardless. We drove down from New Haven on a Friday afternoon, arrived early and spent the hour before departure eating watery oyster stew with an Excedrin chaser at a chowder house near the ferry. Inside was a shelf of dog-eared paperback books: "Helter Skelter," "Men and Angels," "Baby and Child Care," "I'm With the Band," "The Exorcist," "Aztec," "Brazzaville Beach," "Voodoo in Haiti" and four copies of "The Bridges of Madison County." It looked like the library of a schizophrenic. We perused the books and sipped weak, scalding coffee. We may as well have injected Novocain in our tongues. I thought of Abe Lincoln's remark: "If this is coffee bring me tea, if this is tea bring me coffee." Or was it Peters Sellers'? Anyway, I'd never read "Helter Skelter" and I felt like I needed a good scare. I pulled it off the shelf and tucked it under my arm. "You can take that," the teenage girl at the counter chirped. "In the summer, people get off the ferry and just leave 'em here. Take as many as you like. Want some crackers with your stew?" Charlie would have loved her: blonde, doe-eyed, perplexed, and she didn't spare the patchouli. All she needed was an X on her forehead. Eight miles out, the boat pitched and rolled through the soupy water garnished with seagull down and styrofoam cups. The deck was a slick teeter-totter, and the rain pasted strings of hair to our faces. We were Veronica Lake and Tiny Tim taking a shower together. We were nauseous, miserable and in love. And we were blessedly alone for two days even if I had, against my better judgment, agreed to stay at a bed and breakfast. I loathe them. I have a preternatural horror of being smothered in Laura Ashley patterns, sachets from Crabtree & Evelyn, fake antiques and enforced good cheer. Sure they're cozy and warm. So are the La Brea Tar Pits. Next: The Connecticut chain-saw massacre