Dan's friend Lisa asked us if we wanted to spend New Year's Eve with her. A Clinton donor's house on Martha's Vineyard seemed like the ideal place to escape all the Y2K handwringing.
Randy and Linda, Lisa's sister joined us, too.
I killed time on the frigid ferry from Cape Cod by snapping some end-of-the-second millennium portraits.
No one leaves the island without stopping at this landmark. I didn't have to buy a t-shirt, though. Previous visitors already had given me two because of Smokey, my own black dog.
We toured the Vineyard before the big night. It was my first (and only) time.
Summer real estate and tourism began replacing the whaling industry in the late 19th century.
As might be expected, I don't remember much about New Year's Eve. Much champagne was consumed and the world still functioned when we awakened in the morning.
We dropped by Abel's Hill cemetery in Chilmark to pay our last respects to John Belushi who had been buried there 18 years earlier. The Vineyard had been one of his favorite haunts. Previous pilgrims left behind beer bottles and cigarette packs.
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