Most of the überwealthy don't bother to drain their pools when they go north for the summer, which means their onyx and ultramarine oases are ours for the backstroking. Like the famous character in the John Cheever story "The Swimmer," with a little planning, a person in reasonably good shape could practically swim the length of the island in, say, August, when even hired caretakers are narcoleptic with heat. Many mansions are best approached from the beach (hint: The north end of the island is all but fence-free), eliminating the problem of where to park if you lack a sticker. A dip in some absent playboy's pampered pond, surrounded by Grecian statuary, makes a satisfying way to slough off an afternoon's beach sand. Advanced skinny-dippers will want to cabana-crash under cover of darkness. For best results, keep plunges brief to stay one dive ahead of the cops. And if you do get caught, put on your thickest prep-school intonations and ask if you can place your phone call to "Aunt Lilly" or "Uncle Donald."
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