On my way to Montauk, across the Long Island Sound, the good ship Mackai with Captain Matthew came across the old man’s island. This island fair and wild it seemed, is circled with Do Not Set Foot signs in the greeting sand. From anchor-where, a gentle rising slope from west to east did meet our view. The trees clung like painted lichen on old train model sets.
The wind seemed to blow everthing to that left, as we looked south. Some rocks, over there, to the end, where he pointed, are dark of promise. Mussels? Dinner? Shall we see?
Off on the dinghy we go, a-buzz like buccaneers to the cove. To find some merian treasure. And the wind kept blowing. And the signs kept stating. Do Not.
[here is a photo-essay of our little jaunt. Enjoy]
Back on the rigger, a’sailing points bigger, leaving this sandbar, go a bit more far.
Thoughts on my mind: where else is such an uninhabited island along the East Coast? Where else such pygmy deer so un-shy? How does a family maintain a singleness of ownership since colonial times? How will they handle the rising sea? We saw the small pond breached, the cliffs falling, such trees cast down by wind to the beach. Is there a way to hold on against the sea? Our incursion was minimal and benign. Irene and her ilk, angels of Gaia, will have other intentions…
The Travels of Grey 