So, we were off Saturday morning to explore the Island. Stopping at a gorgeous little cove, we immediately met two people. One was a master craftsman. He explained that he’d built the boat that he lived on, one of those anchored in the cove. His craftsmanship is apparently well known and the boat quite famous.
He pointed to the clearing through the trees. Junk was all around. “The lane of broken dreams,” he said. “Used to be quite a few people living along it, but it’s been cleaned up lately.”
Indeed, there seemed to be only one trailer there, belonging to the other individual who’d already emerged from the abode to engage us. A scruffy-looking fellow, inebriated, but pleasant, he was very chatty, telling us of his life and quizzing us about ours.
The old guy (I believe he was 75) had come over as a hippy back in a day, stayed, and became a clam digger. He’d raised several daughters, one of whom was, apparently, now very wealthy. She wanted to help her dad out of his situation. But he had no interest. This is his home; his life is, evidently, comfortable there.