Three of us walked Sampson’s Island with a garbage bag on Sunday afternoon. The storm the day before blew from the southeast so the berm of island was chiseled down flat, the wet sand black with old wood ash from some ancient fire that cut a thin black line across the face of the base of the dunes.
We stuffed the heavy duty bag with Dunkin’s cups, mylar birthday balloons, Fireball nips and lost lobster buoys then drove it over to Crosby’s where the accomodating barman at the Chart Room let us sling the bag into his dumpster.
A cup of chowder, a beer or two, and back to Cotuit at full speed into the honking breeze with the trees in their glory and the clouds scudding out to sea.