Underfoot the wood dock rolled and swayed with the ocean sliding like whales under a boat.  Sounds of waves crashing swirled around gulls above with their plaintive call ”Hey, Doesn’t anyone down there have some good junk for us gulls to eat? French fries, fish bait?”

Stepping off the dock onto asphalt  the rolling sensation continues for a bit. It’s been said that the lobstermen of this town had a characteristic way of walking. They carried onto dry land their instinct to balance on rolling waves with a loping, wide gait.

Bursts of gold leaves flashed into the deep blue sky of Fall like daytime fireworks. There is both drama and stability in this New England harbor, its lasting beauty honed from rough granite outcroppings.

You don’t need any prompting to feel grateful that such places exist.