Postcards From Block Island
We’d taken a Friday ferry in and had spent the evening chasing a glow-in-the-dark frisbee on the beach, the ocean pushing in and pulling away, wet stones rattling like long-buried skeletons. Everything was quiet and fading except for us. I disappeared briefly through the tall grasses to explore a pile of discarded bridges in the hazy parking lot, taking pictures of soda machines.
Waiting.
Every morning and night a translucent white fog would envelop the island, and I would declare to no one in particular “isn’t that beautiful?” or “why don’t we buy that abandoned lighthouse” or “I’d paint all the doors red.”
Full album of Block Island adventures here.