Racing my bike through Isleboros Island in tight corduroy pants. Through Sunday streets where everyone drove slow and shouted greetings, I came to a blue beach with water so clear you could see plants growing and sea shells perfectly at the bottom. I was sweating and tore apart my pants and stood in the water and wanted to tear off all my clothes and jump into the sea—and would have if not for the small boys walking along the shore—instead I skipped stones, 2, 3, 4, 6 skips laughing across the shimmering water. I washed myself in the Cranberry waters and thought at first that the salt on my lips was from my sweat, but smiled after realizing it was from saltwater I hadn’t tasted in years.