This morning at 7:48 I got to thinking about Block Island. That tiny hostel where everyone knew your name because we all shared a bathroom – a summer camp for adults on a budget whose need for luxuries like modesty or air conditioning was dwarfed by their need for breathing the air unknown. The cross-island journeys on 2 wheels, both gasoline and leg-powered. The flowers weighing down branches of summer-green shrubs. The general store, shelves laden with impossibly familiar wares on this, a far-flung island in the Atlantic, a toddler straying too far from Mother New England. Endless hiking trails so wild you’d swear they must be forbidden, untouched, or at the very least, trodden only by the brave. Plump berries on bushes that would only see the ground, taken back by nature, or the delighted lips of a passing hiker. Strange beaches littered with the kinds of treasures existing much more often in stories and Hollywood than in beaches of everyday variety. A life lead without wild adventure for me should be no life at all.