Without a flashlight, I am reduced to instinct. Darkness hides here, sliding along the backs of wild palms and breathing a heavy silence through the pines. Two screech owls glide between trees, leaving shrill whistles to mark their territory. I listen to the ribbons of sound disappear into the dark. During the day, hundreds of visitors ride the ferry over to the island.
Couples comb the beach collecting seashells.
Artists set up easels atop 50-foot dunes to admire a pallet of sky colors reflected in the surf. But at night, the day-trippers go home, campers hide in their tents and, for a few hours, wild animals can wander freely through the woods. They cram their wildness between the evening ferry's departure and its morning arrival. Tonight I've decided to join them. In the tar-black Cumberland night, every experience is heightened.