On a clear day, it looks like a white meringue floating on blueberry mush. In the fog, like a Japanese ink drawing. My grandparents bought the island long ago as an escape from their house on a larger island, and now it belongs to my cousins. At the end of the field is a little stone house with barely enough headroom to stand up straight. Generation after generation, the family has come here for an afternoon picnic, an overnight stay, a weeks-long camping trip.
Children learn about the wilderness and the importance of weather, about the sea and self-reliance.
Adults come to remember what they learned and pay homage to those who taught them. The key is solitude. You are completely alone on the island. Just you and the rocks and the sea and the sky. It is quiet, except for a wind howling down the chimney at night, or the purr of a lobster boat in the early morning.