I roll by the cemetery and the 1893 graves buried within. To my left, or north, lies Caminada Bay. To my right, or south, the gulf. A wooden walking-bridge, pitted and dilapidated, runs along the bridge s south side, then suddenly curves down, broken, into Caminada Pass. A new bridge begins, solid and stable, with long heavy railings.
People fish off the bridge, their lines dangle in the pass.
Fishing camps rise high off the ground. Gulls and pelicans zoom overhead. The blue sky turns bluer. Nature, nature everywhere. I am near the middle of the island, on Post Lane.