Sweet are the sounds and scents of summers on islands, when we set aside careworn worries that we collect like polished stones, and in those moments, hours or weeks, breathe in the pure contentment of moments suspended in time. Everyone has their own catalog of the unforgettable sense of an island summer. Here are a few of mine:
The intoxication of the first island rose;
The swish of grass across ankle and calf;
The shriek of bottle rockets over harbor and cove;
Then shrieking of voices after the rocket’s red glare;
The hah! hah! hahing! of gulls after bait;
The twang of a tune wailing on water;
The whine and hum of a straining pot hauler;
The clatter of traps on the rail of a gunwale;
The throb of an engine through the pearl of fog;
The pinhole of sun haloed above;
The moan of a whistle lost in the swell;
The clang of a bell — to port or starboard?
The snapping pennant at the top of the mast;
A flapping flag on a clearing northwester;
The luff of a main with the helm hard over;
The lapping of waves along the sheer of a hull;
The “Witchety, witch” of a yellow-throat warbler;
The croak of a heron stalking a flat;
The kee, kee, kee-ing of an osprey with fish;
The gabbling of eiders flanking their chicks;
The cough of a grill whooshing to light;
The sizzle of burgers and crackle of dogs;
The clink of ice and the tang of lime;
A song of grace at the start of a meal;
The clanking of stays from vessels at anchor;
The rattling of chain at the end of the day;
The squealing of tires from the far edge of town;
And the flutter of moth under a moonlit sky.
Philip Conkling is the president of the Island Institute in Rockland, Maine.