I have always tried to end each summer on an Island, and their names tend to end in the letter “a.” Kea, Ponza, Kreta. This year, almost, Elba. And, of course, the eternal Island of Martha’s Vineyard.

The island summer has become my signature to finding the balance between being alone and being connected. The sea connects the island to the universe, and gives its magic sense of floating in solitude.

Some people may come to Islands to let it all out and take it all in. I come to reduce everything to bare bones, and take in as little as possible other than sensations. I tread lightly, too.

I live in a small space, eat only what is necessary for health and true pleasure, and try to say little that is extra.

I like never knowing what to expect. For example, I had an amazing evening walk on Skiff avenue. About a dozen wild turkeys, red and gray, patrolled the road. There were more than I’ve ever seen that close up before, and I became fixated on their gobbly gullets and their rhythmic pecking at the blades of grass on someone’s lawn. Then I spied a tiger cat, quick-eyed, but seemingly bored stiff by all those meals on the claw so nearby — sitting ducks, or turkeys rather, there for the snatching. But the cat did not care at all. It sat at the base of a tree, watching me watching it, but not so much as raising a paw to threaten. It rested as null in movement as the sphinx. And then, bored by me too, the cat crossed the road. The turkeys followed as if on a feline maternal lead.

On islands, species find a way to get along.

I look forward to late season swims, and that final bittersweet last swim of the last day, with the sweet touch of a sweatshirt on the skin. One year I was reading a book in the final twilight at Lambert’s Cove, but was interrupted by flutes and dancers who seemed to be calling in the sunset. Still, they were quiet in the way of beaches.

As the afternoons wane, like clockwork, people go home. Behind me, there is the sound of a man casting a long fishing line over and over again, such a pleasant tone I wonder why it hasn’t been used much in music.

The last day does not disappoint. The wisps of clouds, all as gently gray as whales and shaped like them too, sail on the underseam of pure white sky pillows. The sea is crystalline and quiet. The beach is like a lover for whom there is never a good reason to leave.

Time, the most liquid of the liquids, is easily lost. End the summer on an island, or live all seasons as if they were summer.

Others come to islands to indulge. I come to indulge in limits.