My mother and brother just wrapped up their whirlwind world tour with a stay at the Big Camp. I’m not sure how it compared to their other stop on the tour — the Marlborough rest stop Dunkin Donuts — but they seemed to enjoy themselves. Fritz the dog/puppy seemed particularly pleased, and served as notice to me of what is to come with fatherhood. Though I don’t suppose I can simply walk away from my child and close the door when I become weary of its energy.

Right-hand man Randy has been longingly looking east toward the gut from his perch on our beach steps landing, searching for signs of life: terns in the air, or boats in the water . . . but thus far very little action in the mighty channel. Chin up Randy, like zebra print blouses on ladies in Boca, the stripes will soon return to their home on the bodies of your beloved fish.

I have never fished the derby, due in part to the fact that I don’t fish. But the camo derby hats this year look major cool, so I might have to go on YouTube and figure out how to squid a line. Also, I appreciate the zen aspect to the whole deal, and have a lot of respect for the authentic passion of Islanders for this derby. All in all, a pretty nifty event, even without the hats. Having written the previous, I’m afraid that nifty may not be the adjective of choice for the fishing set, but it’s my column, darn it.

The wind has returned to North Neck, bringing with it disrupted satellite coverage of football and its impersonation of the El. But still, I love the wind. I love its raw invisible energy, and the scent of salt and dried leaves that it carries with it. And though much has been written of late about the magnificence of Martha’s Vineyard Septembers, the wind also reminds me of hurricanes past. September is not always a lamb. Exposed as we are here in the bluffs of North Neck, the wind reminds one of one’s place on earth — of who is truly in charge. The wind is the stern word of nature.

Does it still rain in these parts, or was precipitation just a passing fancy of the past millions of years? The fairways on my links here are a lovely shade of ochre, a color not usually associated with golf grounds. But it is a lovely color to me because it reminds me, and hopefully others, that grass need not always be green to be enjoyed. The original aesthetic for golf was the play-it-as-it-lays adventure with (not against) nature. So, you go brown! You’re beautiful to me!

Deer hunting season is not far off. I try to be practical about the whole thing. I know that we are overpopulated by deer on Chappy, and I know that nature will cull the herd with equal if not more harsh measures than any hunter. But, I see these guys daily now. Mom, dad and children. A genuine family gathered in the valley of my 9th fairway. I can’t help but feel that they look to me for protection. A dilemma for sure. The bow hunters on Chappy are among the most responsible, conscientious of hunters. As such, I would rather allow them to hunt the land than a novice from off-island. Yet there they stand every night: Peter, Patricia, Alba, Janice and Little Steven, some with literal doe-eyed stares. It doesn’t help that I have named them.

Now, because I’m in the mood for revealing/sharing secrets, I will tell all that the back road that runs behind my clubhouse and alongside Cove Meadow is perhaps the most astoundingly serene and pleasant walk on this planet. Enjoy.

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