As the ferry slipped smoothly away from the dark green shore, we were somehow transported to a different plane of being, where things seem slower and more beautiful, moving around us as if we were fixed in time and space. Dark islands slipped silently past us through turquoise water churning below. Sailboats with wooden hulls and crisply crackling sails carved arching trails through the choppy waves, and houses peeked out from behind the thin dark pines standing guard along the rocky shores.

We rode between the islands, stopping first at Shaw Island, its ferry landing no more than a wooden dock between two modest homes, the thick green grass of their yards running down to the rocky shore. We were asked to return to our cars, to prepare for our arrival, and as we drove off the ferry into the tiny crowd waiting to board the returning boat, the island took hold of us. Following the diminishing line of cars that pulled off the main road into driveways and dirt lanes, we wound through farm fields and countryside reminiscent of New England summers with their golden fields ablaze in the early evening sun.