Last Friday I took the ferry out of New Harbor to Monhegan. Jonathan and I spent the day hiking this magical island, finding the best views in front of which to play an epic series of cribbage games. For match two-of-five we set up on a shallow ledge twenty feet below the pinnacle of Whitehead. It was dramatic, the crashing surf over one hundred feet below and the rock rising steeply behind us. Looking up we watched as other day trippers and island hikers appeared at the edge above us, their bodies at an exaggerated angle and cropped from the waist down. Some folks stopped and stood, pointing out at the horizon, mouths agape. Groups of two or three would link arms with their backs to us, presumably posing for a photo. Young people would rush the edge, stop, and then abruptly turn before disappearing from view. The cause? Their quickness and athleticism bought just enough time to indulge in an immediate sense of wonder before the rest of their family unit caught up and yelled at them to step back. One of these young people I recognized from the ferry; a young boy with long hair and a cap. Now free on the island, he was in explorer mode and wielded a very tall walking staff that gleamed in the sunlight, its florescent red ribbons like miniature versions of the banner of a cloud above him, catching my eye and stopping my vision from disappearing into the limitless blue of the sky.