This island is strange. A mixed bag. It holds every group of humans within the societal structure in a mere 55 square miles. 
There’s the low riders in tricked out cars, the bleeding hearts, the good ‘ole boys, the hippie-crits. The scientists, the artists, the religious zealots. There’s an overwhelming amount of people who just seem like they’d fit better in the city–which has more restaurants and bars where they could spend their paychecks at every night and then wonder why they’re broke. These people are uninterested in buying their freedom. They work merely so they can exist.
The cost of living is high. The median income is low. There’s farmers and slum lords. Migrant workers and drug dealers. When I was living on the boat in the harbor I was part of a small community of voyaging sailors, those that came and went. They graced us with their presence and left before we could learn who they truly were. 
Would I have liked them, if we had interacted day in and day out? Isolated in a tiny boat for the winter I wondered what was out there but never dared to explore it. Now that I have, am I better for it?
Today I felt like an isolated storm had ascended over the island, but when I went outside the sky was crystal clear. The sun was blaring. The dry hills, fields and sand dunes leave me with a depressed, sinking feeling. I’m thirsty for a life well-lived.
Sitting in the passenger seat of my friend’s car we pull up to the pump and the station is out of gas. She’s lived here almost her entire life. “Has this ever happened before?” I ask. “No,” she says with a look of confusion.
We move to another gas station and the vibes are utterly strange. My anxiety is building. It’s the physical symptoms that are getting to me. Like a child’s sized bowling ball lodged in my abdomen. My esophagus constricting. A man revs his engine and backs up without looking, a cyclists quickly pedals out of his way. There’s yelling. Another car pulls up next to us, smoking pot next to the pump. Is the possible ignition of a fire not a factor for them, or are the dangers of smoking at the pump just a myth?
“This place is weird,” my friend says. “Let’s get out of here.”
I come back to the house where I’m staying and can’t shake my uneasy feeling. Perhaps a walk will suffice. I try to rally my roommate’s dog but I can’t get him to come with me for a walk. He sits on the yellow, prickly lawn and stares unblinkingly at nothing.
Dinghy Dreams 