I’ve been to the tip of the world, and hiked through Patagonia. I’ve slept beneath a tree in the Boboli Gardens of Florence. I’ve thrown rocks at sheep as they fed in the rolling hills of Wicklow, Ireland. I’ve snowboarded into a tree in the middle of the Rockies. I’ve stolen a rock from the floor of the apostle Paul’s prison cell, somewhere around Thessaloniki, Greece. I’ve bought communist era coins from a street peddler in Talinn, Estonia. I’ve muttered inutterable curses at the pigeon that pooped on my head, outside of the Vatican. I’ve jumped off a thirty foot waterfall in the heart of Maine. I’ve washed my hair alongside homeless rastafarians, in a waterfall in rural Jamaica.
But nothing is as beautiful, or as paintable, as the commercial fishing docks of Islip.