Make a large pot of coffee. Prep the boat: plugs in, motor up, tram saver on, bags tied down, engine, starts, hitch to truck. Open the coop door and apologize to the chickens for disturbing their sleep but the tides today make it so we have to be out on the water at sunrise. Crossing the bridge to the island, notice how this particular sliver of yellow orange red of the not yet risen sun—a band of color that stretches horizontally across the horizon, dark blue above, blue green below—will never be captured by humans, who know as much, yet cannot help but try. At the boat launch, let your palms greet the water, and notice it’s cool again, finally. On the ride out, say good morning to the great blue herons. At the oyster farm, the swells driven by a northwest wind, a steady 16 mph, gusts of 24 or so, pick up the line, the boat, the bags, roll them all over the back of the water’s knuckles. Ruddy Turnstones peck at the barnacles growing on the bags. When the sandbar coming off the spit of land emerges, hightail it back to shore.