Roaming the Freeport Harbor

I imagine that living near clean, green/blue water is good for the psyche. Water you can swim in. Water whose borders aren't the island of Manhattan. Water where the wooden boats live year-round; the fiberglass bottoms get pulled out and shrink-wrapped like seasonal mummies. Here we are on a windy day up on the Freeport Harbor with Suzanne and Jay and Chelsea and Noah. The planks of the dock are littered with oyster and mussel shells, dropped by the gorging seagulls from above. The real shade of "sea green" water is nothing like the paint color or the crayon. It's deeper and more complex. It hints and immeasurable depth. It's different from the ocean, which churns and grabs. It's calm, but lapping and persistent.

After some time on the dock comes the part where I tell Jacob that we should probably move up to Maine. He agrees. (But instead we're just moving in Brooklyn).