I've been watching the Ashfords from this porch for forty-seven years. Forty-seven years of the same stretch of Long Island Shore — dunes, beach, the water always moving, always leaving, never asking permission.
Julian first sailed into my sight in the summer of 1920. He was twenty years old, standing on the deck of a twenty-two-foot sloop his father had given him, and he had that particular look that young men have when they think the ocean belongs to them. I told him so, once. Just that. "The ocean doesn't belong to anyone." He looked at me the way you look at a man who's told you the sky is blue —...
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