I see there’s a casting call for “Hamlet.” I wonder if any septuagenarians have ever played the title role. It offers a chance for re­­demp­tion, though my main chance, I suppose, is Polonius.

    I still remember parts of the soliloquies that I mostly forgot in what was nevertheless a tediously long four-hour production at the Hill School on prom weekend in 1958.

    “Nay, but to live in the rank sweat of an enseam’d bed, stewed in corruption, honeying and making love over the nasty sty. . . .” Those lines, though perhaps not quite as written, come immediately to mind.

    Actually, at the time — I was 18 then — to be honeying and making love over the nasty sty was for me a consummation devoutly to be wished.

    Of course I thought I was wonderful, but an English teacher who was better known for peeking under the chassis of cars with a flashlight to catch furtive lovers during those exceedingly rare unnatural heterosexual weekends, protested that I had played Hamlet as if he were crazy.

    I probably did go a little overboard, but then I was a hot-blooded and pimply youth, and my father, who didn’t think much of the play, told me not to be awed simply because Shakespeare wrote it. 

    “ . . . Out, out, brief candle. . . .” No, no that’s Macbeth. . . . I did that too, a few scenes of it when I first arrived at the school. “ ’Til Birnam Wood come to Dunsinane I shall not taint with fear. What’s the boy, Malcolm? Was he not born of woman. . . ? Lay on MacDuff and damned be he who cries, ‘Hold, enough!’ ”

    There was no living with me then. I knew nothing and thought I knew everything. Now, I know — to the depths of my soul — that I know nothing, and am, if not happy with this knowledge gained, at least at ease with it.

    I would make a more reflective Hamlet now. Crazy no more. (Still weird, though.) “Alas, poor Yorick.

. . . There would have been a time for such a word. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creep in their petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. . . . Out, out brief candle. Life’s but a poor player who struts and frets his way upon the stage and then is heard no more. . . .”

    And that’s as good an exit line as any, don’t you think?

    Captain Mike did not laugh when we saw a silver fox clear as day on the Napeague stretch, 6 a.m., early May 1982. He said there were two left out here: “Animal looks like a big wolf, easy to see.” His 1956 Willys Jeep barely had a front windshield, window wipers never worked. Must have been a clear morning.

    Mike was driving to the Montauk docks that May morning to go half-day fluke fishing. As long as anyone remembers, captains and mates showed up early morning, discretely parked their vehicles, sometimes directly in front of their boat, or scattered elsewhere around the Montauk docks. Traditionally a captain’s vehicle could be a Ford 250 truck — never really look new once a commercial fisherman uses it — or an old Willys like Captain Mike’s. Mates, or the exclusive humans that tag along for fishing excursions, drive 1960s Chryslers, an occasional big motorcycle, some weathered 1970s truck, or wage contests for longest winged old cruiser. It’s something like a French wine tasting competition. Very snooty!

    The late spring, summertime mate types, arrivistes, are a slightly different breed than the commercial guys. Tilefish types tend more toward deep winter crews. Some of the winter crews and captains simply change their personas over to the hazier days of summer — half-day and a variety of other charter/head boat fishing excursions.

    A fluke is a wonderful fish to eat. Those emipros and ringers who command spots around the boats like the Marlin V on the half-day summer fluke excursions know this fact. Mike’s party boat attracted the best mix of family-oriented fluke enthusiasts to the hardened flukehead. The best of the fluke fisherman come in all varieties ranging from priest to dubious to the lucky child who lands a doormat.

    Captain Mike had occasion to come down from his commanding view in the Marlin wheelhouse to catch a fluke for his family’s dinner. He had an old wooden pole with a sidewinding rig and a certain style of tossing the rig and hook over the side. The style was somewhat unique, not at all like some of the people around him. He had no spot of choice to toss his rig, nor could one guess when he might decide to fish.

    One rule stood on Marlin V: Cursing was not tolerated when Father Walsh was in earshot. Father Walsh fished from the bow. Being something of both the regular and the pro, the man never seemed to leave the boat without sizable fluke. He always spent his two-week vacation fishing, showing up every day.

    Comical moments ensued on festive occasions with two brothers — older brother, first mate on Marlin V, and younger brother, 8th class demoted mate of the day. The brothers would convene in the forward first lower cabin looking directly upon Father Walsh. Their antics included a discretely hidden bottle of whiskey that was produced to lightly toast the priest as he cast his line into the sea. The priest was in clear view at 12 paces away seen through the slightly tinted lower forward cabin windows. Of course the priest had no idea the boys were sending him an afternoon toast, maybe even a simple prayer to boot to enhance his fishing.

    Mike’s sons grew. By age 5, Willie was no stranger to a fishing boat and seemed to have inherited to a certain impressive fishing style. His paramount privilege to sleep in the wheelhouse anytime he liked was always observed. Willie had already ventured far, far offshore, for multiple-day fishing trips, in winter. Fluke fishing or the fall bluefish massacre were cake for young Willie. Watching him wander through a pile of bloodied bluefish with Mocha, a slightly deranged husky sheepdog, close at hand on a brilliantly lit fall day was par for the course. Willie might open a Pepsi while Mocha ate a whole bluefish, bones and all. A salt-spray-coated head boat or charter customer might contemplate: Could it be like this every day? A pack dog with a young child, fish flying in the boat? The customer might watch the dog growl with a big bluefish hanging from his mouth, the stout young Willie with pole and Pepsi. The customer might think, who’s that guy sitting in the shade drinking Budweiser? He’s not fishing, board’s unpaid, doesn’t talk. Must be some kind a friend of the crew. The customer thinks again. Is this fun or what? The boat steams around Montauk Point headed for the docks and the inevitable unfortunate reality of stepping off the boat back to what is called reality.

    Captain Mike picks up his two sons at an East Hampton school wearing a spanking new, clean surf sweatshirt. One son rides out school attached to Mike’s shoulders, the other bulldozes out bowlegged like a hockey player. Out the front doors the family goes. The teacher observing might think, “That’s Captain Mike. Fine person, Captain Mike. Guess he’s always fishing. Rare sight, seeing him at school.” Teacher thinks further, “Stout young men, those Stedman kids.” Makes you wonder about school conversations with Willie. Little kid asks Willie, “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” Willie answers, “Going cod fishing with my daddy.”

    Same type of conversation takes place between Willie and teacher after Christmas. “Willie, what did you do for Christmas?” Willie puffs up his chest and says, “Daddy took me to the Grand Banks and canyon fishing.” Teacher thinks child has a good imagination, moves on to next student.

    Captain Mike took a large wave rounding Montauk Point while steering the Marlin IV back to the berth at the Montauk docks from a multiple-day commercial fishing trip in winter, circa 1980. Not necessarily a rogue wave, yet tall enough to knock out the wheelhouse windows 35 feet above sea level. Ritchie, the owner of the Marlin IV, was waiting as the boat made dockage. Ritchie in a total tizzy, asks Captain Mike, “How bad was it out there?” Captain Mike says, “Fine, not so bad,” then promptly secures the boat, gets in his car, and drives home. Ritchie is left at the docks hopping up and down saying, “What do you mean, fine?”

    That was Captain Mike. The man had seen a lot of stuff, fished the Atlantic Ocean expanse, by his 30th birthday. An odd set of 24-foot waves was just another day at sea. He knew the waves could have been a lot bigger. That story floated around the docks for a few years, told by other people who had been there that winter day. Not likely Captain Mike ever mentioned it to anyone.

    Morgan McGivern is a staff photographer for The Star. This “Relay” is an excerpt from a much longer unfinished story also titled “Captain Mike.”

    Even though it has been a long time since I saw the Japanese film “Rashomon,” I can remember the profound impression it made. “Rashomon” introduced Japanese cinema to this country, and its director, Akira Kurosawa, went on to become one of the most influential in American filmmaking.

    “Rashomon” is about a man’s murder and the rape of his wife, as described by four people who testify very differently about what happened. That witnesses may, and in some cases do, see important or powerful events from wholly different perspectives is a valuable lesson for anyone who ever thinks about truth and justice. Not only beauty but guilt and innocence can be in the eye of the beholder. And that also is a touchstone for journalists.

    Thirty or so years ago, when Dan Rattiner of Dan’s Papers and I met for dinner at East Hampton’s original Laundry restaurant, we seemed to have a lot in common. Over the years, some people confused our last names. We both grew up in New Jersey and we both began our newspaper careers in the town of East Hampton in 1960. But we knew we looked at the world through different lenses.

    I have never forgotten the day when Dan, just starting out, came into The Star office and asked if he could run our publisher’s column, “Looking Them Over.” What chutz­pah! Or was it flattery?

    At dinner, Dan explained his professional philosophy. He had realized (perhaps in high school) that there was no such thing as real truth so he decided early on that he was free to tell the news any way he fancied. Sometimes he took that idea to extremes, startling readers with elaborate and hilarious hoaxes. I, on the other hand, I had come to East Hampton by way of the Columbia University School of Journalism, where one of the basic rules was to strive for objectivity. The Star was more likely to run “on-one-hand, and-on-the-other” accounts of events than hoaxes.

    I am reminded of the famous Robert Frost poem that begins: “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood. . . .” It seems that Dan, a pioneer in personal journalism, “took the one less traveled by,” while those of us at The Star followed a traditional path. That I recited that poem at my eighth-grade graduation is one of life’s little ironies.

    Speaking of truth, or at least accuracy, in journalism, I was wrong last week when I announced there was to be a big rummage sale at the Springs Presbyterian Church this weekend on behalf of the Synchro Swans, the water-ballet team at the Y.M.C.A. East Hampton RECenter. Clothes and household goods are being collected there tomorrow and Saturday, but they will be distributed to the needy by a charitable organization.

    As it happened the other day, I was in that recently relocated Amagansett store that sells little more than vinyl records, talking to my friend Carlos Lama, who works there, when a woman walked in with a surprised look on her face.

    “People still listen to these?” she asked with a wide grin.

    “Yes, they sure do,” the ever-polite Carlos replied. Then under his breath, and to me alone, he whispered, “They all say that.”

    Innersleeve Records, as the place is called, appears to be doing solid business. Most of the time when I pass by it appears a couple of people are browsing inside, which is a lot more than you might be able to say about the lonely shops nearby that sell hipster duds or decorative doodads.

    Hanging around the store a bit, it seems that the other thing people say a lot is that they had once had a large collection of LPs, but had recently sold them or given them away. As for me, I never divested, but rather stuck most of my collection in the attic, pulling down a few selections, like a favorite Rahsaan Roland Kirk, when I had a turntable up and running.

    I’m not going to get all choked up here about how vinyl played on a proper stereo has more soul than compact discs or the dreadful digital formats. I think it sounds better, but for me, truth be told, I think it is more about the fetishistic aspect to handling one’s music more than anything else.

    If you think about it, vinyl has a more direct connection with performers anyway, which seems really apparent if you, like me, happen to have an old 78-r.p.m. player. If, for example, we listen to an Enrico Caruso recording, the vibrations in the air that carry the sound of his voice are made as the thin, steel needle rides in the grooves of the disc, which were cut from a master that came from a source that was animated by the singer’s own breath itself.

    At no point in the process was “E Lucevan le Stelle” converted into digital zeroes and ones, as with an MP3 file or CD. Even though there are scratches and pops in my old records, I can feel as if the great tenor is there with me. And in a sense, he is.

    Do people still listen to these? Yes, they sure do.

    So, they say Edward Snowden is a traitor and yet they give those who reported on his public service work the Pulitzer Prize.

    The Obama administration admits that it has overstepped when it comes to its spying on all of us, and yet if Snowden returns to this country, they will leap upon him and prosecute him to the full extent of the law.

    And there were Mark Shields and David Brooks the other night, brows furrowed, tut-tutted, trying to reconcile the reporters’ prizes with the alleged infamy of what the source of the story did. But do they understand? They would probably not even be talking about this universal listening-in, which would still be going merrily on unbeknownst to us, had it not been for Snowden.

    Who cares? you may say. Obviously, we must give up some of our privacy in order for the state to do what it must do to protect us from those who intend us harm. When, though, does it get to the point — not that I’m saying it has as of yet — when those who are charged with looking after our best interests transmogrify into our betes-noires.

    It’s something to keep in mind. Blake said there are two sorts — tyrants and the acquiescent victims of tyrants. No, no, we don’t practice tyranny here, at least overtly. The income gap widens, ever widens, and yet we acquiesce in it. It’s not tyranny, it’s just the way things are in our democracy, you might say, where everyone has an equal say, as in one man, one woman, one vote. 

    Do we need a subversive Snowden to point out this subversion of system? He might risk jail time.

    As I was writing this, I discovered in the Sunday Times business section that there indeed is such a fellow, Thomas Piketty, who recently co-wrote a best seller that “debunks the idea that wealth raises all boats.” But he’s French.

    The Times followed up three days later with a front-page piece headlined “U.S. Middle Class Is No Longer World’s Richest.” While our richest still remain the richest, it said, our middle (I wonder if there still is one) class and poor have been outstripped by their counterparts in Canada and Western Europe.

    Oligarchs now reign in the land of the free. I think Aristotle said mob rule comes next.

    After I buried Pooh in Central Park, I wanted nothing more to do with felines, at least not for a while. I was in mourning for my little friend, and mourning takes time. My wife, however, had other ideas and a team of accomplices pitted against me.

    We lived on West 19th Street in Chelsea at the time, and a Dominican couple with four daughters had moved from the South Bronx into the building next door a few weeks earlier.

    The apartment Carole and I had was essentially a two-room studio, and we learned that their apartment had the same setup, cramped quarters for a family that large. When I came home from work I would see the girls on the street in front of the buildings, and would stop to talk with them. The oldest, about 7, was their spokesperson. She would tell me about everything that had happened in the building and on the block that day.

    One evening, soon after Pooh’s demise, there was a knock on the door. It was the little spokesperson. “Your cat is dead. Do you want our cat?” she asked. I said no, although I told her it was a very kind offer.

    The next evening, there was another knock on the door. “He’s a very nice cat. His name is Garfield,” she said.

    “Shouldn’t we at least take a look?” Carole asked after the disappointed neighbor left.

    “It’s too soon,” I said.

    The next night, another knock. This time my little friend had her three sisters with her, as well as Garfield, cradled in her arms. He looked to be no longer a kitten, but was not full grown. He also looked strikingly like the dear departed Pooh.

    Their mother had said Garfield had to go, she explained. After I sent them away disappointed again, my wife stared daggers at me. It was very quiet around the dinner table that night.

    The next evening, the now-ritual knock was heard again. It was the four girls and the cat, now wrapped in a large towel. They had washed him. I looked at the wet animal. I looked at my wife. I looked at those four pairs of dark eyes, which seemed to be looking back imploringly as they waited for my answer. “Okay,” I said.

    And that is how the cat whom we rechristened Bunky came into our lives. He was a close companion for the next 20-odd years.

    T.E. McMorrow is a reporter at The Star.­

    Why is it so hard for me to give things away? My friend Myrna says it’s because, like her, I was a Depression baby. Our parents held on to worn-out, broken, or tattered things, believing they could never be replaced. Balls of string in her parents’  case, Myrna said; old screws and nails in mine. Who really needs a drawerful of cheesecloth and canning-jar wax that predates the Vietnam War?

    Clearly, I have a  problem with giving away anything that is halfway okay, but part of me, I have to admit, secretly revels in this seeming flaw: We live, after all, in a disposable age, in which culture (and marketing) promotes shiny new things, and I don’t at all mind counting myself among those who resist this urge toward wastefulness.

    Another problem is that once you’ve finally ripped off the Band-Aid and decided to give something away, you have to find someone who will take it. And that isn’t as easy around here as you might think.

    I was delighted this week to learn that as a benefit for the Synchro Swans, the water-ballet team at the Y.M.C.A. East Hampton RECenter, clothing and households groups will be collected at the Springs Presbyterian Church on May 3 and 4 for sale to a nonprofit charity. I ran straight to my closet to see what I could unearth.

    There are clothes in the deepest depths of this closet that I haven’t worn in decades, and I don’t mean that figuratively. For example, an intensely colored Marimekko top, shortened unsuccessfully from a floor-length muumuu that I bought in the 1960s. (The fabrics Mari­mekko used then were of real quality, everlasting as iron.) I guess I kept the Marimekko piece as a memento of times gone by . . . just as my mother preserved a tiny tap-dancing costume I wore for a performance when I was about 4. My preschool tap outfit can be found in a drawer nearby.

    Like all parents and grandparents these days, I am strangely disheartened whenever I look over into the corner of my yard that is inhabited by a herd of big, plastic toys — sad, cast-aside ride-ons that the kids have outgrown. My herd includes a four-wheeled Jeep-like vehicle, inflatable and hard-plastic horses to sit or bounce on, a rocket ship. . . . You get the picture.

    The Synchro Swans people don’t want my sad toys, it turns out. They won’t take any toys for the rummage sale unless they fit inside a 24-by-24-inch box. Sigh. The Ladies Village Improvement Society doesn’t want them, either. And the place we called Caldor East, at the East Hampton Town dump — where you could once drop off serviceable household discards for others to pick up — was shut down by a previous town administration and, most unfortunately, hasn’t reopened.

    This week I added to my giveaway troubles when I offered to figure out how to pass on a well-made Victorian couch that my son and daughter-in-law no longer want. The L.V.I.S. may or may not accept it for its furniture barn, I would have to hire someone to get it there to find out.

    Is this, or is this not, a signal that our society is drowning in too much stuff?

    Old clothes, at least, have an upside if you hang onto them long enough: Eventually — the circular rhythm of fashion being what it has become — they rotate back into style, and if they still fit, you get to feel clever and vain besides.

    With all those household objects gathering dust, your only hope is that they become “collectibles.” I’ve got an Art Deco toaster, for example, and a popcorn-maker that should be in the Smithsonian. I have a hamper full of material, including some from curtains made for the Amagansett house 40 years ago; I have my mother’s china, which I never liked the look of, and a couple of generations of cookbooks (though my daughter would murder me if I gave those away).

    Personally, I say the best way for all of us to cope with our excess can be found right here in the pages of The Star each week: Throw a yard sale! Family members just laugh when I announce I’m going to have one. I’ve been hanging onto that delusion for decades, too.

    One of the biggest hurdles in running a newspaper these days comes from online searches and social media, sources that many in the industry should view as more of a threat than a ally.

    In the world of print, if one publication copies another’s original content, and reruns it with its own advertising, it is considered intellectual property theft. But when Google, Facebook, and other big websites do it, wrapping pieces of others’ stories with their own ads, the old media companies, which paid to create the content in the first place, are expected to be thankful for the traffic.

    In my opinion, this is upside down. It seems to me that the poaching sites should share some of the money they get by selling ads next to and above fragments of what others produce with those who produce it. Without the writers, editors, and publishers of the world, Google and the rest might well be selling nothing more than access to inane commentary, corporate pitches, and the work of unhinged bloggers.

    Making matters all the more inequitable, if a content producer signs up with Google’s Ad words program, which sends some of its advertising to others, or one of its rivals, the content producer can enjoy the ignominy of its own potential advertising accounts getting equal exposure for far less money than they would if they bought advertising on the originating site directly. 

    This has the additional effect of making ad rates for the web artificially low — and why not, since Google, for one, does not have to pay anyone to provide content for it. It is little wonder that these giant aggregation and social network sites have so much cash on hand; they are selling advertising contracts to material they bore no expense in creating.

    I am hardly alone in looking dimly on the digital age’s freeloaders. Broadcasters arguing in the Su­preme Court on Tuesday in the case of Aereo, a low-cost cable television alternative, said Aereo’s business model was “premised on massive and unauthorized commercial exploitation of copyrighted works.”

    Aereo is a little different than Google and the like in that it allows subscribers to view entire programs while side-stepping expensive monthly cable fees. Yet the concept is the same: It should compensate those who actually create the work it resells.

    Make no mistake, website traffic is important. The Star website’s top referrer is Google, followed by Facebook. But that still does not make what these companies do right or ethical. If these firms are making billions selling access to our content in the aggregate, the least they can do is kick a few pennies our way. It’s only fair. Without those who actually do the work, they would have very, very little left to sell.

    Is it possible that as we age, and become ever more aware of life’s horrors, that we are, perhaps in like manner, ever more stimulated by its beauties and wonders?

    I looked at the grass this morning, though it is not grass, it is an infinity of, to use Mary’s word, species (overlaid by crystallized snow this morning) that, even with Larry Penny at hand, would require endless study to catalog.

    It was Peter Matthiessen, I think, who said that we should consider ourselves lucky if we were awake five minutes a day. 

    “To see eternity in a grain of sand,” I said (in somewhat garbled fashion) to myself on the way to the compost heap.

    And then, of course, one must get ready for work.

    Though not without thinking how much joy remains to be had in loving, so much more than I, a typical American male I would say (and thus perfectly suited to sportswriting) would have expected.

    That I continue to be surprised by this — though not so much anymore by the seemingly limitless cruelty that lies within us — is a wonder to be cherished in my 70s, knowing that I’ve done nothing to merit it. It’s just dumb but marvelous luck.

    The secret, as Andy Neidnig said, is to keep moving. I was about to say that the more you move the less time you have to fret — about the future, about the past. About sins of commission and — perhaps more germane in my case — of omission.

    To reflect in that manner, then, would not be to be awake. I think the idea is to look at things whole for at least five minutes a day — to take it all in, calmly, the sorrow, the ugliness, the joy, and the beauty. For it’s not only beauty that is true, Mary said.

    And, keeping all that in mind, to raise a glass to what we know and to what we do not know, and to moving, and seeing, and feeling.

    Down the street from where we live is an arid wasteland of a building site, stripped bare not only of the modest house that was once home to a pair of gentleman gardeners but also of the profusion of flowers, shrubs, even trees (the ultimate insult) that they had so carefully tended. There is nothing left but 20-foot mountains of dirt, a broken-down shed off in a brambly corner, whose survival may have been an oversight, and a waiting construction trailer.  

    The site has been like this since last summer. I’m sure I’m not the only one on the street who turns to look whenever I drive by, waiting for signs of movement even as I dread the colossus that is all too likely to follow.

    When I say nothing is left, I mean nothing between the house and the old post-and-rail fence out front. If they’d torn the place down just a little sooner than they did, say in the month of March, they’d have noticed green blades coming up beyond that fence — on the grassy strip beween the fence and the road which, so far as I know, is rightfully town land but is viewed by many homeowners as part of their property — and probably smushed them, along with all the other growing things.

    There ought to be a word for that strip. Right-of-way? Homeowners all over town appropriate it for their own uses, usually though not always to good effect. Forsythia is particularly popular; so is ivy and impatiens, planted around the street trees. But then there are the people who space big rocks a few feet apart on the grass, or stick sticks in the ground with lights on top that glow red at night. They may say they’re there to protect their fences from wayward cars, but I think what they’re really doing is marking their territory. 

    Anyway, those green blades beyond the onetime house with its falling-down fence are now daffodils. Hundreds at least, maybe 1,000, all sizes, all colors, yellow, white, yellow and white, yellow and orange, orange and red, red and white and apricot and pink. From March to May, for more than 100 running feet along the grass, daffodils bloom and fade and others come along, and they all just keep increasing every year.

    For as long as I can remember, and we have lived on this same street for 45 years, those two men, both dead now, could be seen out front every autumn shoehorning new bulbs into the ground. They transformed that grassy strip into a springtime showstopper, and I know I was not the only neighbor who would purposely walk on that side of the street to gawk. Because of them I became something of a daffodil fanatic myself, sending off to Wisconsin or Oregon for unusual varieties, even once entering the Garden Club of Shelter Island’s biennial show.

    Daffodils have been aptly called the self-cleaning ovens of the gardening world; with little or no care, they do what’s expected. They’re doing it again down the street this spring, but I am not, and that’s really what this is all about. I still walk over there most days, but now, instead of stopping and ogling and walking on, I cut a bunch of flowers and take them back home, or to work.

    Is this stealing?

    No one lives there anymore, and there are so many drifts of daffs that you couldn’t possibly tell the difference, and yet I find myself hoping no car will pass by and see me — catch me? — in the act. But why? The new owners, probably a corporation, clearly couldn’t care less about plants, and the plantsmen, given the situation, might actually approve. Or so I tell myself.

    I was putting some really spectacular Albert Einsteins in a Tropicana juice container the other day when a neighbor — a woman whom I happen to know is a fervent proponent of private property rights — walked by on the other side of the street and shot me a dirty look. I stood up and went home, thinking that after all this was thievery, and the next day I asked someone at work about it.

    “Would you go cut somebody else’s flowers, even if they didn’t even live there yet?”

    “Of course not,” she replied, then paused. “Only if they were lilacs.”

    Irene Silverman is The Star’s editor at large. She is at large at the moment in Amagansett.