When I go, I’d like to go, as Montaigne said, “planting my cabbages,” which is to say either swept away by the one I love or, that failing, by the sure knowledge that I have swept away the opposition in a last rally at East Hampton Indoor.

    Death is kinder, Montaigne says, if it creeps up on one, so that by the end it’s just a half of a man or a quarter of a man that dies, something, he likens to a rotted tooth finally falling out, having reached, without effort or anguish, the natural terminus of its time. I, though, am not as philosophic: When part of a filling fell out the other night, the first thing I did the next morning was call Perry Silver’s office.

    The intimations of mortality didn’t last long. I was taken in posthaste. We’ve become good friends, the dentist and I, though he does most of the talking. And soon, I was ready to resume the struggle against entropy by ordering a cup of coffee and a French cruller — at half price because I’d arrived at lunchtime — at the Sag Town coffee shop in Sag Harbor.

    And there I read in The Express what I would say was the greatest obit ever written, about John De Poo, a man so talented and so screamingly funny that in thinking of him my eyes welled up.

    Soon after, at The Express office, I was telling them De Poo stories, beginning with the one about how he’d gotten the word around that the Carriage Trade Garden Patio restaurant in Key West, where he’d been working, had asked for a permit to feature nude waiters — news that led to a Miami Herald interview in which he told a reporter that while he didn’t object to the change, he wondered where he’d put his pencil.

    “But, look,” he said as we neared the end of a conversation at the Durhams’ in Amagansett in 1973, “don’t forget to put in that my philosophy is: ‘Somehow the woods are more beautiful for my having passed by.’ ”

    Indeed they were, and are.

    Thus fortified by thoughts of the life-loving De Poo, I asked our 90-year-old dog if he wanted to take a walk, and, wonderful to tell, he assented. We walked from the office all the way to the bank’s extension, he, smiling all the way, taking the lead at the end, just in case I’d forgotten the goal was biscuits.

    “A big withdrawal,” I said to the tellers as I reached for three — two for Henry’s having gotten that far and one for good measure. Because it was a beautiful day and because it bore with it fond memories.

    Jeannette Edwards Rattray, who wrote “One of Ours,” the longest-standing personal column ever to run in The Star, used to say “the world comes to our door.” That was eons and eons ago (or at least it feels like it to me). Would she still say that — that the world comes to our door? I think she might not. These days, the world is already here . . . if perhaps only on weekends.

    Artists and writers, celebrities of stage and screen, politicians, and other assorted boldface names have been visiting or vacationing here since the 19th century, of course, and I would venture that today the ratio of famous-to-anonymous citizens is greater here than even in New York City. But it is not just celebrities and/or those with millions of followers on Twitter of whom I am thinking when I muse on how worldly we have become: I am thinking of wealth and real estate.

    I read The New York Times Real Estate section on Sundays and The East Hampton Star’s real estate column on Thursdays. They offer can-you-top-this reports of astronomical prices for houses and estates here, as well as apartments in the city. I may be wrong, but it seems to me that the South Fork of Long Island has surpassed the island of Manhattan as far as snazzy amenities go.

    How many of even the most lavish New York apartments boast squash or basketball courts? Some duplexes or penthouses may come with their own interior elevators, but I don’t think you will find a single one that comes equipped with an electrical lift for multiple cars.

    What bugs me most about these manifestations of excess is that we have come to take most of them for granted. No longer do double swimming pools — one indoor, one outdoor — seem notable. Private home movie theaters no longer raise eyebrows. Wine cellars, multiple kitchens, and tennis courts are a dime a dozen.

    Despite all this conspicuous consumption, the demographic differences between the city and what used to be called the country remain profound, however. It is said that New York City is inexorably becoming home to only the rich and the poor. Here, we certainly have the rich and the richer than rich, but there is still a large and thriving middle class community. The middle class is reportedly being driven out of the city by the gentrification of manufacturing neighborhoods and old working class neighborhoods — even in the outer boroughs — and by an expanding number of condos with prices starting in eight figures.

    I guess that in some ways, at least comparatively, we are still country. Country and proud, as the honky-tonk singers might say. When second-home owners and local residents, way back at the end of the 20th century, joined together to fight against overdevelopment and for the environment, they preserved hundreds and hundreds of acres for us all. So today, if you squint, you can still enjoy the vista of a farm field here and there. Our beaches still look exactly as they did before the original colonists arrived (if you go there at dawn, anyway, before the party buses disgorge their drunken marauders).

    When my kids were little and we hit the Long Island Expressway for a rare family trip into the city, they would hold their noses and breathe through their mouths as the station wagon emerged from the Midtown Tunnel, loudly insisting that all the garbage on the streets made the place stink. The city has cleaned up its act since the 1970s, but East Hampton still has infinitely better air. Spring will be here soon, and when the lilacs come, I will breathe in their scent and pretend I’ve never seen a McMansion with a turret, pretend the world is still a world away.

    “Word has been received from Mr. and Mrs. D.W. Johns, who are touring the world. They were in India and write that they think and speak of Amagansett every day.” So reported The Star on this day in 1914.

    Ninety-five years later, facing certain death on the road to Manali, I thought of Montauk and mumbled a prayer to Sri Krishna that I might swim in the mighty North Atlantic again.

    “Dead,” the Tibetan driver said, so matter-of-factly I was sure I’d misheard him.

    “Huh?”

    “Dead. The child died of exposure.”

    It was then, around 6 a.m., some three hours after the jeep had stopped cold in its snowy tracks, that I became concerned.

    Moments earlier, a distraught woman had carried what looked to be a child, wrapped in a blanket, past the jeep in which I huddled. A man followed, a whimpering child, maybe 10 years old, on his back, arms wrapped feebly around the man’s neck.

    We’d arranged for a vehicle to take us to Manali — said to be an 18-hour drive — to spend a half-day there before going on to Dharamsala.

    Two hours in, the trip was, to my amazement, proceeding swimmingly, despite the roads often turning to rock and mud and, later, snow and ice, enormous icicles shooting down the mountainside toward the single-lane road, beyond which was a steep drop of a hundred feet, at least.

    Of course, it was not to last. In front of us, on a curve in the narrow lane that had somehow been carved into the mountainside, a “goods carrier” sat immobilized, its front axle so badly broken as to perfectly prevent anything from passing in either direction. The army had been notified and dispatched to tow it, we were told. They would come in 12 hours, perhaps, or 24. Or 72. So there we sat, in subfreezing temperatures, in the darkness, and then in the delicate light of dawn.

    At 7:30, I took a handful of butter cookies and a juice box and, delirium taking hold, stepped out of the jeep for perhaps the fourth time. “Well [expletive] me,” I yelled, through a mouthful of cookies, to no one, “for thinking one could make an overland trip in this country without a complete [expletive] disaster ensuing.”

    Around 8 a.m., some five hours after the expedition had been halted and seven hours since we’d departed Choglamsar, I prevailed upon the party to turn back. But the vehicle would have to make a 180-degree turn, a near impossibility on this single-lane road blanketed in snow and ice, the hundred-foot drop looming. There was literally no room for error.

    I’d seen a driver do it just two hours earlier, when a vehicle was commandeered from some unfortunate travelers to transport the young corpse, the sick-but-still-breathing child, and the grieving parents back to civilization.

    But as a passenger in a vehicle attempting the feat, it was terrifying. During the scariest moment, the jeep perpendicular to the road, the driver still needing to accelerate before he could reverse, inches from catastrophe, I had the brief but certain notion that “this is how I die,” never to know that blue ocean again.

    But by Sri Krishna’s grace, I did not die.

    I awoke, much later, in Paris, and was soon slicing through green, rolling hills on a high-speed train to Lyon, destined for fine seafood in St. Etienne and jazz at Vienne, copious Rhone wines and crates of beer.

    And then I was back in Brooklyn, despondent and craving adventure. Old D.W. and his wife know what I’m talking about.

    Christopher Walsh is a reporter at The Star.

    This week the South Fork experienced an abrupt return to bitter weather of the sort that characterized the winter just ended. A sharp downturn in the thermometer was often accompanied by snow and wind, followed by a brief warm-up, then cold again.

    What was odd about the frigid weeks was that our household did few or none of the normal winter things children enjoy. We went sledding but once, pond skating not at all. The kids’ schedules certainly had something to do with this, but then, too, it often was just too brutal outside to interest them in much more than bundling up in blankets on weekends to watch TV.

    As for myself, I don’t mind winter, but I, too, did not find it possible to take advantage of it. The single solitary time I managed to get the ice boat out of the barn and set it up at Mecox, the wind did not cooperate, and I spent the day standing around answering sightseers’ questions. I didn’t dig at my usual cold-month clam flat, and I put away my surfboard and wetsuits in November and did not think about them again until just this week.

    When there wasn’t a hard freeze, I managed to get a jump on a couple of spring chores, edging the brick path in the yard and trimming overhanging limbs in the driveway. Not eager to have to rebuild the stairs leading to the beach yet again after winter’s storms, I removed the lower steps to allow the bay to race underneath unimpeded. They will have to go back shortly, but that is a minor matter.

    I wonder, too, about the outdoor creatures. Will there be fewer ticks, thanks to the cold? And what about all the birds that have already returned from the South and seem ready to breed. How do they manage when it suddenly falls below freezing?

    Over on Deerfield Road in Water Mill I saw my first osprey about a week ago on a utility pole’s crossbars. It had evidently been flying back and forth for some time, carrying sticks with which it hoped to build a nest. Late afternoon traffic repeatedly disturbed it, and each time it flew away, the wind swept the most recent stick or twig onto the ground.

    When I checked back later, at around dusk, the osprey was still at it, forgetting about winter and getting ready for spring.

    Because the winter past was particularly dreary, any sign of respite has been welcome; a little sun is all I ask, that and the crack of a bat and a head-first slide into second, or a deft pass for a one-touch score from the corner of the crease.

    The inevitability of spring is enough to brighten one’s mood, but, for me, who must cover them, interesting teams further lighten the step. Last spring was dreary that way, though I sense this April and May will be different, that there will be more things to enthuse about than to commiserate over.

    It’s not all about winning, which, while nice from a sportswriter’s point of view, takes a back seat to enthusiastic engagement.

    This, then, is my pep talk, kids: No crowing, nor hanging of heads, please. Treat victory and defeat as the impostors Kipling said they were, and smile, don’t forget to smile. (After removing your mouth guards.) It’s fun, you should be happy just to play.

    And remember to forget yourself. Don’t think when you’re playing, it should be a time for reaction rather than reflection. You can reflect all you want when the game is over, thinking on those things you ought to have done and of those things you ought not to have done, resolving, of course, to do better next time.

    Life’s a marathon, they say — at least for most, so, for most, there will be plenty of time for reflection, for an examined life. But that shouldn’t lead you to be complacent. Marathoners sprint too, they do interval work at times.

     Somebody on the radio the other day said he sang every song as if he were living his last moments on the planet. Good advice for all of us, though especially for athletes when fully engaged, joyful, free of anticipation and regret.

    The softball team is very young. Lou Reale, the coach, said that at one point during a scrimmage this week he counted six freshmen and two eighth graders on the field. They’re beguiling in their eagerness and attentiveness, but they think too much, he said, and thus their moves, because they’re reflecting more than acting, haven’t acquired the fluidity yet that’s required for such a bang-bang game.

    But he knows this in-the-moment state, this joy, will come. He sees the improvement every day, he says. And, consequently, this crusty old coach’s mood is bright.

    It almost always feels like spring will never come, that the daffodils or forsythia are late, that the osprey have missed their return date, that the robins surely should have started their nest-building and infernal crack-of-dawn window-striking already.

    Despite the chill in the air, the ice crystals on the ground, or the occasional snow stubbornly remaining in the forecast, my unscientific study of spring’s arrival tells me this: It’s the length of the day more than its temperature that forces the season to shift. I could Google that, but I don’t want to.

    The tulips tend to open the same week of the year that they always do, regardless of the cold. Ditto the forsythia. The buds grow fat on the maple right on schedule and around mid-April the magnolia on the corner of Methodist Lane that I pass every day on my way to work will be blooming. It hardly seems possible now because I want it so badly. That’s how it is with this season.

    Among the hats I wear here at The Star is that of photo editor, and often by the end of March/early April I can see the photographers’ weariness with the season in the sameness of their photos. How much can you do with browns, blues, and white? Enter the cat, the yawning cat, dog on bed, dog at beach. Lovely silhouette of leafless trees? Did it in December. Snow? Please no.

    There are fewer photographs because there is less to be inspired by, and sometimes while I’m looking for a photo pairing for our letters pages or a shot for our editorial page I find myself looking in desperation into the photos folders from previous years. If I need, say, a picture of skunk cabbage for Larry Penny’s “Nature Notes” column, I might search nine years of Marches to find one.

    I notice through the pictures that almost every first week of April, give or take a few days, the same varieties of bulbs are pushing their way toward the sunlight. Forsythia? I find it in full flower on April 20 one year, April 27 another. Magnolias appear as early as April 13, cherry blossoms one April 19, lilacs on April 26.

    I warn myself that it’s been known to snow as late as April 15. I remember covering the groundbreaking on the Accabonac Apartments in my early years at The Star as snow piled up around the base of already blooming daffodils. And there were odd warm years, like 2007, when January was balmy enough to force the buds on a row of cherry trees on Pantigo Road, or 2012, when I could pick broccoli at Quail Hill all winter long.

    Spring is a fickle tease. It plays hard to get so we love it even more when we’ve finally got it. One day it’s 60 and sunny and you smell earth in the rain, the next it’s 32 and the sky looks like snow.

    I’ve seen the robins massing in the yard. There’s that one again, the one I curse at all spring, eyeing the spot above my bedroom window for his nest. Soon he will start battling his reflection for control of the turf. No matter what I hang in the window to let him know it’s a window, he’ll wake me up every morning when the sun is barely up, just to let me know that, yes, spring has finally arrived.

    Carissa Katz is The Star’s managing editor.

    On the same course as last week, I’d like to think that not thinking is the goal when it comes to doing something athletic, tennis in my case, which is why I thought a couple of months ago that it would be good to attend East Hampton Indoor’s weekly “stroke of the week” clinics, so I could think about what I was doing wrong and could take heedless satisfaction in what I was doing right.

    In tennis there are many mnemonics; if it were not so, I would have told you. Think of sliding your racket along the seat of a chair when striking a backhand volley, for instance. It’s A-C-E when serving, which is to stay toss the ball away from the body, keep the chin up, and extend through the ball, snapping the wrist downward with authority.

    Just as it’s head up when serving, it’s head down when hitting groundstrokes. Turn the shoulder, bend the knees, bring the hips around if it’s a forehand, following through up and over the opposite shoulder.

    If yours is a one-hand backhand, follow through high, flipping the lead wrist at the end to impart topspin. Chin up when hitting overheads. Step in to the volleys. And, rather than “bounce-hit,” say “one” when the opponent strikes the ball, “two” as you take up a position arm and racket’s length away from the ball, and “three” as you make contact. . . .

    Much to reflect on, you’ll agree, but when these truths of tennis are transformed into pure reaction, into beauty, as it were, then thought and sensation are transmuted into transcendence.

    Timing is beauty, beauty timing. And that is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know.

    Of course, if you jerk your head up when it should be down, or jerk it down when it should be up, or forget to bend the knees or turn the shoulder, or get too close to the ball, or swing late, and thus mess up, there will be much weeping and gnashing of teeth and things will go south.

    But that, too, is part of the game, part of the hacker’s game, whose best moments bid fair to be even more golden than those of the elite given the base metals from which they come.

    All by way of saying I’ve thought enough for now. It’s time to play. And, oh yes, keep your eye on the ball.

    That said, he hopes to grow the economy from day one. At the end of the day, it’s gaining traction and — going forward — some people will be pleased. Others? Not so much.

    The paragraph above contains seven of the many jargon-y turns of phrase that get my dander up. I’m proud of being a stick-in-the-mud where American English is concerned. I’m not entirely sure what my problem is, but I simply loathe trendy, overused words and phrases.

    Who is responsible for the fact that the trendspeak verb “to gift” has been replacing “to give,” in relation to gifts and free loot? As in: “The Academy gifted nominees with expensive bags of swag” (another annoyingly overused word, pronounced, also annoyingly, as  “shwag” for reasons I cannot understand).

    I remember being surprised and slightly irritated back in the 1990s, when President Bill Clinton used the phrase  “grow the economy.” Couldn’t he have just said  “improve the economy” or “help the economy grow”?

    Perhaps not coincidentally, I think Hillary Clinton was the first person I heard talk about the amazing things she would do on “day one” of her hoped-for presidency. That’s a lot more succinct than saying “on the first day in office,”  granted, but I don’t like it anyway.

    Who is responsible for spreading these words and phrases among us? I have to blame television for interjecting them into spoken, and then written, language. First we heard them among news-hour pundits, then among reality-television contestants, and now we hear and read them every day.

    Now, I have to admit, it is clear that I myself am perfectly willing to use phrases that are honest-to-goodness clichés . . . as long as they’ve been around a long time.

    According to a Yahoo site called Voices, the first reference to “get your dander up” (see above) can be found in an April 1853 edition of The Wisconsin Tribune: “ ‘Well, gosh-all Jerusalem, what of it now?’ yelled the downeaster, getting his dandruff up.” It is also reported that Samuel Goldwyn, of Hollywood studio fame, has sometimes been credited with inaugurating the phrase, but he wasn’t born until 1897.

    The origins of the noun stick-in-the-mud are a little obscure, in part because the phrase has two meanings. Way back in the early 18th century, I’m told, a stick-in-the-mud was someone who wouldn’t or couldn’t get out of an abject condition. More recently, it means a person who avoids new activities, ideas, or attitudes — an old fogy.

    Well. While I don’t mind thinking of myself as a curmudgeon, I draw the line at “fogy.” I declare here that I positively enjoy new, trendy words and phrases when they serve to make the language more specific or more colorful (instead of duller and more generic).

    Did you read that the 2013 Oxford English Dictionary word of the year — a category that has included 2011’s  “truthiness,” 2009’s “app,” and 2003’s  “metrosexual” — was the humble “because,” when used to introduce a single noun or adjective?

    Why do I hate homogenizing trendspeak so? Because reasons.

    Almost by chance, but aware that it was Black History Month, my husband and I went to Shelter Island on Friday night for a program on the history of slavery sponsored by the Shelter Island Library and Sylvester Manor Educational Farm. We had been primed by Mac Griswold’s penetrating book, “The Manor: Three Centuries at a Slave Plantation on Long Island.”

    The Shelter Island Library is small, and the event had not been widely publicized. Nevertheless, it drew an overflowing — and, I must add, multiracial — crowd. We had come to see “Traces of the Trade: A Story From the Deep North,” a film about the slave trade, and to hear a conversation about it.

    The film is relevant to Sylvester Manor (which was farmed by slaves in the colonial era and beyond), but it also underscores something most of us don’t much think about: the complicity of Northerners in the perpetuation of slavery. We tend to forget that Abolitionists were a minority here in the North, and that the good citizens of New England and the Mid-Atlantic states not only dominated the American slave trade but also owned slaves well into the 19th century. Many fine old families made their fortunes on the backs of slaves.

    The film is about the DeWolf family, illustrious and wealthy merchants of Bristol, R.I., who are said to have run the largest slave-trading company in United States history. Katrina Browne, a seventh-generation descendant, was born in Philadelphia, but her background in cultural anthropology and theology drew her to explore the personal as well as national consequences of America’s “peculiar institution.” She directed and wrote the film on a mission to find out, for herself and others, how so many otherwise decent people and respectable organizations either actively participated in the abominable institution of slavery, or looked the other way.

    The film was eight years in the making. Along the way it took the filmmaker and nine other DeWolf descendants to Ghana in West Africa, where they visited dungeons in which those to be sold as chattel were imprisoned, and to Cuba, where the DeWolfs both sold slaves and held many captive on their five plantations at great profit.

    The Triangular Trade, in which the Sylvester family of Sylvester Manor also took part, involved the cultivation of sugar for rum, which was used as currency (with other material goods) to buy Africans, and transport them in horrific conditions through the Middle Passage to the West. As is noted in the documentary, some 11 million people made the passage, a million dying along the way.

    For Ms. Browne, who spoke after the screening, awareness was the first step toward uncovering hidden personal ideas about race and challenging herself and as many others as possible to open their eyes to our shared cultural legacy and begin a process of healing and reconciliation. “I was shocked . . . when I realized that instead of being the exception, the DeWolf family was just the tip of the iceberg of the vast complicity to slavery in New England,” she said in an interview.

    Joining Ms. Browne in the conversation that followed the screening were her brother, Whitney Browne, Georgette Grief-Key, executive director of the Eastville Community Historical Society, Peggy King Forde, former director of the New York City African Burial Ground Project, and Sandra Arnold, who, under the auspices of Fordham University, is developing the National Burial Database Project of Enslaved African Americans. The audience was clearly moved.

    First screened at the Sundance Film Festival, “Traces of the Trade” is available from the Tracing Center, an educational organization pursuing Ms. Browne’s mission.

     There are lessons in this history for all of us. One of the DeWolf descendants makes a particularly insightful remark in the film, saying that he left for the trip to West Africa believing that his ancestors engaged in the slave trade centuries ago simply because that was the way things were done at the time — but that he returned home understanding that they “knew it was evil, but did it anyway.”

    I think Ms. Browne’s idea of challenging ourselves to more frankly acknowledge our nation’s racist history is one all thoughtful people should embrace. And I wonder: Will our own descendants question our own complaisance? Will they wonder at our passive acceptance of today’s lingering, institutionalized racism, and the social injustice that still walks with it hand in hand?

    Feb. 2, 2014, Ditch Plain, Montauk: The voice rings out, “Lads, paddle, a set is coming.” Four men on surfboards ranging from 9 to 10 feet paddle 30 yards farther seaward to wait, positioning themselves for the four-foot winter set.

    Three of the men had been talking, light Irish brogues distinct, pleasant enough topics, not much at all, prior to the sighting of the three-wave set, clearly visible 250 yards offshore. The fourth surfer had mentioned to one of the three Irish guys, “You need a hood.”

    The man has hair long enough to more than cover his head and ears, yet it is February in Montauk. No hood in Montauk in February, even with a mild across-the-board temperature of 45 degrees water and air, is a stretch. The man with no hood shrugged, spoke about industrious work completed earlier in the day, and then was out on the water, indifferent to wearing a hood.

    The set arrives, glassy, cement-like, smooth, as very cold water seems. The four men paddle, catch, stand up Waikiki-style, surfing shoreward. Possibly three are actually standing, yet for the sake of the tale, let’s make it four. The sun, a hallowed gray sun from west to north, blankets the surf spot in more than adequate light.

    Waikiki-style is arms spread out, cruising gracefully toward land, smiling, without a care in the world.

    Dec. 27, 2013, Ditch Plain, Montauk: John, one of the local Ditch Plain prophets of the summer past, roams the parking lot, not thinking much, just on a surf check. He had had responsibilities to attend to in New York City the past week. A surfer walks up to him fully suited and says, “Stay away from people who drive expensive white luxury cars.”

    John looks quizzical, wondering what that means.

    The suited surfer mentions “not the ones with the white trucks, no. People who have white trucks are actively employed doing something honest enough.” The surfer continues, “John, stay away from people with cars like this.” The surfer points to an expensive swayback S.U.V., a brand-new white Range Rover with all the newest and greatest surfboard rack apparel adorning.

    The wetsuit-clad surfer says, “John, it’s pretty obvious that they could be involved in, you know, shady business.” The surfer continues, “I have a distant uncle who says that anyone who buys or rents a fancy white car is involved in . . . one of two occupations. This is a family beach; I’ll tell you later.”

    He continues, “No one goofs around more than us, or has as much fun, yet those people could give the sport a bad name.”

    John muses, thinks blissfully about sitting in his beach chair near his older-model Chevy truck during Labor Day weekend past. What fun that was, how he loves Ditch Plain on the holidays: What a celebration! John thinks about the attractive lady he was sitting with Labor Day past — she was sipping a Budweiser bottle of beer, gracefully.

    John snaps out of his daydream, laughing about the fancy white car with all the surf trimmings, and says, “That’s hilarious.” John walks back to his Chevy truck, smiling.

    Sept. 28, 2010, Radar Base, Montauk: Left-breaking five-foot waves crease laterally across the western rock shelf a hundred yards offshore connecting to a sandbar closer to shore. Surfers ride the waves moving and bending, tucking into the cylindrical formation waves make known as the tube.

    Birders, bird-watchers, ornithologists, with scopes, just a few, are positioned on the bluffs, intent on their excursion. Not more than 160 yards offshore to the southwest, a small charter boat of approximately 38 feet in length drifts quietly with 10 people aboard. The sun glimmers as only during New England fall.

    A five-wave set blankets the late-afternoon rock reef. Surfers, not many, slide across the overhead walls of water. Simultaneously, pow, pow, pow, the sound of shotguns resounds from the small boat drifting directly off the surf break. The lightest scent of cigar smoke drifts inward. The afternoon winds are beginning to shift from offshore to onshore.

    Pow, pow, pow, pow, poof, boom. Maybe someone on the duck-shoot charter is carrying some black powder high-gauge gun. The birders are moving like squirrels along the Montauk bluff cliffs, in clear view of the gunners. The bird enthusiasts’ scopes glint as the instruments cross paths with the southwestern afternoon sun.

    Two small groups of bird-watchers move along the cliffs. The shooting boat drifts in close enough, after a volley, to give the air a hint of gunpowder. The slightest trail of white smoke bursts from their guns after each volley. One can almost imagine a silver-inlayed shotgun, family heirloom, no doubt, a family flask silvered to match.

    An intoxicating scene, in the sense of: This has taken place before, long years before, this surf session in late September. The waves break in patterns of five, every 17 to 20 minutes, generated by an offshore tropical depression. The birders watch, the surfers surf, the duck boat shoots, all drifting together like a symbiotic painting of lore.

    Passports to the Island of Montauk are currently being issued for the summer and fall of 2014. If you are not in possession of a legitimate 2014 passport by May 14 you will be required to leave the island by 8:30 p.m. or sunset. The families, as they exist on Montauk, need peace and quiet, at least at nighttime.

    Morgan McGivern is The Star’s staff photographer.