There is a kind of chanting, simmering, persuasive music these August nights which reminds one that although the pinkletinks have to work alone, the crickets, locusts et al, have a symphony orchestra of many virtuosos.

During the great age of yachting, in the early part of the 20th century, the premier ocean race, where boats and their crews were tested on a stage that was covered on front pages of newspapers all over the country, was the Newport to Bermuda Race.

When we were kids my parents got an aluminum skiff and let my brothers and me break up our old wooden rowboat, then burn the pieces night after night on the beach.

In the days before dieting and nightly cocktail parties, when Island life was not yet blighted by the confusion and congestion of too many automobiles, ice cream parlors were the popular gathering places — the Vineyard’s equivalent of the sidewalk cafe.

It’s a love affair that began 45 years ago on a hot, sweaty bike ride. It was also a test, although I only learned that afterwards.

As I stand in this long line at the Oak Bluffs Post Office, for a second time within an hour of already having been here, I can’t help but wonder about the dysfunction of this place.