Home by Another Way by Robert Benson Page A

away.
    One does not often get to stand somewhere and see the edge of the whole world. But it seemed as though we did that day.
    The hills lay before us, gently rolling their way down to the slivers of beach that lined the shore. The lush green of the trees and the vines and the grasses that cover the landscape were dotted with the bright colors of the houses along the hillsides. There were the deep greens and the blues of the sea itself, dotted by the white sails and gleaming hulls of the boats out in the straits, and the dark greens and grays of the other islands far away. The little town of Princetown could be seen in the distance and the ferries tied up along thepier. There were the clusters of brightly colored fishing boats scattered across the coves and the ribbon of the road that encircles the island.
    There were dark patches in the sea where the reefs hover below the surface and the shadows of the clouds being pushed along in and out of the sun’s rays. The sun sparkled over it all as far as the eye could see and then beyond that, the light of it finally dying off into the faint white line of the horizon, marking the edge of this world that is new to us.
    “Look at our world,” proclaimed Sara, looking at the view.
    It is not our world just yet, of course. And perhaps it may never be. There have not been many moments in my life in which I ever imagined the life that I am living now, and so I am cautious about predicting what may or may not happen to me next. The best things in my life have all been a surprise to me, and I have learned just to be still and be ready.
    But these little islands have long been someone else’s world.
    As I sat on that ridge, my mind began to wonder its way through the history of the island. In my mind’s eye I could begin to see the Indians who came across those waters that lay out below us to the west, arriving here from South and Central America some two thousand years ago. I could see the sails of the fleets of the Spanish and the French and the British and the Dutch as they slipped through the straits and out of the Atlantic, seeking the shelter that the lee of these small islands could provide, seeking fresh water and fortune and power.
    The old town down in the bay and the stone-wall remains of forts and plantations and mills called to mind the tragic trade in sugar and slaves that fueled the European economies for hundreds of years. Those waters below were home to pirates and smugglers, colonizers and explorers, traders and merchants. They were witness to galleons full of gold and ships full of slaves. I thought about the stories I had read as a boy, stories of Christopher Columbus and Horatio Nelson and therest, and realized I was looking down over the waters that once made up their world.

    I have been a beach person all my life. I have stood on a lot of beaches in my time.
    When you stand on the shoreline back home, be it the Atlantic beaches of Florida where my parents used to take me when I was young, or along the Pacific where I went to school for a while, or along the Carolina shores where Sara and I celebrated our wedding, or the Gulf Coast where we took the children for vacations for years, the land always seems larger than the sea. It is not true, of course, but no matter how vast the sea looks stretched out in front of you, you know that behind you is this huge expanse of country that goes on for thousands of miles. In an odd sort of way, the sea seems small in comparison.
    But it is not so on St. Cecilia. Here, from certainspots, like the ridge where we were sitting that day, one can see what amounts to the edges of the entire world. Which, on the one hand, made me instantly remember how small a part of the world I actually am—whether I am sitting on the ridge looking down over the edges of a small island in the Caribbean or standing on the Outer Banks or sitting on the stoop of my studio back in Tennessee.
    It occurred to me that if I lived here, if St. Cecilia were