Switching hands of the restaurant had caused local discord. Around town, strangers peppered me with questions about the future of the restaurant that I never seemed to answer in a satisfying way. The island's Facebook groups were exploding with commenters fearful that outsiders were ruining something good, as dissident voices defended us with pleading emojis.
Insomnia and howling winds yawned unsettlingly into beautiful sunrise. I had come to the conclusion that the spirits of the island were angry with me. Everything felt big, dark, and personal.
Wondering at the immensity of my excitement, I realized there was more: I was free to go where I pleased. Disembarking the ferry on San Juan, I said the names of the familiar landmarks aloud in the Cruiser as I made my way to the house: American Camp, English Camp, Bell Point.
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