11 July 2002 - 3:59 p.m. The bay slopes from the sand shallowly. Boats lightly break the surface of the water and bob like toys. They are white--all of them. Sails are folded, engines are pulled up and rigging clacks against masts in the lemonade and ice-cream wind. A tiny shop with a half-number address sells t-shirts and sandals for $1.99. Bags of dyed shells rest in a plastic bucket with a surface that mimics weaving. Some of them have plastic eyes glued to them. A few people run with folding chairs tucked up under their arms. They set them up in rows inside the open-air theater for a show or a concert. Each one wears a black t-shirt with an image of the two masks that symbolize theater imprinted upon it. Even the gas stations have salt-water taffy. I read a menu outside a small restaurant that is a renovated Victorian house. Three or four tables inhabit each of the rooms on the first floor, and a little kid named Jimmy needs to know if they have hotdogs. I will remember this place for the last time one day. (0) Comments?