In the morning I step out into one of my favorite scenes and settle with a creak into my wicker rocker, the serenity embracing and complete, only broken by the occasional call of a loon or the sophomoric arguments of seagulls. The crisp air hangs heavy with bacon and coffee like the mist over the islands of Old Harbor, where a sail drifts on the horizon like a luminous cloud. There are the echoes of my neighbor preparing his traps for the following day as the stories from the baritone narrator on his radio waif up to the porch. My spell is broken only by the buoy bell announcing the approach of a lobster boat as its diesel engines thrum up the Reach, heading…