It is becoming increasingly difficult to be alone. I mean outdoors. As a boy I used to sit in a meadow, totally away from the world, and listen to an inquisitive chirp, a long faint buzz, or a sharp caw from way up in the sky. I was a lone boy growing up on a farm. Perhaps I was lonely but I didn't know it. It was a very comfortable way of life. Where does that exist today? I know where, let me show you.

At dawn I launch my rowing skiff from the sandy beach at the end of the street, right here in Oyster Bay. The world is asleep. There is no breeze, the water is flat, and, just a few inches under the surface, a pair of horseshoe crabs scoots slowly away from my bare feet. The boat floats free of its cradle and rocks slightly as I stand in the ankle deep water. Grip both sides and step in, settle down and relax on the sliding seat. The sides of the boat are slightly wider than my hips, a very comfortable snug embrace - but it is 16 feet long, lots of buoyancy, therefore we float in a few inches of water. Push away from the shore. First a pull on one oar to point us out into the harbor.

The nine foot oars are suspended from outriggers which support them three feet away from the boat. This provides comfortable leverage to propel the boat. The seat rolls fore and aft on tiny wheels. Your feet are strapped tightly to the footrests so when you raise your knees, you roll your butt up close to your heels. Now reach your hands, and the oar handles, out over your feet, push the blades of the oars up near the bow behind your back; dip the blades into the still water, and stretch those legs until the knees are flat on the bottom of the boat. Those mighty leg muscles do most of the work but continue the stroke with your back, then finally with your arms to finish it off. The boat surges ahead. Raise the oars out of the water, and listen to the faint gurgle of the bow wave which you've generated.

As the oar blades come out of the water they drip a fine stream back into the harbor; then, as you glide silently on, the drips diminish and become individually distinct drops. Each forms its own expanding ring on the mirror surface. Look back; there is a series of circles, the new ones smaller, then growing as you leave them behind. The wave from the bow is alongside but further away from you, and you are making a stern wave behind, inside the line of drip circles. Rest. The long oars require few strokes per mile. Watch how far you glide between strokes - at least 20 feet - 30 if you wait, then - time for another stroke.

I don't go far from the shore. All the interesting things are right on the littoral line. Point the bow East, sheer off a bit to clear around the docks and piers which line the shore. On the tops of the pilings the cormorants sit and watch. Later, when the sun is higher, they will sit with wings stretched wide, warming up with the day. A gray heron wades silently in search of breakfast. You delay your next stroke and pass without disturbing him. Then, pull up the butt, stretch, reach and dip for another stroke. There's no place to which to hurry, you're already there - this is what it's all about. Listen - a dog barks twice, somewhere. The train sounds its bell continuously and whistles twice for the crossings as it leaves the station; the resonant tones echo back from Centre Island. Much later the clock strikes in Nobmans tower. Then silence. With a plop something jumps from the water 20 feet away, falls back making another, foreign, set of circles.

If you row slowly, and pause from time to time to absorb the smell of peace, you will arrive in the cove in less than half an hour. Nautical charts call this place "the cove," it borders the Village of Oyster Bay Cove but it is a place unto itself. A few boat owners moor there and I row there; it is otherwise unknown.

When first entering the cove I like to stay near the western shore. There, a small covelet covers an acre or two at high tide. The entrance is narrow and at low tide you may have to push your way through an inch of watery mud to enter. This spring, at the very tip of this tiny cove, I saw the nest of a swan. Remember that I'm seated at about water level. My head is, therefore, perhaps three feet above the surface. This swan was sitting on a huge nest, six feet in diameter and several feet above the surface. This swan was sitting on a huge nest, six feet in diameter and several feet above my head. She was a large bird, with a wingspread probably larger than mine, and I wanted very much not to disturb her - or even give the appearance of a disturbance. I froze. The boat drifted to a stop, then, with the help of a gentle breeze began to retreat. I held my breath and allowed the distance between us to grow.

Further around on the south shore of the cove there is an inlet. At low tide it is just a few inches deep, rather twisted and shallow, difficult to navigate; at high tide the water is seven feet deep and provides an excellent hiding place. At the height of summer the rushes grow high around you and it is possible to push your way into your own private world, the brown stalks high above your head. The boat sits quietly and you listen to nature around you. Here is a good place to have lunch. At the head of navigation (if we can call it that) there is a dam. At low tide it towers above my head but, at high ride the top of the dam is a few inches below the surface. I can row right over the dam and into a tide pool which extends to Cove Road - but hurry out, if the tide drops we'll be here for 12 hours.

After a quiet, peaceful half hour in this tranquil inlet I row slowly back out into the cove. If the tide is rising you can push the bow up on a sand bar and sit. You are imperceptibly raised until you float free. Then do it again; there's nothing else to do. Remember there's no pressure to get on to something else. There's no place else you have to be - relax - then drift - any passing breeze will move you, maybe toward the shore - maybe away. Let nature take over.

A sudden fright of loud noises behind you - your mind struggles to identify it - applause? Something slapping the water surface rhythmically; you crane your neck around to see. It's a swan clawing his way into the air; the tips of his long white wings hit the water on each beat - and- his feet are running. His huge webbed feet smack the water as he runs along the surface trying to get airborne. Eventually, after many yards of effort, he rises. But there's yet another noise. It thrills me every time I hear it; whoosh - whoosh - whoosh - his wings beating the air. As his speed increases the wingtips add their whis - whis - whistle.

Hear it? The clock in Nobman's tower again. We might as well start for home - or maybe further west to Commander - or the Marina - we'll see.

I built this skiff a few years ago. With a young athlete at the oars it will go fast - but that's not its purpose now. It can take you where no one else can go. Among the birds, and the ripples of nature.

Listen. That's the cannon at Seawanhaka, attentuated by the two miles across the harbor. The sharp report signals that it's 8 a.m. and the world is coming alive. The echo bounces back from Sagamore Hill. We creep slowly back across the still water as the sun climbs higher and the work starts to warm us. A mile away the oyster men are hard at work. Their boats weave slowly back and forth like plowing tractors. Very informal boats, they stop and drift for coffee breaks and lunch; but at the end of the day the orange net bags of oysters are piled high on the deck as they come in.

Here's our home beach again. The tide is going out so we can run the bow on the sand and sit. The tide slowly drops around us as we contemplate this wonderful harbor. In 20 minutes the tide has receded and we can step out onto the damp sand. What a pleasant start to the day.