Lost in a saltwater wilderness of ocean, moors, and sand, my thoughts were interrupted only by the call of a goldfinch making its way north on the Atlantic Flyway. I rested on a patch of grass in front of a red brick lighthouse that has been keeping watch on this corner of the island for more than a century and a quarter. Below, sea-gouged cliffs plummeted some 200 feet to a white crescent beach.
Come July, the same speck of land where I stretched my legs will be overrun with tourists getting a glimpse of the famed Mohegan Bluffs. But it was early April on Block Island and I was remarkably all alone.