It's warm for late November, a mild milky 50s, and the bay is thick with a lazy blue-grey mist. The foghorn is going off, steady and unobtrusive, so after a while you don't hear it any more. There's a breeze, stronger than you'd expect, and more west than south. Three black ducks float just offshore. Two more fly past, toward Mackworth Island. The highway noise hums along behind you, and the tide is in almost all the way, with little waves making small hushy lapping noises along the rocks and the grass. You can pick your way around the point, a dog running along and snuffling in the damp oak leaves ahead of you, and as you step over rocks and look for a driftwood stick to throw, you might feel very much at home.