“What can you tell me about where we’re going?” I almost had to shout.

“Population of about seven hundred. Until about twenty years ago they generated their own electricity, got one small airstrip made of dredge material. Damn.” The boat slammed down hard in a trough. “Almost broached that one. That’ll turn you over in a flash.”

His face was intense as he rode the bay like a bronco, his crewmen unfazed but alert as they held on to whatever they could.

“Economy’s based on blue crabs, soft-shell crabs, ship ’em all over the country,” Martinez went on. “In fact, rich folks fly private planes in all the time just to buy crabs.”

“Or that’s what they say they’re buying,” someone remarked.

“We do have a problem with drunkenness, bootlegging, drugs,” Martinez went on. “We board their boats when we’re checking for life jackets, doing drug interdictions, and they call it being overhauled.” He smiled at me.

“Yeah, and we’re the guards,” a guardsman quipped. “Look out, here come the guards.”

“They use language any way they want,” Martinez said, rolling over another wave. “You may have a problem understanding them.”

“When does crab season end?” I asked, and I was more concerned about what was being exported than I was about the way Tangiermen talked.

“This time of year they’re dredging, dragging the bottom for crabs. They’ll do that all winter, working fourteen, fifteen hours a day, sometimes gone a week at a time.”

Starboard, in the distance, a dark hulk protruded from the water like a whale. A crewman caught me looking.

“World War Two Liberty ship that ran aground,” he said. “Navy uses it for target practice.”

At last, we were slowing as we approached the western shore, where a bulkhead had been built of rocks, shattered boats, rusting refrigerators, cars and other junk, to stop the island from eroding more. Land was almost level with the bay, only feet above sea level at its highest ground. Homes, a church steeple and a blue water tower were proud on the horizon on this tiny, barren island where people endured the worst weather with the least beneath their feet.

We chugged slowly past marshes and tidal flats. Old gap-toothed piers were piled high with crab pots made of chicken wire and strung with colored floats, and battle-scarred wooden boats with round and boxy sterns were moored but not idle. Martinez whelped his horn, and the sound ripped the air as we came through. Tangiermen with bibs turned expressionless, raw faces on us, the way people do when they have private opinions that aren’t always friendly. They moved about in their crab shanties and worked on their nets as we docked near fuel pumps.

“Like most everybody else here, the chief’s name is Crockett,” Martinez said as his crew tied us down. “Davy Crockett. Don’t laugh.” His eyes searched the pier and a snack bar that didn’t look open this time of year. “Come on.”

I followed him out of the boat, and wind blowing off the water felt as cold as January. We hadn’t gone far when a small pickup truck quickly rounded a corner, tires loud on gravel. It stopped, and a tense young man got out. His uniform was blue jeans, a dark winter jacket and a cap that said Tangier Police, and his eyes darted back and forth between Martinez and me. He stared at what I was carrying.