There's only one road that leads to the town, and it winds its way for almost 20 miles from the highway - through tidal wetlands and marshes, past small islands of lowland loblolly pines, and alongside the Bay.

If you should stop along the road to photograph, say, the sunset over the water, the insects will be so thick and so nasty that you'll soon be back in the car. And then finally you reach the town - an abandoned house alerts you to its presence - and you hang a left and soon you're at the wharf.

It's a workingman's wharf - no pleasure boats in sight - and there's not a single person to be seen. If this ain't the end of the world, your companion says, then it's about a block-and-a-half away from it.

A breeze has the boats rocking at their moorings, and you realize quickly that it also keeps the insects away. Off comes the permethrin-and-sweat-infused long-sleeved shirt, the bandanna around the neck, and the hat. (Is it even possible to take photographs without a hat?)

And you are left, on a sweet summer night, to explore light, and shadow, and water, and darkness.