When I first washed ashore on this sandy relic of the ice age out in the middle of the ocean, I was introduced to an attractive young woman dressed in what was described to me as “full Carhartt.” From head to toes, she was dressed in Carhartt work clothing. Well, not to her toes, those were Boggs. But her hat and her coveralls were the uniform of carpenters, laborers, electricians and plumbers on Martha’s Vineyard, and those who wish they had the tradesmen’s skills. Underneath those coveralls, I would be willing to bet, every other piece of clothing had that little square leather patch with the Carhartt logo sewn in. Except her skivvies. Though I wouldn’t bet against that, either.

I have occasion to ride the Steamship Authority ferries twice a week these days, and not for a good reason. The boat ride gives me plenty of time to contemplate some bigger questions. Passing another one of those “O” birthdays (the letter “O,” as in “Oh no,” not the number zero) gives me plenty of other reasons.

I marvel at the diversity of life among my fellow travelers, who exhibit a range of emotions. Happy, sad, bored, energetic, tired, they are all traveling to America for something the rest of us know little about. I figure I should cut some slack in my thoughts to the next person who is short with me, or cuts in line. I should be extra grateful for someone who nods and smiles, or offers a “good morning.” I know some of those people must have done that for me in both cases. Everyone is fighting some kind of battle, or celebrating some kind of triumph.

The line to get off the boat seems to enlarge everyone’s sleeve, where they wear their emotions. Impatience, eagerness, apprehension and joy are all a little bit more discernible.

A group of Island kids on their way to Falmouth Academy, a commute they make every school day of the year on the 7 a.m. ferry, are quizzing each other on noble gases, and what element bonds with what other elements in their various states of matter. That concept was barely discovered when I was in high school. Imagine that. Sixteen-year-old kids who know the properties of argon and xenon, elements I forgot even existed from the time, many “O” birthdays ago, when I sat in chemistry class, more bewildered than not.

Mrs. Roosa tried her best, and my best friend who sat next to me in the same class, went on to be a chemical engineer. But most of it was lost on me. I do remember the concept of entropy she taught me in another science class. The law of entropy means the disorder of an isolated system always increases. In other words, the universe is constantly falling apart. That always appealed to me more than molecular equations.

If I was asked on a quiz today what a noble gas is, I would get the answer wrong. It wasn’t that Mrs. Roosa taught me the wrong thing, it’s just that despite the law of entropy, the knowledge of the world has increased. People have discovered new things. Under certain circumstances, noble gases can bond with other elements. These Falmouth Academy kids would get the answer right.

Traipsing down the long ramp off the boat is always a dicey proposition. If there’s someone you don’t especially want to see, you have to pass them with every hairpin turn on the ramp. On the flip side, you have a better chance to discover someone you do want to see. The other day on the ramp I spotted Erik Peckar, general manager of the Vineyard Power cooperative. He works as a bartender and waiter at night, but in the daytime, he travels to America to do stuff like testify at the statehouse on alternative energy. He studied at Penn State University. I bet he knows a lot of chemistry. Erik nodded and smiled, and later on the shuttle bus up to the Palmer lot, he shook my hand and wished me well. He knows where I’m going.

At the bottom of the ramp, a long line of tradesmen waits to board the next boat over to the Vineyard. Many of them are wearing Carhartt. The newshound in me sees a story about the Island economy and its housing crisis. These people make an extraordinary effort just to get to work every day, to build stuff that those of us that don’t wear Carhartt need.

I was traveling to my daughter’s house just after Thanksgiving to watch the Ohio State-Michigan game with her and a bunch of other Michigan alums. It’s not so much a sporting contest as an annual cultural, political and athletic war. These people are serious about football. Don’t ask me how the game ended.

I got on the boat early that morning, because I wanted to stop and find a Michigan sweatshirt so I wouldn’t be the only one at the party without a block M on my clothing. In case you haven’t left Martha’s Vineyard lately, I should tell you they have a lot of malls in America. I stopped at many of them on the North Shore (not Aquinnah, Chilmark, and Tisbury but Saugus, Danvers, and Peabody, ) but couldn’t find any Michigan gear.

Imagine my surprise when I stopped at Market Place in Lynnfield and saw a Carhartt store. Near Whole Foods, Pottery Barn and dozens of other stores in the chic retail mall, Carhartt has gone upscale. In a weird way it made me feel a bit uncomfortable.

On the Island, a lot of people once bought their Carhartt at the old dry cleaning store. Always wondered how that happened. I don’t think too many people dry clean their work clothes. Here at Market Place, in a store designed by an experienced retail consultant I’m sure, I discovered you can buy Carhartt Christmas stockings made of the trademark tough brown fabric.

They didn’t have any Michigan gear, but they had a large, heavy sweatshirt with a big front pocket, like the one on Patriots quarterback Tom Brady’s uniform for warming his hands. It was on sale.

Later I got my first post-surgery treatment at the doctor’s office, and they sent me home with a device which pumps more medicine into me for the next 46 hours. It came with a case for fashioning a fanny pack or an over-the-shoulder sling to carry the pump around. The case was completely useless. Let’s hope the pump is not.

I suffered through the next day trying to find a way to comfortably carry the pump around. Three times, I walked off and forgot all about it, until the line jerked me back like the hook they used to have on Vaudeville stages for stopping bad performers.

The second day, I put on my new Carhartt sweatshirt.

The pump fit perfectly in that big front pocket.