For years, my magic carpet has been the thumb of my right hand. I learned early how to walk backwards on a highway or byway, arm outstretched, thumb up, eyes trained on the oncoming traffic.

It’s important to keep an eye out for potential trouble, as not everyone who stops is necessarily a benevolent soul. One time going through Hartford, Conn., a cop drove by and admonished me on the loudspeaker to vacate the highway. Night was coming on, so I took the first ride I could get. Turns out it was with a wacko with a deck of adult playing cards that he wanted me to check out.

I asked him where he was going and he replied with his destination.

“Oh damn, I’m going the other way, I can probably hop out at the next off ramp,” I told him. “Thanks for getting me this far.”

He slowed to a stop and I grabbed my gear and hopped out. I headed down the ramp, cars whizzing by, me hugging the guard rail and walking at a good clip to get away from peril.

Across from where the off ramp dumped out to the local highway was the on ramp back to the highway.

The next ride was from a big guy in a beat-up Lincoln. I hopped in.

“Hey thanks for stopping. I’m Joe.”

“Did I ask?” he sneered. “I’m going up to Springfield.” Long pause. “Don’t talk much.” Another pause. “Got to make a stop . . . blood sugar.”

“Sounds good, Springfield works for me.”

I sat back and waited to see what the next long pause would conjure. Eventually we pulled off the highway and stopped at a fast food joint.

“Now listen” he said. “I’m going in there to get something to eat. I’m leaving the keys in the ignition. You try anything, I got a chainsaw and a chain in the trunk, I’ll tie you to a tree and mess you up.”

That didn’t sound very nice. I said, “Don’t worry man, I’m cool, I’ll wait here.”

He got out and I wondered how he was going to mess me up if I took the car with the tools of torture in the trunk and left him in the dust scarfing down a burger.

But I was looking to get home, so I decided to throw caution to the wind and ride along with this interesting fellow, wondering as always when traipsing the country on my magic carpet — what next?”

Hitchhiking on the Island is a different story altogether. Many of the same rules apply, like walking while you hitch to demonstrate purpose and drive, smiling and waving at those who don’t pick you up — show some courtesy. I sing a lot on my forays, sometimes to people who pick me up. It started when I did my first solo long-distance hitch, out to the Berkshires from Amherst. I might have been 15. My favorite on that trip was Sweet Baby James by James Taylor.

As I walked the highway that runs from Stockbridge to Boston, I sang that song and felt joyful.

My first hitchhiking adventure on the Island came after I cooked for the end of the season on the Shenandoah, the first year I was here. Having a day off, I decided to go and explore. Not knowing the roads, I walked for awhile and ended up on Barnes Road. It’s interesting the connections you can make when you leave yourself to the vagaries of chance. Someone picks you up and knows news of someone you know. Or they are looking for a roofer, etc.

I made a great connection with the first person who picked me up on the Island. She was around 60 and we had a nice conversation. As it turned out over the following years occasionally I would drop in to her house for a visit. We would have tea and sing a song or two. She would give sage advice, most often posed as a question.

When she stopped and I got in her car, it went like this:

“Hi! Thanks for stopping! My name’s Joe.”

“Hi Joe, where are you headed?”

“Well I don’t really know, eventually I need to get back to the Shenandoah in Vineyard Haven.”

“Why is that?” she asked.

“I have been cooking on her for the last three weeks.”

“Now that’s a rough job — that coal stove!”

“Yeah it has been a challenge.”

“I am a sailor too,” she said. “My name’s Trudy. Trudy Taylor. My son is James . . . Have you heard of him?”

Joe Keenan is a roofer, baker and musician living in West Tisbury.