There's something about the edge of the continent that draws aircraft. We get all types, parasailers with engines strapped to their backs who putt-putt-putt over the Cove, the Goodyear blimp, which wafted through one foggy afternoon, and an endless stream of joyriders, cruising low over the row of beach houses, because they can, because the view must be magnificent, because chances are, someone famous is sunbathing naked by the pool.