PROVINCETOWN — Sailing or motoring out of Cape Cod Bay, rounding Long Point and entering Provincetown Harbor, there is a sense of protected water. The harbor appears as a big round bowl, the rims running from the shores of Truro through the crowded town waterfront, backed by dunes, and out to the Point. Refuge.

Indeed, it was just about 400 years ago that the Mayflower made its weary way into these waters, and the Pilgrims thanked their God for this protection. And there were explorers before them who made the same discovery. Sanctuary.

And the town itself has also been seen in this same light: refuge for the outcast and beleaguered, what Melville termed “Isolatoes.” The mythology of the place refers to wayward pirates, smugglers, escaped slaves, surviving Native Americans, all mingling and coexisting. There was the appropriately named Hell Town, where all sorts of behavior was either sanctioned or overlooked. As the myth goes, the very genesis of Provincetown occurred when the good citizens of Truro petitioned the Massachusetts General Court to separate them from these rowdies. The year was 1727.

And so it has been ever since. While the early to mid-19^th century witnessed a growing and prospering middle class of hard-working Yankee and Portuguese families getting their livelihood from the sea, there was always that aura of independent lives lived on the edge. Some have said that the very physical reality of the place, the outermost extremity of a peninsula, attracts a certain kind of person — someone drawn to the very end, to the place where there is nowhere else to go. Isolatoes.

Of course, there was also the beauty — stark and wondrous dunes, ocean, and bay — and the charm of the little winding streets and lanes, so like a European fishing village. These attributes were foremost in attracting the artists and writers, the freethinkers and free-livers and free-lovers.  You all know the names, from Mary Heaton Vorse and Tennessee Williams and Harry Kemp to Norman Mailer and Mary Oliver.

There is one more theory for the independent life styles that have always been a hallmark of life in Provincetown: the open-minded Mediterranean perspective of the Portuguese (a quarter of the town by 1895) allowed for it. If you had a dollar for the room there was absolutely no consideration of what you were doing in it.

I am sure this was true to an extent, but I also have read of the police chief’s vow to “get rid of the Boys” in the 1950s and early 1960s, and I have heard firsthand accounts of older townspeople “beating up the queers” around that time.

Still, overall, Provincetown has been a refuge and sanctuary for people of all persuasions, for at least a century, and certainly in these last 50 years I can attest to a growing movement that goes beyond tolerance to absolute acceptance. I feel so proud to live in a town in which everyone can live freely, without fear of persecution.

A few years ago, when I drove for Art’s Dune Tours, I took six women from South Carolina out for a sunset trip. They had a good time and were a bit rowdy — even randy — and boisterous.  One of them said to me on the way back, “You have to understand: we can’t do anything like this back home. We can’t even walk down the street holding hands.” I do understand.

I saw a T-shirt on a woman the other day that read: “Every Town Should Be Provincetown.” I agree.

I revel in the absolute freedom that emanates from the summer crowd thronging Commercial Street. There is a very positive energy in the air, much of it gay.

But now, on the eve of Carnival, I will strike a cautionary note: while in recent years the parade itself has been relatively wholesome and in the spirit of good fun (somewhat evolved from its early years of R- and X-rated floats), one does see examples of outré behavior on the street, especially this week. Some of the outfits worn on the street amount to little more than display cases for genitalia. Some of the slogans I have seen on T-shirts are juvenile, even offensive.

I would remind our revelers that there is a thin line between flaunting and flouting. One can celebrate liberation and still adhere to good taste. With freedom comes responsibility; with sanctuary there must be balance. Hedonism can be tiresome. Exhibitionism is a solitary, even selfish, joy.

The street should be safe and appropriate for all — for children and people who are not really interested in what your particular kink is. The hallmark of our lives should be respect for all, including respect for ourselves. We all, to paraphrase Whitman, contain multitudes: we are not strictly defined by our sexuality or sexual proclivities.

Let’s all celebrate these waning days of summer, when the sun is setting noticeably earlier; let’s welcome all our visitors and join in their celebration of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; let’s respect one another.