That bleak morning just before Christmas, Provincetown was set back on its haunches by a roaring winter wind and a surging southeast 11-foot-plus tide. The beach and abutting properties glistened with sea foam. There was flooding. Sand blurred the air and froze tight to what was left of decks, and to buildings, sidewalks, and streets. Eel grass festooned many surfaces and hung in trees on lichen-laden branches, like tinsel. A cold metallic brilliance braced the air, in an atmosphere of seaweed and shellfish, salt and mud. Crying gulls sailed overhead, eventually landing to prospect the fresh-tossed sand for what the harbor had spewed up.

People were on the beach, too, mostly silent, eyeing the receding waters with a new perspective, something between respect for and fear of nature’s pitiless violence. They surveyed the damage in hushed tones and reverent postures. Along the beach and up over the shattered bulkheads were flotsam and jetsam, ripped-off shingles, shards of boards and beams, railings, and a great many sets of stairs — the products of the storm. Some enterprising types were busy scavenging. I was there, stunned like everyone else, wanting to bear witness to the fury, to the destroyed decks and damaged homes and businesses — to simply be there.

But as I looked around at all the devastation, my old beachcombing habit exerted itself. My gaze turned down as usual. I spied a tiny bit of purple, about the size of my thumbnail. At first I thought it was a bit of a quahog shell, but when I picked it up I discovered that it was a bit of pottery, or crockery, or dishware. Amid all the chaos, I was immediately fixated on this bright little thing. I have seen many larger and brighter pieces over the years, but for some reason this one intrigued me.

I reflected on its history. What larger entity was it part of — a platter, a plate, a bowl, a cup? Who made it and where? Who used it and how long ago — 100 years, 200? Did a proud woman once serve a Sunday dinner to her family on its larger self? Did a young child take her first spoonful of oatmeal from the bowl it decorated? Did an old man sip his afternoon tea over this very bit of a rim of a cup? Was it lovingly washed for decades before chipping away or breaking off? Or perhaps this piece in my hand was part of a cup full of gin tossed from Lewis Wharf in 1916 by a besotted Eugene O’Neill after the premiere of his first play, Bound East for Cardiff.

The purple was dulled by myriad hairline fractures and edged in green and a bit of blue, with a delicate crenellated border. It looked old, and as it dried it became duller still and looked even older. How long had it been buried in the sand? In the past, the beach had been considered a proper disposal place, depending on the tide’s flushing action, long before there was a town dump. All sorts of rubbish ended up there: pottery, crockery, ceramics, dishware, clay pipes, medicine bottles. The beautiful book Lost and Found: Time, Tide, and Treasures by Amy Heller and Gail Browne features many of these things.

The harbor beach is a hybrid habitat, neither land nor sea but both. It exists on the margin of our town; woodlands and dunes and marshes represent the other border, but the town faces the bay and that is its focus. People have walked this sand for centuries. The Cape has a lived-in aspect, wild and natural but also historic, bearing the marks of those who have come before us.

These artifacts that we find give us only the smallest clues as to what their lives were like. Did they survive wars, smallpox or tuberculosis, the Depression, the waxing and waning of the fishing industry? Did they lose loved ones at sea? What were their hopes and dreams? Could they even imagine the way we live today? Did they experience a storm or two like this one?

Did they love this place as much as we do?

One day a few years ago, I sat in the office of Provincetown’s director of public works. I saw on the wall what can only be termed a flow chart: it depicted the number of flushes per day in the municipal sewer system over the course of the year.

There was a to-be-expected steady rise as the season progressed, but I recall that there were three plateaus: the first, near the end of June, corresponded to the Portuguese Festival; the second, much higher plateau was on the Fourth of July; and the third and highest plateau was during Carnival week.

Explanations for these plateaus go beyond the events being celebrated, each with its own parade, but there can be no argument that Carnival has been and continues to be the biggest draw of visitors to Provincetown all year.

Let’s look at these celebrations. Sad to say, a very small percentage of people really think about our nation’s birthday on the Fourth of July. Most are in it for the fireworks, the barbecue, and the beer. There is a core of devoted participants at the Portuguese Festival who know what they are celebrating, but many more are attracted by the bright flags, the music, and the food, and are only dimly aware of what it is all about.

What about Carnival? What is it all about? Someone told me today that it is really just a celebration of the summer season coming to an end, but that is clearly not the whole story. Somebody else told me it was about “getting your freak on, being crazy and silly, living out your fantasies, with no fear of judgment.” Getting there. According to the Provincetown Business Guild’s director, it has always been about “queer culture, rich art, and diversity.” That’s getting closer.

It is about Gay Pride and the town that hosts and supports it.

The recent parade was an extravaganza, full of frantic fun and over-the-top decorations and costumes. A good time was had by all. Well, almost all. Some voices on social media and elsewhere have been less than enthusiastic, a few bordering on negative, about Carnival. One comment I heard is that the town is not set up to host 100,000 revelers. A good point, although we seem to have survived it. Another more serious objection is that the festivities are not meant for all — that they are for the most part exclusive to the gay community and celebrate a lifestyle that is not shared by all.

I am willing to take these objections seriously, although I saw many of my friends who I am pretty sure are straight on floats and in costume having a great time with many of my friends who I am fairly certain are gay. Still, there is no denying the gay aspect of dozens of men in their underwear or wearing floral gowns or feathers. But not every party has to be your party.

The takeaway, I think, should be that this exuberance we witness must be seen in the context of society at large outside this town. Although progress has been made in some parts of the world, homophobia is the overwhelming global norm. We are fortunate to live where freedom of expression and lifestyle is celebrated, where a man can hold another man’s hand on the street, as one Bulgarian put it in Agata Storer’s Aug. 18 article, unlike in his country. We have moved beyond tolerance to acceptance. We are witnessing the exuberance of emancipation.

The world can be an ugly and dangerous place. Dancing in the street is always a good thing.