We turned right instead of left tonight on the beach and discovered a wonderland we’d only seen from high above on the cliffs that overlook the sea.

We’d often studied the famous colorful clay cliffs of Aquinnah from above, the same view that is often immortalized by painters and photographers and seen by the tourists. The cliffs are protected, historical treasures that have warning signs plastered every 10 feet telling beachgoers to keep off.

But leaning against the rickety little fences on top, staring at the cliffs that seemed a distant curiosity, and standing down on the rock-strewn beach gaping up at them are two different things.

Up there on the cliff you’re a viewer; and, though no one tells you this, you assume you are banned from ever walking on the sand beach hundreds of feet below you. On the other, because you happened to go to what’s usually a private beach, and you happened to turn away from the beaten track, you’re a participant, initiated into a world that seems to unfold bit by bit.

I call them the island’s secrets, and they’re everywhere: down almost impassable dirt roads you thought went nowhere, up driveways that seem to be encouraging you to come further without offering a single gift. Imagine when you find the 2½ miles of dirt road (which takes you almost 20 minutes to traverse) leads you through a private gate and to a beach that is bracketed by two of the islands dozens of ponds, a meadow of whipping sea grass, and across a tiny bridge that I saw two kayakers just squeeze under one day.

Just a week before, a local naturalist had shown me a place where swallows dived in swooping cascades toward local bay bushes, and meadow where monarch butterflies will gorge on the sugar from the wildflowers later in the year for their trip to Mexico. Secret places, secret island things.

The people here are unusually sensitive to the secrets, eager to share them but aware of the stewardship involved: Once I had a party and all the guests brought me presents from the island. Native flower seeds. A box of the delicious island chocolate. A plant dug from someone’s garden. Bulbs to plant next year. A loaf of zucchini bread from Morning Glory Farm the organic farm store.

Others made promises: a tour of a grandfather’s tramp art, scalloping at a secret “place or two.” And, the next day, a huge striped bass, its eyes still shiny, just taken off the line, and a bowl of delicious quahog clams, ready for shucking.

These were little pieces of the islanders’ world, little hints of the secrets that lie beyond the weather grayed shingles on the modest and not so modest homes that make up Martha’s Vineyard, the waters that surround it, and the flora and fauna that make it so unique. Secrets – the sort we should all be so lucky to have.

I told a woman here my theory about the island’s secrets: because it’s small, I said, I thought it kept the best parts hidden, so just when you get bored of being here, another one suddenly shows up, like a gold nugget in your pan. “I’ve been finding those nuggets for 30 years,” she said, “and I still don’t know everything about this island.” Wow.