The back seat of the Aquinnah police cruiser is cramped and hot. A black wall, just inches from the edge of the seat, grows into plexiglass, reaching the ceiling of the police car. There is barely enough room to sit, and the partition keeps all the air conditioning in the front seat. In the summer heat of a July day at noon, the back seat of the cruiser is sweltering. It’s an uncomfortable place for a perpetrator — or today, a reporter.

It is Wednesday noon and the cruiser slowly pulls out of the Aquinnah police department parking lot to begin a routine patrol around town. The patrol doesn’t take more than an hour on a quiet, windless day.

Sgt. Paul Manning steers the cruiser with the dexterity and ease of a seasoned officer — he has driven these roads for much of his life and for the past 11 years as both officer and town resident. The patrol is a neighborhood tour of sorts, checking in to see that everything is all right. Call it community policing in real time.

“In Aquinnah, we tend to try to help people more than hurt them,” Sergeant Manning says. “Something like an overdue inspection can be $100, and in the wintertime, we have a lot of people who aren’t going to be working until the summertime, so we look at things a little differently . . . I don’t want to use the term ‘babysit,’ but when you know your residents and what people are up to, that’s sort of what it’s like.”

Law enforcement in Aquinnah follows an unwritten small-town code of ethics. A verbal warning carries more weight than it would in a larger town — if the officers see a car with an overdue inspection sticker, they’re likely to see that same car a few days later. The department can keep tabs on the community, making sure everyone is following the law without necessarily pursuing court action.

“If you’re in a larger community, you deal with people a little differently. You can give a verbal warning to someone, but you may never see that person again. You’re more apt to cite that person, so your policies change,” Sergeant Manning says.

As Mr. Manning drives the cruiser through the Wampanoag Tribe of Gay Head (Aquinnah) tribal lands and housing project, residents wave to him from their doorsteps and yards. “It makes the residents feel good that you’re watching out for them,” he says.

The cruiser stops for awhile at the Aquinnah Circle, the road that surrounds the Gay Head Light and shops that line the walk to the view of the Cliffs. Soon we begin a slow crawl down the other side of the hill.

Sergeant Manning turns around, craning his neck to peer into the back of the cruiser to address his unaccustomed passenger. “Do you want to go down to West Basin?” he asks. “I have a friend there who needs me to check out his VIN [Vehicle Inspection Number] sticker.”

We head down Lobsterville Road, and soon the Sound comes into view, the water flickering like flashbulbs and the coastline stretching out ahead, the Elizabeth Islands and Woods Hole in the distance. “My favorite place to drive on patrol is down here at night,” Sergeant Manning confesses. “On a clear night, when you’re driving along this road, you can see the city lights of New Bedford and the mainland, and I’ve always been intrigued by that for some reason.”

While some police officers may tire of driving around the same three roads day after day, in Aquinnah the breathtaking views could prompt anyone to willingly work overtime for no time and a half — technicolor-green woodlands, open moors, dunes that seem to ripple in the winds that gust across the sea.

The cruiser pulls into the West Basin parking lot. Sergeant Manning grabs his sunglasses as he clambers out of the car. He traipses down the dock, greeting his friend, Adam Gebb, whose sailboat drifts back and forth on the end of a thin line.

The VIN sticker isn’t readily visible, and Sergeant Manning lies down on the dock, trying to read the sticker upside down, the top of his head practically skimming the water. After copying down the number and promising to write up a document attesting to Mr. Gebb’s up-to-date inspection, Sergeant Manning walks back up to the car. “I’m too old to be doing this,” he jokes.

But he admits that small feats of acrobatics are worth it if it means preserving the equilibrium of the small community. “It’s good when you know your town and residents — it better prepares you for how to adapt to different situations,” he says.

And many situations do occur that require flexibility in style and management. “One of the interesting things I find is how many people are trespassing. And a lot of them are bringing young kids along, and I always ask them, what kind of message do you think you’re sending to those kids?” he says.

Aquinnah attracts more than its share of trespassers; many no doubt think in a place so wild and remote no one would notice a trespasser, much less report one to the police. Fortunately, the department is always on the watch, apprehending or warning those who think they can traipse about on private property.

The patrol nears an end; it has been an uneventful day. Sergeant Manning offers to try to pull someone over for speeding, perhaps add a little drama to the reporter’s story. He sets up between the police and fire stations. Cars whizz by, and the speed monitor on the radar climbs. But when they near the police station, the speed slowly drops to around 35 miles per hour.

“At the beginning, you might be able to catch people for speeding, but after awhile people will be going slowly, and then you’ll know that they’re warning each other with their headlights,” the sergeant says.

They’re onto us.