You know how sometimes you wake up and you just feel Spring in the air? It’s not in any official forecast, still there's a very distinct longing that's suddenly front and center. Yesterday, I awoke with the primal urge to be near the Atlantic. There is nothing like it, and the draw of it was strong.
It could have been the imagined fragrance of the harbor wafting through my windows that seemed to beckon. Or it could have been the opposite - a reaction, five minutes later, to the smoke from a fire a block away, as I heard the fire trucks wailing then coming to that sudden, definitive (and if it’s on your block, bone-chilling) stop.
The last time I remember having that thrilling shore sensation, was near Belle Harbor. So it seemed a good day to visit a place Lucille and I had actually come upon by accident on our trip to Jamaica Bay. I grabbed quick picnic snacks at Fairway (chopped pineapple, a chicken salad, a pair of chop sticks), filled up a water bottle, and boarded the A train at noon, bound for Far Rockaway.
On the train, we experienced the usual stares of fascination and curiosity at Lucille’s compact chassis: peoples' expressions calculating just how it unfolds; whether it’s affordable or, in some cases perhaps, even plotting a kidnapping (Lucille’s cute factor is pretty strong and she’s more than a little flirtatious when she’s folded).
As the subway emerged to elevated level, I saw this amazing sight:
It could have been the imagined fragrance of the harbor wafting through my windows that seemed to beckon. Or it could have been the opposite - a reaction, five minutes later, to the smoke from a fire a block away, as I heard the fire trucks wailing then coming to that sudden, definitive (and if it’s on your block, bone-chilling) stop.
The last time I remember having that thrilling shore sensation, was near Belle Harbor. So it seemed a good day to visit a place Lucille and I had actually come upon by accident on our trip to Jamaica Bay. I grabbed quick picnic snacks at Fairway (chopped pineapple, a chicken salad, a pair of chop sticks), filled up a water bottle, and boarded the A train at noon, bound for Far Rockaway.
On the train, we experienced the usual stares of fascination and curiosity at Lucille’s compact chassis: peoples' expressions calculating just how it unfolds; whether it’s affordable or, in some cases perhaps, even plotting a kidnapping (Lucille’s cute factor is pretty strong and she’s more than a little flirtatious when she’s folded).
As the subway emerged to elevated level, I saw this amazing sight:
To live like this seems the height of hubris, even in the best of times. And yet, like the notion of living on a houseboat, don’t you just love the idea of it? A tree house on the water!
The question is: are these houses habitable anymore? The Rockaways got slammed by Sandy; many of its residents who lived far less precariously, still deal daily with homelessness, and anxieties I can’t even imagine. As a tourist in the midst of such suffering. I determined to be a respectful and gracious guest wherever I went.
Emerging at Mott Avemue, I took the elevator down and, not knowing if there were still a usable boardwalk, was soon directed to the beach, where I found the original still in tact:
The question is: are these houses habitable anymore? The Rockaways got slammed by Sandy; many of its residents who lived far less precariously, still deal daily with homelessness, and anxieties I can’t even imagine. As a tourist in the midst of such suffering. I determined to be a respectful and gracious guest wherever I went.
Emerging at Mott Avemue, I took the elevator down and, not knowing if there were still a usable boardwalk, was soon directed to the beach, where I found the original still in tact:
Great for walking, not so great for riding (those planks). But as a stalwart survivor of a mighty storm, it was a welcome sight. Then completely unexpectedly, I came upon this:
The location set for HBO’s series, “Boardwalk Empire." There were some techs, and a few young extras milling about in period clothing. No one seemed to mind that I took photos.
Ultimately, this stretch of original boardwalk narrowed...
Then came to an end.
I followed a side street until the next boardwalk entry, but these newer boardwalks – mostly concrete – never extended for very long before turning me out into the street again.
As I rode, I saw more and more of these:
At first, I naively thought these were really cool, modern California-like beach dwellings - until I saw the crosses on the back. Then with deep embarrassment, I realized: these are FEMA Trailers. These are what are replacing homes for the people who can even get them - nearly two years after Sandy left thousands homeless in The Rockaways.
There were many brave signs of new beginnings, like this:
But there were also empty lots. And scenes of portent like these:
A symbol of uneasiness that Sandy was perhaps not a one-time event; that by reinforcing with sand and dunes, it might be possible to stay safe from the sea’s fury, and the loudly unspoken thoughts of what could happen next time.
The further south I rode, the more sadness became a part of the ride. It wasn't just the trailers and the courageous new housing. It was somehow an accumulation of all of it, and knowing that the struggles are still not over. Then I came upon this, the saddest sight of all:
The further south I rode, the more sadness became a part of the ride. It wasn't just the trailers and the courageous new housing. It was somehow an accumulation of all of it, and knowing that the struggles are still not over. Then I came upon this, the saddest sight of all:
A memorial to the victims of flight 587 which went down in Belle Harbor two months and one day after 9/11. 260 people on board died, and 5 on the ground. Their names are engraved in the stone at the far end.
At this point, I lost the heart to journey any further into The Rockaways, but I'd come too far to turn back. Fortunately, I recognized Belle Harbor from my former trip; I knew that just a few blocks away was the Gil Hodges* Memorial Bridge, and ultimately the Brighton Beach subway station. Remembering a more joyful visit to Jamaica Bay, I decided to push on ahead and go for the B train home.
The bridge was as wondrous to ride over as ever - and I knew just how to get there!
At this point, I lost the heart to journey any further into The Rockaways, but I'd come too far to turn back. Fortunately, I recognized Belle Harbor from my former trip; I knew that just a few blocks away was the Gil Hodges* Memorial Bridge, and ultimately the Brighton Beach subway station. Remembering a more joyful visit to Jamaica Bay, I decided to push on ahead and go for the B train home.
The bridge was as wondrous to ride over as ever - and I knew just how to get there!
The Bay was crystalline clear.
And this time, Lucille and I did not shrink when other cyclists came thrumming towards us, but held our ground and pedaled through with a clearance of mere inches. I did stop for this one photo (Manhattan in the distance):
I worked my way towards Sheepshead Bay, instinctively finding paths that had been a mystery to me the first time out. I was feeling completely confident of my navigating skills – until I suddenly found myself heading towards a strange drawbridge, heading back to The Rockaways - and out to Kennedy Airport.
Huh?
I was on a steady climb in hot and humid weather, going in the wrong direction, when I realized I was lost with no idea how to get home; and my fall-back, Lucille’s unique ability to fold into a taxi, would not help me on a bike path along the Belt Parkway. There are plenty of taxis there, but they're all going 60mph. More importantly, they all have fares; they're not stopping. I hailed a cyclist on the path and between the two of us – with maps and GPS – we figured out where we thought I should be (though neither of us really knew how to get there).
Retracing my steps I found my mistake – which turned out not to be my mistake: construction for the dreaded gas pipeline, which for some insane reason the gas industry thinks should be located in New York’s most vulnerable geographical location, whose population is still in recovery from the last disaster (http://carpny.org/), had obscured the intersection where I would have crossed. Once I put that together, I was on my way home.
But the stress of that final confusion had really taken the wind out of my sails. By the time Lucille and I boarded the B Train (fielding many questions from curious passengers about her structure, function and folding bikes in general), we were both exhausted: her with a click in her right pedal, me on my last legs.
In the end I realized that, although I had been at the beach for hours, I had never once had the physical sensation of being at the shore. What was missing? What had I really been longing for?
Whatever it was, I wasn’t going to find it here. I was glad to have finally traveled to The Rockaways (and regretful I had not been there earlier to help out), because it’s a part of New York, and I’m a New Yorker; what happens in The Rockaways matters to me.
But I think to really connect with what I'm searching for, I’ll have to go to the source: I’ll have to take Lucille out to Bay Head. That’s where I first encountered the enchantment of the Atlantic shore. It’s strong out there. Once a year, it would be good to experience it.
--------------------
To see previous entries on this blog, please click on the title. Entries will be on the right.
Huh?
I was on a steady climb in hot and humid weather, going in the wrong direction, when I realized I was lost with no idea how to get home; and my fall-back, Lucille’s unique ability to fold into a taxi, would not help me on a bike path along the Belt Parkway. There are plenty of taxis there, but they're all going 60mph. More importantly, they all have fares; they're not stopping. I hailed a cyclist on the path and between the two of us – with maps and GPS – we figured out where we thought I should be (though neither of us really knew how to get there).
Retracing my steps I found my mistake – which turned out not to be my mistake: construction for the dreaded gas pipeline, which for some insane reason the gas industry thinks should be located in New York’s most vulnerable geographical location, whose population is still in recovery from the last disaster (http://carpny.org/), had obscured the intersection where I would have crossed. Once I put that together, I was on my way home.
But the stress of that final confusion had really taken the wind out of my sails. By the time Lucille and I boarded the B Train (fielding many questions from curious passengers about her structure, function and folding bikes in general), we were both exhausted: her with a click in her right pedal, me on my last legs.
In the end I realized that, although I had been at the beach for hours, I had never once had the physical sensation of being at the shore. What was missing? What had I really been longing for?
Whatever it was, I wasn’t going to find it here. I was glad to have finally traveled to The Rockaways (and regretful I had not been there earlier to help out), because it’s a part of New York, and I’m a New Yorker; what happens in The Rockaways matters to me.
But I think to really connect with what I'm searching for, I’ll have to go to the source: I’ll have to take Lucille out to Bay Head. That’s where I first encountered the enchantment of the Atlantic shore. It’s strong out there. Once a year, it would be good to experience it.
--------------------
To see previous entries on this blog, please click on the title. Entries will be on the right.
*Gil Hodges: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gil_Hodges
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