Ode to Place

On the eastern end of Long Island, one can always feel the presence of the water. Even during the winter, when the beaches lie cold and dormant and the cries of the seagulls have grown less frequent, the water lies in the air, as a calm presence behind the flurry of snowstorms, hidden beneath the ice. During the summer, the water is a surer presence still, and one can almost hear the crashing of the waves miles from the ocean, or become attuned to the gentler lapping of the Sound.

The feeling of being near water is one I never notice until it’s missed. Heading up island, the shores grow more distant, and their sound is drowned in a multitude of vehicles and mini-malls. Surrounded by pavement and stores, which stand one upon the other as uncomfortable crowded neighbors, with the Long Island Expressway to one side and the Parkway to the other, it can be hard to remember our relative proximity to the shore, and the gentle omnipresence of our beaches becomes more of an afterthought then ever.

Traveling up-Island, I find it hard to believe that I ever endured living there. I have become pleasingly acclimated to the ‘Forks’, particularly the North Fork, where I now live, and the water that surrounds them. Although the rest of the Island is surrounded by water, it is on the Forks where it becomes a real presence.The Peconic Bay lies between them, a calm, shallow body of water with legendary marine life. The larger south Fork lies between the Peconic Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. To the North is the Long Island Sound. These three bodies of water are what shapes this island, and perhaps they have carved out a place for the residents therein; not a rut but a rushing streambed.

The water is a fact of life on the forks. The ocean seems a vast thing to our little island, and it does not belong to us anymore than anyone else. There is something indelible about the Atlantic, in all its vastness. The waves have crashed upon the South Fork and Fire Island since their beginnings, and have left their marks, both physical and psychological. Every time I visit the Ocean, I am left in awe of its sheer strength and volume. Yet I find it to be a constant, arousing reminder of life. I myself prefer the Atlantic in the winter, when its crashing waves cast a chilly mist over the sand, whipping bitter cold across the deserted beaches. It is wilder, more infinite; at once recognized as a force to be reckoned with. I run across the sand barefoot, my face freezing, an intoxicating sense of freedom in my lungs. Many tourists are attracted to our ocean beaches during the heat of the summer, to leap lightheartedly into the waves. I remember watching a young woman run laughing into the water, only to emerge minutes later, coughing and crying, the object of yet another lifeguard rescue. It was a harsh reminder that underestimating the ocean is a foolish mistake. I was left stunned on the beach, beneath a seemingly benign sun, in front of a force of nature that could easily crush me with its might.

Unlike the ocean, the Bay belongs to us. It is a small, manageable body of water, a thing of Island pride and communality. Swimming in the Bay is different from navigating the ocean, even diving in the Sound. The water comes only up to knee-length near the shore, and mothers carry their young children in with them, to paddle around on the glassy surface. Land is visible across the water, seeming close; one might pick up one of the mossy pebbles lining the bottom of the beach and throw it across; surely it would not land far. The entire body of water, the beach, the sand, the playground and the people upon it, is close, contained. There is only the slightest hint of the Peconic’s older cousin, the Atlantic; it seems like a forgotten thing here, were the water is a lazy friend, not an awe-inspiring giant.

The Sound’s persona is somewhere in between these two, a familiar body of water that commands respect nonetheless. Out of the three, it is the beaches of the sound I know best. At the beginning of summer, as soon as the uncertainty of spring has faded and become a forgotten memory, my family piles into the car with towels, bathing suits, an old squeeze bottle of sun-block, and perhaps a fading beach blanket. It is hard to contain my excitement as we make our way down to the beach for the first time. I kick off my shoes immediately, dropping my accoutrements over a boulder on the beach. For a few minutes, I revel in the feeling of sand between my toes. Sand! The feeling is indescribable. For one moment liberty has become a tangible thing, and I feel as if I have found my place. I might run forever over these beaches. The water distantly recalls my times at the ocean, racing across the sand. Instead, I run down to the water, never minding as the soft, familiar sand gives way to sterner pebbles, and I wade in. Water! It is everywhere, everything, and once again, close at hand.

There it is: an undeniable part of my life and of the live’s of countless others. The seagulls circle above the waves, caught in their own life’s circuit, and the water moves along beneath them, impervious to sound and sense. It is what it is. A thing beyond my grasp, but a tangible piece nonetheless.