It’s gotten to that point in August where it feels like each and every New Yorker is dashing off to the Hamptons or Newport or, for the ambitious, the few, the Red Sox fans among us, the Cape, leaving only hot stretches of pavement and dripping air conditioners and me behind. After weeks of crying over the parade of beach shots popping up on my Newsfeed, Dave and I finally got our act together and took a day trip to Sandy Hook.
We gathered up two New Yorkers’ idea of provisions (two everything bagels with lox spread) and headed downtown on the 6.
It’s a fun little walk from the subway to the ferry dock, especially if you don’t get down to Wall Street much. Dave, for example, had trouble identifying the stock exchange and mistook the crowds of Asian tourists photographing it for Occupy Wall Street protestors. There’s a chance he hasn’t left the hospital, or at least read a newspaper, since November. Getting him far away from York Avenue suddenly seemed crucial, though I admit fleeing to Jersey did strike me as a bit ironic and disturbing.
I chose to ignore that feeling and board the ferry, which proved surprisingly nice and super convenient (although for $45 for a little chug down the coast, it better be.) In about a half hour we were pulling up to that slightly sunnier, slightly tackier state to the south.
We packed onto a school bus that chugged down a little coastal road. A scenic bike path weaved in between the street and the ocean. Next time, I’d definitely rent bikes…but then again, I would have missed bus conversations like this gem:
“Is this bus going to Gunnison Beach?” – guy who would in five minutes prove himself to be a major creeper
Crucial background info: Gunnison Beach is the “clothing optional” beach at Sandy Hook.
Five minutes later:
“I was told this bus was going to Gunnison Beach.”
“You have to stop at Gunnison Beach.”
“Gunnison Beach is the best beach.”
Fellow, less creepy looking patron: “Why is it so good?”
“It’s just the best,” the creeper said.
I think by “the best,” he means “has lots of tits.”
Sadly, this pair did not make an appearance, as we hopped off at the island’s South beach. It was beautiful and packed and man was I happy clothing was required.
We napped on our towels (which are super gender normative, I know, but whatever) and floated in the cool water and I felt more relaxed than I have in a long time.
It wasn’t East Hampton, exactly. But it was just fine by me.