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Fire Island
Sep. 4th, 2008 04:08 pmI feel as though too many entries of late have either been about loss, or my aching foot; accordingly, a record of a lovely memory of late.
Back in 1994, my friend Lynn and I wangled our way into a guest house on Fire Island for a weekend. It was a chance to escape from the day-to-day grind, and dive into the ocean, and feed Doritos to the deer (cautiously, and minimizing hand-to-deer contact; they’re notorious as hosts for ticks). Our friend Gerald was off with a cute boy he’d met for most of the weekend, so I was able to sit around the house, or walk around outside, exactly as I saw fit.
I’d always meant to go back, but never quite got around to it; Labor Day would roll around, and I’d remember the sun against the hills, and sigh; it felt like a part of my life I’d left behind a long time ago. Finally, a couple of weekends ago, I bestirred myself; I took the train out to Sayville, and rode the ferry across to Cherry Grove. It was every bit as lovely as I’d remembered, with the Belvedere looming up like a white castle among the cottages, and the Ice Palace at the top of a small hill; there was even a boat christened The Hobbit tied up to the dock, which delighted me. I walked past a plaque which named one of the cottages as W. H. Auden’s summer retreat, and all manner of amusing decorations; all around were men and women laughing, and dancing, and kissing whomsoever they chose. At one point, I took a dip in the ocean, and brought out some sea-smoothed stones to mark my passage. Finally, at the end of the day, I sat at a café overlooking the water, and watched the sun begin to set, and felt as much at peace as I have in a very, very long time.
Back in 1994, my friend Lynn and I wangled our way into a guest house on Fire Island for a weekend. It was a chance to escape from the day-to-day grind, and dive into the ocean, and feed Doritos to the deer (cautiously, and minimizing hand-to-deer contact; they’re notorious as hosts for ticks). Our friend Gerald was off with a cute boy he’d met for most of the weekend, so I was able to sit around the house, or walk around outside, exactly as I saw fit.
I’d always meant to go back, but never quite got around to it; Labor Day would roll around, and I’d remember the sun against the hills, and sigh; it felt like a part of my life I’d left behind a long time ago. Finally, a couple of weekends ago, I bestirred myself; I took the train out to Sayville, and rode the ferry across to Cherry Grove. It was every bit as lovely as I’d remembered, with the Belvedere looming up like a white castle among the cottages, and the Ice Palace at the top of a small hill; there was even a boat christened The Hobbit tied up to the dock, which delighted me. I walked past a plaque which named one of the cottages as W. H. Auden’s summer retreat, and all manner of amusing decorations; all around were men and women laughing, and dancing, and kissing whomsoever they chose. At one point, I took a dip in the ocean, and brought out some sea-smoothed stones to mark my passage. Finally, at the end of the day, I sat at a café overlooking the water, and watched the sun begin to set, and felt as much at peace as I have in a very, very long time.
