5/26/2014

I ended up in Montauk like this:  As a resident of the Great Lakes State, I like to pretend I don’t care about oceans.  Superior, Michigan, Huron, Ontario, Erire--those are bodies of water enough for me.  But I am not sure that I mean it.  There is something about The Ocean, capital t capital o.  There is something about the idea of looking out at a horizon and seeing a mass that runs uninterrupted across the entire planet, something that maybe can’t even be matched by a mass that runs uninterrupted until Milwaukee.  Whatever the something might be, lakers and oceaners can agree:  It is something that the Hudson River simply cannot provide.  So I headed east.

I took the Long Island Railroad and I misjudged which way the train would be heading.  I sat facing backwards, so instead of watching new scenery appear I watched old scenery disappear.  I successfully staved off motion sickness until I had the opportunity to switch seats and then I could pay attention to the new:  From the Koch-era graffiti of Jamaica Queens to the deadmalls and pawn shops of inner ring suburbs to the backyard tennis courts of the Hamptons.

I got off at Montauk, the last stop on the line.  I got off the train and I started walking.  The train would not take me all the way to The Ocean, so I would have to do it myself.  With the modern day compass Google Maps, I wove through a neighborhood on my way to a parkway on my way to The Ocean.  Six miles later, I was close enough to smell the salty air poking its way into the trees.

I had lived up to my end of the bargain, and The Ocean lived up to its.  If you can look at the Atlantic and avoid a broad grin, I don’t want to know you.  The immensity I sought was there.  It was 70 degrees and party cloudy and mostly windy, and it was a moment worthy of a three hour train and a six mile walk.

I circled along the beach, reaching the tip of Montauk Point, on broad rocks and fine sand, in doing so pleasing my eight year old self who loved lighthouses and my fifteen year old self who loved Brand New references.  The water’s collisions with the rocks were cyclically violent.  It would start quiet, reaching the shore almost apologetically and retreating silently.  But each new attack brought a new sense of urgency until the pretense was dropped entirely and a cannon shot created ocean spray.

I had seen what I came for.  So I walked back.  On the way, I passed another walker, one heading toward the park.  It was the most validating interaction I have ever had.  “Hi!”  “Hello!”  “How much further?”  “About a mile.”  “Right on.”  Walking is easy.  Sure, biking is easier and driving easier still, but walking is easy.  But it helps to know that someone else gets it.

I am writing this on a Long Island Railroad train headed west, west from Montauk back toward New York City.  I was not certain how I would do, travelling alone.  But here I am, writing this on a Long Island Railroad train headed west, west from Montauk back toward New York City.