Distant Shores

You call this a beach?

I have no idea where "Dr. Beach" received his degree, but I really must call his credentials into question. There is no excuse, after all, for shoddy research.

The self-proclaimed expert (is there any other kind?) has taken it upon himself to compile an annual list of the ten best beaches in America. Clearly, the guy has not done his homework. I have not yet had the opportunity to scan the lists from years past, but I am guessing Coney Island has never made the cut. Dr. Beach, my Aunt Fanny. Somebody graduated at the bottom of his class.

Though I grew up on Ocean Parkway, one of the main thoroughfares leading into Coney Island, I must admit I did not spend much time there. We weren't beach people. Maybe it's because we lived on Avenue H, a good distance from the end of the alphabet which led into Surf Avenue which led to the beach, much closer to the bridges and tunnels that lead into Manhattan, my mother's idea of Mecca. Don't get me wrong; I love the big city. But the mystique of the broad stretch of shoreline to the south always captured my imagination, and whenever I had the chance, I would ride my bike down there, just for a glimpse of that other world.

Coney Island is one of those places I always picture in black and white, like images of Soviet era Moscow or Europe during World War II. Odd, since Coney Island is probably one of the most colorful places on earth. It is a melting pot, jam packed with immigrants, just spitting distance from Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. A logical place for people to stop and lay down new roots after their long journeys. The famed Boardwalk looks the same now as it did when I was a child, and, based upon all those black and white photos, the same as it did in its earliest years. It is gritty, utilitarian, crowded, even after beach season has ended. It is as uneven as the population, as weathered as the overly tanned faces of its die hard sun worshipers.

It is the home of the famed "Cyclone" roller coaster, the more modern yet nostalgically named minor league baseball team, the Brooklyn Cyclones, and, perhaps, most significantly, the original Nathan's Hot Dog Stand. The place where Nathan's is still just a stand, as it was back when people outside of the New York area had no idea what Nathan's was. When the ambrosia of a hot dog charred on the outside and accompanied by crispy, greasy, salty french fries in a paper bag was a distinctly local phenomenon.

In my adult life, year after year, I have jetted off to beautiful sandy beaches where the sun shines every day and well heeled folks sit under thatched palapas drinking umbrella drinks and eating guacamole and seafood salads that cost more than a year's worth of subway rides to Coney Island. If you are fortunate enough to grow up on Ocean Parkway in Brooklyn, you know what real luxury is, the privilege of biking to a beach, a beach worth far more than the price of admission (which is free), a place where, on a hot summer day, mismatched towels lay corner to corner forming a mosaic as varied as the folks lying upon them. A place where high fashion, surgically toned bodies, and miracle suits don't matter much; how could they, when one of the greatest pleasures of life -- strolling on the jagged boardwalk shoveling in a Nathan's hot dog and fries -- beckons even the most steadfast health nut.

My favorite time to visit Coney Island has always been early fall, preferably on an overcast day, to watch the greenish gray waves churning against the boardwalk's support beams. To watch the lone fisherman, or the lone beach lover trying to catch one more moment of the waning magic. To grab a hot dog and fries when the lines are short, before pedaling back north, toward the magic of the big city just around the corner.