Pure Shores

Pure Shores – All Saints

The insides of my eyes glow a warm orange. Absolutely nothing on my mind. From a distance, unfamiliar voices buzz and hum and drum and laugh; every once in a while a high pitch toddler’s shriek jumps up above the pleasant drone. The muffled, underground noise of feet shuffling in the sand churns inside the cellar of my head. Overpowering the background of voices is the endless breaking of wave on rock. I absently brush some lazy sand off my belly. The sound of breakers is getting closer, louder. Way louder. A deafening roar. A bellowing howl. Something is about to come crashing down on my head. I squeeze my eyes shut tight, and then I remember: this is not a Dutch beach.
I am spending a day at Rockaway Beach in Queens, on what is rapidly becoming one of the most sweltering days so far this summer. The howling comes from the numerous airplanes leaving JFK Airport – their take off is routed straight over the beach. The planes shave so low over that you can easily recognize the carriers printed on the aluminum: Emirates, KLM, Lufthansa. On their way, undoubtedly, to exotic yet friendly beaches whose bathers need not fear it’s the end of the world, every fifteen minutes or so.

New York beaches aren’t cozy. You will find no rose, no lazy lounge music, no chaises lounges – and therefore no tourists. For lack of entertainment, there are plenty of lifeguards on the beach. Every 100 feet you find a high, orange chair looking out over the breakers. Alas, without the expected Baywatch glamour – riptides off the coast can be so mean and unpredictable that, on Rockaway Beach alone, over 30 swimmers have drowned in the past 10 years. A mile or so from where I lay, a three story high shark washed to shore only a few days earlier. In a couple of weeks, millions and millions of jellyfish will torment the unsuspecting swimmer. The Atlantic coast doesn’t do cozy; it does currents and jaws and tentacles.

I open one eye and draw myself up, resting on my elbows. A British Airways plane elegantly arcs across the horizon. Its screech slowly dwindles back down to the hypnotizing crash of summer day breakers. In the water, three gold bikinis fretfully try to keep their earrings and peroxide hair dry. Five muscled Speedos anticipate the perfect wave. A dozen small gulls are bombing the waves, kamikaze style. The sky is vibrating on the horizon. Surf’s up. The world won't end for another fifteen minutes or so; the wide range of chops and white-rolled back dead eyes are unseen for now, lurking in deeper waters. I am about to get mangled and muddled by the merciless pound of the Atlantic. Rose and lazy lounge music? I don't think so. Body surf, broken skin and a wild beating heart. That’s entertainment.