Montauk, like the rest of the east end of the island, has a history rooted in land grabs and unfair land deals with natives (here, the Montauk), speculative dreams of marine or tourist wealth, use by the military, fish stories and fish histories. Much of the land east of Montauk Harbor is preserved now. There are some great stories about the radar at Camp Hero and alterations in the space-time continuum (“Under the Radar, a Montauk Park”). We’re here today, though, to take a turn in ordination, to go from heading east to heading west.

Our put-in at Gosman’s beach is just west of the jetties for Montauk Harbor, blasted, dredged and opened by Carl Fisher in 1927. He went bankrupt two years later, and during WWII the US Navy owned and operated most of the area as a base. Later, Montauk Harbor became one of the leading fishing ports on the east coast and housed Frank Mundus, the role model (by most accounts, except for Benchley) for Quint of Jaws fame. Gosman’s fish market, restaurant, clam bar, etc. now operates much of the western point of the harbor.

*A note on sea kayaks, foot pedals and rudders. Maria and I knew we’d be going through some rougher water today. Her Seaward Navigator is a great kayak; it is light (kevlar), but it is intended for a larger person–certainly over 200 lbs. Otherwise it floats just a bit high in the water with someone of Maria’s weight at 120 lbs. The foot petals are aluminum locks and braces with a nylon strap to adjust the tension for rudder control. My Perception Sea Lion is a heavy plastic boat and sits lower in the water. It is very stable and great for someone as light as Maria. We had actually tried to make the rounding of Montauk Lighthouse a day before, but the seas were a bit high and Maria couldn’t get her foot pedals to work right in the Navigator. I told her the gods were against us that day and to acknowledge their warning. When we came back the next day, we switched kayaks–I’m a blocky 205 lbs., so we adopted each other’s kayak according to the ocean’s desires.

 (Maria sitting a little better in the Perception)

On the beach just east of Montauk Harbor is usually a row of RVs and a few tents at the Montauk County Park. 

A few waved from their lawn chairs and one grandma tipped a can of IPA our way as we moved east. A single Cessna ambled its way to the airport just behind the dunes. Shagwong Point was the first destination. The name “appears to mean ‘on the side of a hill,’ from the Delaware Indian ‘schajawonge'” (http://easthamptonstar.com/Archive/2/Whats-Name-Shagwong). From there, a few glacial erratics dot the shore line, but the birding improved dramatically. Certainly the laughing and black-backed gulls, cormorants, terns and ospreys remained, but we saw an eider and later even a common loon. Waterfowl not as common to the area this time of year.

A slight fog came in as we crossed the shallow bay to the lighthouse.

 

The swells picked up a little and the wind too, but nothing that created much difficulty. Maria had warned me many times about the currents and tide at Montauk. No fishermen or boats dotted the sea around the lighthouse, so we didn’t have to deal with anything but the elements. The swells did get bigger to 2 ft. or so as we rounded the bend and turned west. Too, the currents seemed to collide in a way that left us needing to paddle harder and not be pushed toward to riprap onshore. Whereas, a few days before I pondered the placid paddling trip, I now paddled hard and kept an eye on Maria, who always keeps a close eye on my kayaking shenanigans. There was a hundred-yard section of swirling water–like water in a pot just before it comes to a boil. I did shout out once to paddle hard to Maria, who simultaneously shouted out to me paddle hard. Ah, semiotics. However, we made it around without much drama and pulled ashore just to the west of the lighthouse to laugh a bit and reflect on the currents.

The beach there has a lot of glacial till and displaced riprap. Someone of an artistic nature had stacked a few rocks for some aesthetic reason.

 (photos by Maria Brown)

I am not much for this kind of art if you want to call it that. I’d take the stacking of water and gravity over ours any day.

 (photo by Maria Brown)

I told Maria I’d take the littered coke can as art more than stacked rocks. I can recycle cans but even unstacking rocks seems an unnatural act.

We only had another 3-4 miles to our takeout at Kirk Park Beach. Now, however, we had open ocean on one side and surf on the other. The goal was to stay around 40-50 yards off shore, close enough to see folks on the beach and not so close we would have to deal with cresting waves. For the first time on the trip, we were glad to have 17-ft kayaks with rudders and spray skirts. Riding the small swells up and down were no problem. The wind began to blow form east to west and a strong current began to pull us along. Maria reminded me some of the isolated mansions dotting the ridge were owned by celebrity sorts. Ah, the shores are lined with them I expect. 

Ditch Plains Beach was not that far, and we paddled past the surfers straddling their boards for the right ride. It’s a local, hang-out place for kids, dogs, and old geezers with a surf board. The famed Ditch Witch sits close enough to water for us to see, serving fast food to those burning lots of calories and those burning calories at a slower rate. We landed a little past the surfers, not wanting to disturb them. We learned then about the delicate dance of landing a sea kayak in surf. It seems to be going well until you hit sand and the next wave turns your kayak sideways and either you (if the sprayskirt is still on) or your kayak (if the spray skirt is open) takes on a lot of sand and water. It was an ugly ballet, but the surfer kids seemed to move from concern to laughter as we stood up laughing and spitting out sand.

 (surfers and fishing boat)

We had a protein bar and some water and soon launched again. Funny note: one of the surfers came up to say hi. He was the young man attending Stony Brook in the fall and lifeguarding at Albert’s Landing from a few days before. He asked about the trip and its success. Soon, his father came up and introduced himself and talked in glowing terms about his son. Sometimes, Long Island is a very small island. If you are here for a few years, you meet a lot of locals again and again in different locales.

Going into surf isn’t nearly as bad as landing. Just wet when the waves crash over the bow. Paddle hard and stay straight. Think of Tom Hanks’ island-escape scene in Castaway without such imposing waves and the need for a plastic-stall sail and angel wings divine intervention.

Our last stop was Kirk Park Beach in downtown Montauk, just a mile or two away. We made it quickly and Maria went to pick up the car with racks back as Gosman’s. A few surfers and paddleboarders played around in the surf.

I wandered over the dunes to the parking lot to wash off our life jackets and equipment. I met an older couple who asked about the trip and my goals. I tried to explain, but the gentleman interrupted. Thanks, he said, shaking my hand. I wish more people gave a shit when they moved here. But what you’re doing is stupid. And laughed. Sometimes, I love New Yorkers and their sense of humor and honesty.

 

“Part of the joy of sea kayaking is exploring new places and creating your own experiences.” Kevin Stiegelmaier, Paddling Long Island and New York City)

  (me taking a quick nap, photo by Maria Brown)

The water today was smoother than any previous day, and a light wind seemed to pull across Napeague Bay on our way to Montauk Harbor. I would never say a day of sea kayaking is a lazy day; every day on the water offers a new experience or a new perspective. But today was relaxed, quiet and full.

Three young men were setting up the lifeguard stand for their work. One was entering Stony Brook next fall and was majoring in Marine Vertebrate Biology. His excitement reminded me of my own feelings years ago. I still enjoy seeing that sense of possibility. The best of professors still take a bit of that feeling into their work–curiosity and possibility. I remind him I am not a scientist, but I want to learn all I can about this place, scientifically and culturally.

What does that mean?, he asked.

Well, in a specific place, we need science to understand what’s there and how and why it’s come to be, but we need culture to explore the values of what’s changed it or even why it might be preserved, I posited, fumbling with my chin hair.

He surveyed the beach at Albert’s Landing and seemed to connect the lifeguard stand he’d be working at all day with the beach surrounding it and the Peconic Bay stretching out before us. He nodded a thanks and returned to prepping his station for the day’s beachgoers.

*****

We were able to cut across Napeague Bay since the wind was mild. We were aiming for Cherry Point and after that the village of Napeague. Napaegue Harbor is guarded by Hicks Island. According to Larry Penny, in the 19th century, there were two inlets into the harbor and left Hicks Island, just that, an island. Now, Hicks Island is more of a tombolo, a former island that is now attached by the rising bar of sand.

We could see rusted chunks of machinery on the beach before landing at Hicks Island. Also a large partial, brick chimney stack stood watch over the metal ruins. An osprey had made a nest in its top and watched us closely from the fish trap poles.

In a nature column titled “The Gems of Napeague,” Mr. Penny notes in the 1940s the area was “residence to a thriving menhaden rendering factory owned by the Smith Meal Company which produced fish meal and fish oils” (Penny, “The Gems of Napeague”). Menhaden were ground into meal to make oil and fertilizer. By the late 60s, the menhaden or bunker were starting to disappear, and this plant had closed with all but a skeleton crew by 1972 (“Dismantling the old Smith Meal fish factory in Promised Land, 1972”). The area is under some dispute about ownership and protection; we did not venture from the beach, nor did we see signs about restricting access due to plovers, terns, etc.

Just after Goff Point, Hither Hills State Park begins. And while we could see only parts of them, the Walking Dunes are just on the east side of Napague Harbor. Hither Hills Park extends the width of the South Fork here and we would be crossing the southern beach in a few days. The park is an extensive forest just above the beach area.

We began to cross Fort Pond Bay which dips south near to Fort Pond in Montauk. A few big boats came in fast and wake-filled, until they neared the buoy. Just across the bay was Culloden Point, which got its name from the ship that ran aground in 1781 (http://easthamptonstar.com/Archive/1/Whats-Name-Culloden-Point). Divers can still see some of the wreckage not far from the shore. We had planned to stop at the beach near Gosman’s, not far at all from the point. It was a leisurely paddle to beach. We knew the next trip would not be as easy, so we could plan the trip around Montauk Lighthouse for another day.

*****

A note on paddling on calm water.

As I would find out when sea paddling in open ocean and riding 3-4 swells, sometimes kayaking keeps you highly attentive to the task at hand. You pay constant heed to balance, paddle height, rudder direction, the next wave, the menhaden popping the top of the water around you as though you are in a popcorn kettle. You notice a slight change in wind direction. or when a large bubble/gurgle/splash happens just in front of you and the water around your kayak shimmers with menhaden fleeing the scene of some predation by something large, all happening inches beneath you. Your focus during these times is clear and a sense of self-preservation and safety stokes the fires of whatever endocrine system reaction needs to take place for you to notice … where … you … are.

What do we do when the wind is calm and the seas smooth, and the only task is light repetitive paddle strokes, over and over, over and over, hour and hour? Are we OK with noticing the smaller and less obvious landmarks and “seamarks” (I’m guessing this isn’t a word)? Here is the day … a slight sound of water trickling the front of the kayak, perhaps the wind moving languorously through the bayberry and oaks, a tern here and there diving for silversides, an osprey returning with a bunker in its talons, the next land point to aim for, which in all honesty from the kayaker’s vantage looks similar to the previous points we’ve aimed at all day. There’s the easy way to pass time with a paddling partner, talk. Maria knows the area and the science to understand it well. She knows Larry Penny and has worked with and against folks to preserve parts, places and critters on this island since the 1980s. If the day gets monotonous, all I have to do is ask a question relating to the above and she’s there as hedge fund of information and history. She’s also wise and patient, so most times, she waits on me to ask. I notice sometimes I’m asking out of a sincere desire to know, others to pass time. There’s a moment in Beckett’s Waiting for Godot where the two characters mull such a scene:

Vladimir: That passed the time.
Estragon: It would have passed in any case.
Vladimir: Yes, but not so rapidly. 
However, when we let unneeded talk go silent, the next way to conjure up a perspective to keep a kayak going forward is to dig deeper with the paddle into the repetition of strokes, counting them as breaths to ten, much as one does sitting through the first meditation sessions. Make it to ten without losing your place for a few times, and you notice time does pass rapidly. Task, task, task, wait butterfly wing distraction, and return. Task, task, task, task, why is there a moth floating toward Gardiner’s Island 50 yards offshore, and return. What’s really rough on the novice buddhist is when your teacher changes it to counting inhales, not exhales, and later still no counting at all. Task is comforting for us; we are a species who need work. The problem is when task or work becomes habit, instead of constant and calm awareness. Paddle stroke one to ten, paddle stroke 4,137, each nothing special and each new.

I’m learning much about Long Island’s history on the trip; I’m also learning about the ecology and places with a smattering of their history. Others lessons are even more local, personal I might say. What is this circumnavigation when the water is smooth and I can’t avoid being stuck with myself in the kayak? Then, even a 17-foot sea kayak doesn’t seem long enough for all of myselves. At other times, when I let the slight wind do the talking, and count for a while … one, two, three, ….

and then, quit counting,

and just paddle, just paddle,

and let the water density and my shoulder curl move me forward. Finding and making home arises as much from this practice as doing the homework and knowing what’s here. In another way, maybe this is the greater activism … to listen and begin to see more clearly with more than just our eyes and minds. Maybe we can slow down and do the hard work every day, making our tea or coffee in the morning and remembering where our water, tea bags, and gas for the burner come from, or putting the kids to bed and telling them a story about this place that has some resonance with a deep history and the naïve creativity of a newcomer’s view, and be in our place with creative engagement instead of opinion or habit.

A couple of years ago I came across Wendell Berry’s line: “The dominant tendency of our age is the breaking of faith and the making of divisions among things that were once joined. This story obviously must be told by somebody. Perhaps, in one form or another, it must be told (because it must be experienced) by everybody.” Wendell Berry, “Toward a Change in Standards” in Life is a Miracle : An Essay Against Modern Superstition (Washington, D.C.: Counterpoint, 2000), 133-34.

It struck me this is exactly how most of us are living, and while it is a sobering story, it isn’t necessarily a tragedy. We are living in an age of divisions, so too we are living in a politics and communities of divisions, and a natural world of managed plots of preserved nature separated by marginalized landscape. However, this doesn’t exclude the hope of finding connection; it just excludes all the idealized connections we’ve been given to now. It’s a story that’s painful and beautiful, full of loss and promise, but now, it is a story that must be told. Most of our homes are made up of some kind of fractures; most of our watersheds and bioregions are remnants too. These fractures are not just external; they begin with our too easily allowing our daily lives to fall into habit. Recognizing this is a time to begin to honestly and truthfully see the loss, begin to listen, and live without rigid ideals which are never the way things are. Maybe the real restoration of home is that fragile and beautiful moment where domesticity meets wildness again and again, when ritual doesn’t become routine or habit, when we do our best to benefit all those around us, humans and nature, our neighborhoods and the environment, by having consideration and style about our lives, meals, partners, homes, and places. Maybe I can just paddle.

*****

A few folks lounged on the beach, but they had little interest in us. I smiled at a child who came to play with the boat’s rudder. His dad told him to leave it alone and not bother us. Please, it’s OK. It’s good to be bothered, I said.

We wandered out onto the riprap of the jetty to watch the fishing boats wandering in and out. It has been a good day’s work.

We have time to grow old. The air is full of our cries. But habit is a great deadener.
― Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot

 

 

 

I had to take a week off (May 30-June 6) from the trip to make a quick (read sarcasm) drive to Texas for my niece’s wedding and for a few days with my daughter and mom. It’s a 26-hour drive each way, so I usually try to stop in or around Knoxville (near halfway) where I finished my PhD and still have a few friends. No matter it’s an exhausting drive, but well worth it to see family and loved ones along the way and in Texas, slip back into my drawl, and practice a few cowboy tunes along the way.

(signs at Charlie’s Beach for man and beast)

Charlie’s Beach was mostly abandoned this morning. The paddling would be a 7-8 mile trip, again a mild wind and a few ripples to keep the gurgle of water against our kayaks.

(view of Charlie’s Beach from offshore)

The first stopping point was Cedar Point, a small neck of land to the north. First, off to our right is Alewife Brook and above it Alewife Pond (“What’s In A Name?: Alewife Brook”). Some suggest alewives were given this name because their belly shape: ” … named from the word for female tavern keepers (late 14c.), from ale + wife; the fish so called in reference to its large abdomen” (https://www.etymonline.com/word/alewife). I’m not fully convinced; it sounds fishy. Why not alemen?

(photos by Maria Brown)

We rightly assumed most of the island would be fenced off for tern and plover preservation, so we headed for the closest point to land hoping for an easy portage. Folks can walk all the way around the spit of land if they stay close to the beach. That way they can see the Cedar Point Lighthouse on the far end (Cedar Point County Park). We noticed quite a few deer tracks (an adult and a fawn) along the beach. A woman walked the beach with a small, nondescript dog of various heritage. I like mutts; I’ve always felt a common genealogy with them.

Once across, we turn left and Gardiner’s Island appears to the northeast. With the wind being so slight, we cut across the small bay and stayed far offshore from Three Mile Harbor. No real reason other than timing and shortening the trip.  As we were closer to the harbor, some very impressive homes appeared on the bluff. Homeowners who buy or build their ocean-side home face a few concerns. If you want a view, you need to clear away forest and vegetation. When that happens, erosion begins. Some then bring in boulders for erosion control. It is an old story between humans and the land they live on. We want it to meet all of our desires, whether those desires take into account the physics of coastal processes. For someone with more time than I, here’s a book about Long Island needing to be researched and written: what’s here, what historically happens in this place and is going to happen, AND how do we reconcile our desires and dollars with this history/science/projections. I’m baffled sometimes by those denying anthropogenic (human-caused) climate change. It’s not that hard to see the clear data. My guess is the Scott Pruitts of the world don’t really deny climate change in private, but their desires for cash through their industrial pasts don’t allow them to publicly admit fact. Desire has been “trump”ing fact since our species has been around. It’s not a new story.

Once across to Hog Creek Point, we take a southeast turn and move down the East Hampton coastline.

Along the way, we’ve come across a few pound traps–something I have no background with.

One of the better articles I’ve come across is Russell Drumm’s “Working a Pound Trap On a Calm Gardiner’s Bay” printed in The Easthampton Star in 2003. Some were in good repair, and early on, I saw a fisherman collecting his haul from the final circle at the end of the netting extending all the way from the shore. Others were left with only poles, and some with partial netting and poor condition. Lots of cormorants and a few osprey loved them all, perching on the netting lines and poles, dipping in and out of the water when hungry.

Gardiner’s Island was now in full view off to the east. Like much of the forks, Gardiner’s Island has a complex and mixed history. East Long Island says:

Lion Gardiner reportedly purchased the island in 1639 from the Montaukett Indians for “a large black dog, some powder and shot, and a few Dutch blankets.” The Indians called the island Manchonake, while the Gardiners initially called it Isle of Wight. The Montauketts gave Gardiner title at least in part because of his support for them in the Pequot War. https://www.eastlongisland.com/gardiners-island/history/

Captain Kidd, wars, and the inevitable family squabbles have followed the island and ownership, such that now most of it is under a conservation easement until 2025, but there is hope it will stay that way into the future (“Plan to Conserve Gardiner’s Island”).

As we got closer to needing to turn south toward Napeague Harbor, some of the houses along the shore became even more actively worried about erosion and beach habitat–bulwarks, riprap, and rock jetties.

We decided to stop at one for a bite of protein bar, an apple, and a lot of water. A guy wandered out of his house to look over the bulwark and check in on us. We explained the project and the estimated time and effort. He had a bemused but distant look on his face. Maria launched into her work about eel grass restoration, algal blooms and hypoxic zones, bats, and …. Without a goodbye, our host turned and walked back into his house.

Works every time, she said.

Why does he care if we are here? We’d make awful burglars in kayaks, not the best getaway vehicles, I noted.

It is private property, even the beach here, so we are trespassing. Time to go, Maria nodded.

An odd note. Maria says she heard an explosion while we were packing up the kayaks. I think I did too, but it may have been an after-the-fact memory. In any case, as we rounded the edge of houses and shore, we saw a trail of black smoke on the horizon.

We couldn’t tell the source, but the terminus was just off the sandy southern spit of Gardiner’s Island called Cartwright Island. Now and then a boat would rush out of Acabonac Harbor, but it wasn’t until we were closer that we could see it was a boat on fire. We both looked at each other and hoped all were safe, but it wasn’t until that evening I was able to read about the fire. The boat engine caught fire and some Jetskiers rescued the three onboard: “Three Escape Boat That Caught Fire Off Gardiner’s Island”. By the time we were passed, the local fire department boat had arrived and were putting the fire out.

Albert’s Landing was only a short ways away, and the day had been full of adventure. It was a lazy Friday on the beach with only a few folks and a very nervous cocker spaniel. I’m sorry. He’s so obnoxious, she bemoaned. Bark, barkbark, barkbarkbark, the dog complained. He doesn’t like hats, she said apologetically. I took my hat off and offered amends. Barkbarkbark, bark, the dog responded. Sometimes the fence between species makes good neighbors I thought to myself and readied the kayaks for loading. It’s ashamed. I really like dogs.

 

 

 

 

 

With all due apologies to the readers and myself, I had to skip a mile of the circumnavigation for the plovers. I didn’t want to carry the kayaks back out to Jessup’s Neck and then paddle around. After the take-out at Elizabeth Morton, the next easy access to the bay is at Noyac Bay Ave. next to the Northampton Colony Yacht Club. After August 31, I will go back and complete this short leg of the trip. Promise. Otherwise, it’s only a partial story.

*****

Parking at Noyac Bay Ave. is a heated discussion and limited during the summer months. This kind of debate is typical and growing on the forks these days. As summer weekenders escape the city, they clog parking and access to the beaches and ocean; homeowners on the forks want to limit parking and access at some level. “Parking On Noyac Bay Avenue A Heated Subject at Southampton Town Hall”

Some changes have been made recently in front of some of the homes allowing more parking, but the area near the boat dock and the Northampton Colony Yacht Club is still restricted. 

This battle that will play itself out over and over on the forks, especially the south fork. Where do all those folks coming out for the weekend park? Why should homeowners have to deal with clogged access to the bay/ocean from visitors? Not surprisingly, many of the restrictions apply only during the summer months and peak times. Folks aren’t quite as worried about over-parking during a February nor’easter. However, access and ownership is an ongoing debate: “That’s Enough: The Battle to Save Our Access to the Beaches”

 

The put-in was perfect and easy, but parking would be a concern. Lucky for us (Maria Brown was with me), Alberto and his crew were working on the yacht club’s parking lot. They were taking out any weeds that had not paid their dues, and new gravel was going to be installed. We asked if there was any way to leave one of our cars there and pick it up later, and explained our goal. I likely added a bit of hyperbole about research and gave him my card from SBU. Alberto made a call to the person in charge and got approval. He asked us to leave him a key to my car, so he could move it when the gravel truck arrived. He said he’d leave it where it is after the gravel was laid down.

A note on trust: we left Alberto the key to my car, a little bit of money for his efforts, and many thanks. I offered up a little spanglish about our trip, and Alberto was patient and kind, responding mostly in English. It struck me how if this trip is to be completed that I will need to give in to many more acts of trust: trust offered to folks I just met. I don’t want to be naive, but I will need to let go of some of my typical distance and isolation.

The paddle out and around Pine Neck/Noyac was smooth and fast. Maria was trying her new/used kayak for the first time on this trip, a 17′ Seaward Navigator.

 (her Navigator is the front kayak)

Maria is a GIS specialist (she likes maps), bat naturalist (having traveled often in the americas for research), certified wetlands scientist, board member to more than a few Long Island environmental groups, Sayville High School science research teacher (heck, there is even a Maria Brown Day in Sayville! Maria Brown Day). She has more energy than a basket of bees (as my dad would have said). Paddling with her is an added resource for me as her knowledge of Long Island natural history is substantive, and her connection to and caring/activism for this place is strong and lengthy. Maria was born here, but it would be better to say, she is born of here. Unlike me, she needs no myth-making; she’s home.

It’s short lake-like paddle to Foster Memorial Town Beach. It’s named after Clifford Foster who left it to Southampton upon his death. The Foster family has clearly had an impact on farming and land preservation in the area: Clifford Foster Remembered. A nice group of families with kids and dogs, as well as leadlines for both, dotted the beach. We headed for the midpoint of the strip of land as that was the shortest portage. Noyac-Long Beach Road is busy, but the drivers seemed to notice the struggle of carrying 17-ft kayaks across a busy two-lane and slowed down for our convenience and safety.

We tried to avoid trudging through the grass and bayberry (Myrica pensylvanica) to avoid disturbing critters and attracting ticks. Maria noted that for a narrow salt marsh it had wonderful zonation–a word non-scientists would never use but just means differing elevation and where low and high water is. The high marsh area had lots of spartina or salt hay which used to be used as insolation in some of the house. The next zone was spike grass and glasswort, which turns bright red in early autumn/late summer from losing its chlorophyl. The last zone into water is the salt marsh cordgrass with lots of mussels attached at the base with lots of snails and fiddler crab holes. These together function like a sponge collecting water and surge. If lost, more destruction will happen. An egret dawdled along the shore. A sandy path made its way to the water. A little neck of water allowed us to head northeast into the area, just west of the Main St. Bridge for Sag Harbor.

Sag Harbor redefines the adjective “quaint” when it comes to Long Island towns. Its history is in whaling because its harbor was deep. Even a nice windmill sits near the water next to Long Wharf. Though it was never a working windmill, it seems to have been good for tourism.

 (photo by Maria Brown)

It was also home to John Steinbeck the last 13 years of his life (1955-1968) and the starting point for his book Travels with Charley. I’m a fan of more than a few of Steinbeck’s books–his collaboration with biologist Ed Ricketts The Log from the Sea of Cortez has been a model for my academic pursuits and Travels with Charley for the sheer beauty of travel writing and reflection. Sag Harbor Hills also has an interesting history of being a community for working class African-Americans after WWII, which now seems, like many communities on the south fork, to be undergoing  challenges and changes: https://www.nytimes.com/2016/08/26/nyregion/new-neighbors-unsettle-black-enclave-sag-harbor-hills.html.

We weaved our kayaks between all the anchored boats and headed for the opening between the two long, rock storm barriers. A west-to-east wind had kicked up a bit, but nothing to be too worried about, so we headed toward what is called Barcelona Point. A sailing school had pairs of teenagers in their small sailboats out in the water practicing their tacts and giggling all the while. Barcelona Point is the northern point of the Linda Gronlund Memorial Nature Preserve (https://www.dec.ny.gov/lands/81070.html).

A little farther east is Northwest Harbor and Augie’s Beach, but our goal was Charlie’s Beach. We had left Maria’s car in the circle near the neighborhood above the East Hampton permit parking only area. One of the owners suggested to us it wouldn’t be a problem to leave it there. I left a note on the dashboard about my project; I figured if nothing else it might confuse an officer long enough to forget about a ticket.

Charlie’s Beach is really a local place–a couple who were paddle boarding, otherwise, more dogs than owners. I talked with one older couple who had been bringing their shepherd mix here for the last 11 years. She doesn’t go as fast or long as she used to. But hell, neither do we, they laughed. I still mourn my dog Sunny, 20 months after having her put down from old age (14.5 in calendar years).

Steinbeck describes his dog Charley early on in Travels with Charley: In Search of America: “Charley is a good friend and traveling companion, and would rather travel about than anything he can imagine. If he occurs at length in this account, it is because he contributed much to the trip.” I’ve already noticed the lesser-known beaches are the bonding places of people and dogs. The dogs can run and splash, fetch and fart, and be all manner of happiness a dog might imagine with open beach, water, and time. I’m guessing people bond with their dogs in their backyards as readily as a beach, but there must be something exotic in it for the pup, or in some cases, very, very familiar.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today’s paddle would be a relatively short one with the goal being Pine Creek Harbor in Noyak, all told about 7 miles and nothing in open water.

Scott and I put in around 930 AM at the canal and headed toward Cow Neck Point. The water was a mirror at times and others a mild ripple. Meschutt Beach was barely occupied–now and then a wandering human being led by a dog. Memorial Day (May 28 in 2018) is considered the season for the east end of Long Island to be occupied again. Summer houses are opened and aired out, boats are de-winterized and put back into water. Vineyards, breweries, farm stands, and local restaurants rejoice. Winter is over. Let the tourist money find its nesting ground.

Bluefish strolled just under the surface but nearly as many as yesterday.

After Cold Spring inlet, there is a mighty golf course on the ridge. Scott reminded me the US Open was going to played not far from here soon (Shinnecock Hills Golf Course). Ah, we nodded.

The paddle toward Cow Neck point was again very mild water and few if any boats. The ridge along the shore though had had lots of erosion-control boulders put in place below the forest leading to Cow Neck Point. Brendan J. O’Reilly in the Jan. 11, 2013 Southampton Patch writes,

Hedge fund billionaire Louis Bacon’s Sebonac property took a beating from Superstorm Sandy in October, and crews are at work this week making repairs to the waterfront. Bacon famously donated a conservation easement of more than 500 acres in Cow Neck to Peconic Land Trust in 2001, according to The New York Times. …. In late December, a barge carrying 400 tons of stone ran aground on the Great Peconic Bay shore in Hampton Bays, and local excavation companies responded to help. (“Barges of Boulders Shore Up Cow Neck After Sandy“) 

To the north is Robin’s Island, also owned by Louis Bacon, who has set aside most of it as conservation easement. https://www.nytimes.com/1998/05/17/nyregion/closely-guarded-secrets-some-islands-you-can-t-get-to-visit.html?pagewanted=all

The goal today was to hug the coast from Cow’s Neck Point to Jessup Neck (about 1.5 to 2 miles), portage across and finish at Noyak/Mill Creek Bay another quarter of a mile to the east.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

However, arriving at Jessup’s Neck, we noticed the long orange snow fencing cutting across the entire neck. The netting typically means a protected site for terns or plovers; no crossing is possible. Jessup’s Neck is named after John Jessup who took over the land in 1679, but the entire area is the “Elizabeth A. Morton National Wildlife Refuge, a 187-acre peninsula on Noyack and Little Peconic Bays” (https://www.fws.gov/refuge/Elizabeth_A_Morton/about.html).

Plovers are listed as endangered in New York, relevant mostly Long Island since they are shore birds, though a few pair nest on Lake Ontario. Plovers were decimated a hundred years ago for food and hunting, reestablished after the 1918 Migratory Bird Treaty Act, yet their numbers have plummeted again by shoreline development and disturbance in the dunes where they nest. Long Island is the nesting site for around one quarter of Atlantic Coast population(https://www.dec.ny.gov/animals/7086.html). Many locals don’t care for some of the public beach areas being closed. It isn’t uncommon to see a bumper sticker stating Plover. Tastes like Chicken. East End Long Island is an odd mix that way … people who define themselves so much by the bays, pine barrens, shores, dunes, and ocean. To say you are an eastender carries some clout with other eastenders. They’ll say this place and its impact on their families define them in part. Yet ask about the decline in fish stocks, algal blooms in the summer bays, the shoreline homes few eastenders can afford and an unsurprising nostalgia seeps its way into their story. I’ve often wondered when we begin to reconcile things like fencing cordoning off protected areas or dealing with overdevelopment with our nostalgia. Maybe nostalgia is in part always fictional, but much of what we long for in nostalgia are the very things the endangered species and other regulatory acts are trying to return. They’re certainly not doing it perfectly, but it’s better than watching so much disappear and slipping deeper into longing for the past and not working for the future.

Sure enough the signs and fencing were up and no portaging here. The fences will be up until September when they return to their wintering grounds in the south. We had the choice to paddle all the way around Jessup’s Neck or drag the kayaks up the trail to the parking lot at the wildlife refuge. We walked up to the bird-viewing platform and looked out across the area. The restrictions will be in place until August 31 (https://www.fws.gov/uploadedFiles/2017%20Morton-Amagansett%20Beach%20Closure.pdf). So up and around the neck or wait here for our ride from Maria? A young couple wandered up to the viewing scope, smiled at us, and looked over our soaked clothing and down to the kayaks on the beach. Having fun?, one asked. Sure, I answered. The gods knew just where to stop those glaciers back when. I meant it as a conversation starter. They turned and walked away, clearly not wanting follow-up discussion on deities and glacial deposits. Scott said it’s a good place to stop, having overheard the conversation. He had a bit of a scowl toward my tone.

 (photo by Scott Schram)

The parking area for the refuge is a quarter mile away. We loaded all the gear into the kayaks and decided to carry both at the same time, front and back. My Perception Sea Lion is a nice sea kayak–stable and solid, but it is heavy. We switched places every hundred yards or so, Scott making it farther than I during my turn. During our walk, a “gang” of turkeys sauntered the path in front of us. I use the word “gang” because in wondering what a flock of turkeys might be called I found, “a group of turkeys — has many awesome and unusual descriptive nouns, including a “crop”, “dole”, “gang”, “posse”, and “raffle” (http://blog.nwf.org/2011/11/twelve-unusual-and-fascinating-facts-about-wild-turkeys/). Posse would have worked too, but I tend to think of it in Texas terms, not in celebrity hangers-on.

 (photo by Scott Schram)

At the refuge center, Carly, a summer intern with SCA (Student Conservation Association), made way for us to load the kayaks on the car near the buildings. It saved us another hundred yards. whew. Carly’s work for the summer is doing bird interpretation and education for visitors and groups as well as monitoring the plover and tern sites. Sometimes I worry for the future of all the nonhumans out there, but listening to Carly’s commitment and joy reminds me, her generation/my daughter’s generation are better informed than I was at that age. It’s up to their choices, and clearly a few of them are making good ones. Maybe they’re the answer to my nostalgia rumination above.

Scott heads back to Texas tomorrow. I’ll miss him; his friendship is immeasurable; our paddling trips are always a picaresque of characters more intriguing than the narrator. I told him to fly back and complete the last two days of the circumnavigation with me. When’s that?, he laughed. well said, Scott.

 

“I fought my whole life, studied, played, worked, because I wanted to hear and know the whole story, my story, our story, and understand as much of it as I could.” (Bruce Springsteen, Born to Run)

My friend for almost forty years Scott Schram came to visit. Somehow, he had snagged two tickets to the Springsteen broadway show and wanted to start the circumnavigation trip with me. Scott and I have a long history of water and music.

Back in our college days, two or three times a month we’d arm ourselves with a twelve-pack of whatever was cheapest (Stroh’s, Black Label, and every now and then the gods of sales offered up an affordable price for Pabst Blue Ribbon) and drive to one of the lesser-known parks at Lake Lewisville (yes, that’s back in Texas), set up lawn chairs, and turn on one of our car cassette players, listen and argue about music late into the night. Springsteen was most often the headliner, whether it was the word tumble of “Blinded by the Light” or the pared-down, echoed acoustic sounds of “Mansion on the Hill.” We had no idea of Freehold, life at Asbury Park, nor much of anything about the northeast, but we knew his music and lyrics were trying to do more than erase three to four minutes of late teen/early twenties struggles. For all the literal and cultural distance, we felt he spoke to us about a larger group of us, paying attention to subtleties that enriched all if we noticed. Since then, we’ve paddled rivers in Texas https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5357543 and in South Carolina and talked music along the way.

*****

A few days after the Springsteen show, we had organized the first two legs of the paddling trip: Peconic Lake Dam to Shinnecock Canal & Shinnecock Canal to Noyak Bay/Pine Neck. Both trips of around 12 miles and 7 miles respectively, nothing too demanding and to be quite honest, our “testing the waters” of kayaking in the Peconic Bay. My home is no more than a quarter of a mile from the Peconic River–Long Island’s longest river (12-15 miles according to differing definitions of a river)–and it is dammed here creating Peconic Lake (also called Forge Pond). Actually our neighborhood association is called the Peconic Lake Estates Civic Organization (PLECO). The association is an eclectic group of old and new; membership is $50 per year and the monthly gatherings at our meeting house never fail to have a fine array of cookies, sheet cake and coffee or tea. PLECO is a “neighborhood organization promoting the spirit of ‘good neighborliness'” as it says on our website. We have road clean-ups and a few events and lectures, but mostly the meetings are about keeping our little collection of homes a neighborhood.

From the Peconic Lake dam, folks can paddle and portage all the way to Riverhead and during the summer, frequently do, as the Peconic Paddler rental store in Riverhead takes folks west of here on River Road and lets them float most of the day back. The dam, though, is source of community and recreation as on virtually every nice-weather day for 10 months of the year, folks from the area are fishing from its banks. Even during our 15 minutes of putting in, one fisherman caught a bluegill and had no idea of how to unhook it.

 

The Peconic River drains mostly west to east (an oddity on Long Island) because of the glacial history of Long Island. Just to the south of the Peconic River is the Ronkonkama Morraine–the southern rise of Long Island’s glacial deposits from around 21,000 years ago. The river is mostly the result of seeps from groundwater rather than drainage from tributaries (Long & Wilhelm 9). It has been dammed and used since the late 18th-century for iron forges to cranberry bogs to ice for ice houses. The Dam Road meets Forge Road on the north side of the dam.

 

NYS Parks and Rec. created a functional boat slide and landing for paddlers to enter below the dam. The water is languorous and has a brown hue from the tannins and silt. It’s not deep but a gentle current will push you to the next dam around a half a mile down the river.

 

 

 

 

 

Scott cut a noble kayaking pose as we pulled into the Middle Country Road portage.

The small portage and parking area also announced the Peconic River Blueway Trail and its 9.5 miles of put-ins and take outs.

     

Almost immediately after we put back in we had to pull out to go around a small falls–17-foot sea kayaks are not made for such adventures. The next leg of the trip took us past The Roadhouse Brick Oven Pizza outdoor seating area. A few homes are hidden away from River Road and their backyards face the extended pond of the dammed Peconic–one favorite backyard had four metal letters facing the river L O V and E tilted on its side. Next to the letters sat a few guys drinking Tecate. Como esta’ la cosa mis amigos? Bien, bien, they laugh and raise their beers to us.

By the time we cross under Center Drive, we can see Grangabel Park and the take out for those renting from the Peconic Paddler. The take out is clear, but the park is nice walking for couples in hand-holding mood, and also now includes a fish ladder for the anadromous alewives (they live their adult lives in salt water and spawn in fresh). These small fish provide abundant fish for osprey, heron and eagles, as well as larger marine fish. The same dams we’ve been portaging today are one of the reasons for the severe decline of the alewives–they can no longer migrate upstream. In the last few years, the Peconic Estuary Program and Seatuck Environmental Association have worked with state agencies to begin creating fish ladders to assist alewife spawns.

We landed, took our kayaks to the area behind the Chase Bank where the tidal Peconic meets the last dam I’ll see until I round the north fork and arrive from the east, weeks, if not months from now. We leaned back a bit to cross under the Peconic and McDermott Ave. bridges and out where river becomes bay. Along the way, past the Long Island Aquarium, an older gentleman rowed a skull back and forth from the Cross River bridge to an area with boats docked. He pointed to his rearview mirror on his glasses and mumbled something like, “… for safety.”

Colonel’s Island is a little drop of land in the Peconic before it opens up to the bay. We head southeast after it passing around Iron Point to Goose Creek Point. I told Scott that we needed to pay homage to the Big Duck in Flanders as we paddled by. He used his middle finger to wave saying he’s “shooting the bird” to the Big Duck. ah, humor. ah, humanity.

At Red Cedar Point, we took our first real break of the day. Scott collected shells as I scouted out the increasing wind from the west. Whelks, scallops, and razor clams (much less a horseshoe crab carapace) are not typical in north-central Texas, so for him they are the exotic charms on his memory of the trip. I showed Scott where the first round of horseshoe crabs had laid their eggs by the light of the last full moon.

The last mile or so to the Shinnecock Canal was quick with the west wind whipping us forward. We hugged the beach enough to imagine we were close but were far enough out to let the wind use our paddles as sails. As we pulled into the beach, a few guys fished from the banks of the canal tossing bait into the current and letting it be carried into the canal. One caught a sea robin, cussed about its uselessness, and tossed it back into the swirling water.

Soon, Maria arrived with the car and had brought a few beers to christen the first day’s effort. It was a good day.

 (photo by Maria Brown)

*****

On the train ride to Ronkonkama after the Springsteen show, I told Scott how amazed I was Springsteen could seemingly bare himself so fully and honestly for two-and-a-half hours, five nights a week for what will be over a year by the show’s end. Was it real? Was it just a show? Is his performance doing both?  Is it possible to tell a story so raw and open, night after night, and not let it become distant and routine? I wonder about any story that way. How does one tell it over and over so that it keeps growing and changing so that it isn’t autobiography so much as community biography? Can you see your own story as big enough to reimagine yourself as just as a minor character? To make my story fit into our story? Scott says even if it was performance, it was real enough to convince him and that I should quit overthinking stuff. Have another beer and shut up, he offers and laughs. I’m still caught in my reverie. Can the horseshoe crabs and iron forges, Algonquin trails, and alewives make their way into this story? Can I tell my and their story and openly, deeply bare our common home? Have another beer and shut up David. Scott is a very dear and wise friend.

“The poets down here don’t write nothin’ at all, they just stand back and let it all be….” (Bruce Springsteen, “Jungleland”)

References:

Long, Robert P. and William and Barbara Wilhelm. Canoeing the Peconic River. Cutchogue, NY: Peconic Publishers, 1983.

Springsteen, Bruce. Born to Run. New York: Simon and Schuster, 2016.

“In myths, people turn into all kinds of things. Birds, animals, trees, flowers, rivers.” (Richard Powers, The Overstory)

I’ve been here off and on for four years now, and I’m not sure I know Long Island as a home yet. Thus, I decided to take part of this summer to ask why and begin to find some answer.

This past year, I’ve sold my home in Texas and bought a house nestled into the Pine Barrens near Riverhead. However, the distance between place of residence and home is resonant and palpable thing. It certainly requires getting to know the place (neighbors, local shops and stores, the right restaurant and pub), and for me, getting to know the other neighbors (all the array of critters and plants–native and exotic). This distance between place and home must also be spanned by some notion of myth, some narrative tug at one’s being that “places” you in your home. Learning stories of a place is a beginning–who’s been writing, who’s been singing, who’s been storytelling and finding the common themes, interactions and connections with this place. By the way, we should include ALL who have been writing, singing and telling stories of a place, not just since 1492 (with all the violence and difficulty that includes) and not just since the arrival of humans (with all the violence and difficulty that includes). The glacial erratics in my yard have told me stories about why Long Island is here, just as the horseshoe crabs have taught me about the red knots’ late spring return. However, at some point you have to place yourself in the story to make a myth of home.

I’d been sorting through how to do this for over a year–time in the woods and wetlands, time paddling the four major rivers (Carmans Connetquot, Nissequogue and Peconic), a bit of time in the Sound and the Bay. Check, check, and check. Each of these have been and will continue to be brief excursions about learning from knowledgeable folks and learning the stories, but I hadn’t had to invest myself in these, other than some afternoons and evenings. What I needed was to take up an event which would demand something of me in place. Something that my 57-year-old body through aches and pains would remind me … “yep, you’re here.” Also, through, the trip had to be about being and contextualizing here, this loooong island.

It came to me … how about paddling around Long Island? It’s been done a few times in the past 20 years (more on this later), and the distance is around 260-280 miles–manageable enough if I took on day trips taking out and putting in, and sorting out drop-offs and pick ups with dear friends. Mostly, it seemed a chance to learn more about this place, the expanse of it and in the process give myself a small, myth-making experience–one that after enough days of paddling, enough time of sore shoulders, kayak mishaps, and the unplanned oddities that always happen on long trips, maybe I’d turn into something else, more intimately connected to place … and find myself at home here.

Here are the parameters:

1. put in at the Peconic Lake dam not far from my house and make day trips of 10-14 miles. Thus, 28-30 days total paddling.
2. generally I wanted to return home each night, but if I can impose on some friends keeping me closer to the next leg, kindly ask/beg.
3. not expect this is contiguous–day after day. I have work to do at my university and other writing to complete. I’ve got the whole summer.
4. have fun, but sweat and engage.
5. have friends with me for some days and paddle alone for others.
6. try to read a bit about the places I pass through and by.
7. keep some kind of log. This blog isn’t going to be a how-to guide to paddle around the island. There are better sources (please refer to Mike Bottini’s Exploring East End Waters: A Natural History and Paddling Guide & Kevin Steigelmaier’s Paddling Long Island and New York City). Also, the best way to put it is that’s it’s a search for home by circumnavigating where I live, and hopefully ending where I begin.

(Scott Schram and I loading kayaks)

Powers, Richard. The Overstory: A Novel. New York, NY: W. W. Norton & Company, Inc., 2018.