The People’s Beach

Jun 22, 2010

Despite it being only about a half-hour drive from our apartment (or perhaps because of it), Jacob Riis Park wasn't our first choice for a beach-day getaway, but without enough time for a Long Island or New Jersey excursion, it was our best bet. Sure, it's a little unkempt and run-down, but the sand has decidedly fewer chicken bones per square foot than Coney Island, and it's far less crowded. In fact, when we pulled into the parking lot, there were fewer than a dozen cars ahead of us, giving things a certain post-apocolyptic vibe.

The sprawling parking lot is an agoraphobic’s nightmare. According to Wikipedia, the 5,000-space parking lot held the dubious distinction of being the largest in the world when it first opened in the 1930s. I suppose your average Walmart parking lot would give it a run for its money these days, but you'd still be hard-pressed to find more wide-open space anywhere within spitting distance of NYC.

We parked the car, unloaded our beach chairs and blankets, and crossed the street to the shoreline.

"I need to use the bathroom before we get settled," said Deborah.

I waited on a bench outside the beach house while Deborah went inside to use the bathroom. A skinny old man ambled past me wearing nothing but a baseball cap and a jock strap -- his sagging tanned butt completely exposed as he shuffled into the men’s room. When Deborah came out of the ladies’ room, she asked if I needed to use the facilities, too.

"Um. No. I can wait."

The beach wasn't nearly as desolate as the parking lot, but the crowd was well-dispersed along its expanse, and we didn't have to walk very far to find a nice quiet spot all to ourselves. We set up our usual accouterments -- umbrella, blanket, chairs, towels, cooler, etc -- and settled in for a nice, relaxing morning.

When a group of five guys came walking towards us, two of them lugging a massive cooler between them, the others talking on their cell phones, all tank-tops and swagger, we assumed they were simply passing by, but when they plopped their cooler down no more than three feet away from us, took off their backpacks and staked out their spot, we couldn't believe it. They were directly between us and the water.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," said Deborah.

One of the guys looked over as he spread his blanket and said, "You don't mind, do you?"

"It's an awfully big beach," I said, and gestured at all the open sand.

The guy either didn't hear me, didn't listen, or didn't care. He pulled a Corona from the giant cooler and cracked it open. Two of the guys were talking on their cell phones, one was texting, and another was using his phone like a transistor radio, playing music from its overdriven speaker. The cell phone wasn't powerful enough to be very loud, and if they hadn't been three feet away, we might not have even heard it. But we did.

"We have to move," said Deborah, as she began to pack up her things.

She was right, of course. They had managed to get under our skin immediately, and there was no way things were going to get any better. Anything we said would only make them dig in deeper. A no-win situation. We broke camp and walked further down the beach. Further than necessary, probably, but we wanted to be sure we wouldn't be forced to move again. We chose a spot a few yards away from a 300-pound woman lying topless, slathered in oil. Her blue frilly bathing suit bottoms looked like something a five-year-old might wear.

After a couple of rounds of swimming, sunning, swimming and sunning, the sand began to fill in with rowdy teenagers who were arriving by the school bus full -- end-of-the-year class trips, graduation celebrations, or whatever. They weren't too annoying, really, but Deborah and I both had things to do, anyway, so we relinquished the beach to the kids and headed home without complaint.

"Not the greatest beach day," I said. "But not bad."

"Not bad at all."