Weekday Vaycay, As They Say

Jun 15, 2011

A mere 10 miles from our apartment, but worlds away, lies Fort Tilden Park, a former military installation now hidden in the dunes and overgrown with wildflowers. Deborah and I took our bicycles there a couple of days ago and rode them down a wind-swept path, past decayed, overgrown, graffiti-covered brick buildings and honeysuckle, following the shoreline for a mile or so before turning off onto a narrow path leading through the dunes and onto the beach. Not a soul to be seen in any direction, save a massive barge several miles offshore. Deborah took immediate advantage of the seclusion, tossing off her bikini top and heading to the breakers to wet her feet. "Pretty cold," she said.

We laid our towels in the sand and ate macaroni salad that we bought at a deli before we left. A group of gulls turned their heads, and we expected them to start acting like resort town birds, strutting and squawking for handouts, or to see what they could steal, but they stayed put, apparently uninterested in people's food. After a few bites, I couldn't blame them. The macaroni tasted vaguely of plastic. But it hit the spot nonetheless, and I didn't complain.

We spent a few hours just hanging out undisturbed, playing catch, looking for shells, and dozing in the sun. A few hours later, as we started to pack up, we saw our first fellow human. A park Ranger. Deborah thought he might be coming by to tell her to put her top on or something, but no, he was just checking in. "How's it going, folks?"

"Great."

"Any complaints?"

"Not a one."

After time on the beach, we loaded up our bicycles and went to explore the nearby old Army bunkers. Two are easily accessible, one of which has a wooden staircase leading to a viewing stand that offers a sweeping vista of the entire park and the Verrazano Bridge off in the distance. Beyond that, a hazy Manhattan skyline. I took the stairs while Deborah stayed below to pick a few flowers.

Because of the haze, the view wasn't particularly spectacular, and I only spent a minute or two before heading back down. As I reached the bottom of the stairway, the same park Ranger we'd seen earlier pulled up in a truck with three young ladies inside. "Do you want me to walk you up?" the Ranger asked them as they began to pile out.

"No, I think we're fine from here," said one of the girls, in what sounded like a German accent, while the other two started up the stairs. One of them was wearing such a tiny bikini bottom that for a second I thought she wasn't wearing one at all -- mooning us as she sashayed up the stairs.

"Do you want my phone number or email address or anything?" the Ranger asked them. "Next time you come, I can work out a permit for you."

There is no parking in Fort Tilden without a fishing permit; people usually park in nearby Jacob Riis Park — a couple of miles down the road — and walk to Fort Tilden, the way we did. I imagine this is what the girls did, too, and perhaps they got lost or tired along the way before being saved by the handsome young park Ranger. I don't know.

"I gave you my email address before, didn't I?" said the German girl, her friends already near the top of the staircase. "It's on that piece of paper I gave you."

I couldn't figure out what the hell was going on — it was none of my business, anyway — all I knew was that the Ranger had a pretty sweet job.

"Right, okay. I'll email you. Maybe next time we can all go to lunch or something," he said. "Take care, ladies."

Deborah came over with a handful of yellow flowers. "That guy's got a pretty sweet job," she said.