A Day in the Rockaways

This is going to sound strange, but I’ll tell you anyway: during the long stretch of the pandemic before the vaccine, which was at times the most intensely lonely I’ve been since childhood, I sometimes missed traveling alone most of all. Solo trips so often turn out to be my favorites, especially when I know people wherever I’m headed. Exploring on my own during the day and meeting up with an old friend at night? The absolute dream. 

So I’m thrilled when I find myself with a whole afternoon and evening unaccounted for, having finished all the work I needed to earlier than planned. I’m unexpectedly free to do whatever I want. 

I toss a notebook and the creased Anaïs Nin paperback I rescued from the free box outside the brownstones across Greene the other day in my bag and walk eleven hot, sweaty blocks to the A. I’m heading to the Rockaways. I’ve been there once, briefly, on a cold day three Marches ago when G and I explored the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge and Dead Horse Bay. Ever since reading Patti Smith’s M Train, in which she writes beautifully about making a home in a bungalow that had just been destroyed by Hurricane Sandy, I’ve wanted to come back. 

Besides, I’ve been waking up every morning feeling the pull of the ocean. I love the churn of the Atlantic, how even though it looks like the roiling waters of old sea shanties it’s actually warm enough to wade all the way into. This May I spent some time in Montauk, just before the flood of people descended on it, and ever since I’ve been dreaming of renting a little shack on the coast and doing nothing but writing and taking long walks for weeks.

The A stops at Broad Channel, where I pick up the shuttle train that drops off in the middle of Rockaway Beach. It’s a random Wednesday afternoon but the shore is packed with all sorts of people: whole groups of kids learning to surf a few feet into the shallow waves, sunbathers with rainbow umbrellas and competing speakers, and the vendors that dart between all of them hawking margaritas, beer, and arepas. 

I spend a long time just walking up and down the narrow strip of beach, knee-deep in the frothy water. It’s ninety degrees and even though the waves felt cool when I first stepped into them, they’re bathwater-warm now. I edge out a little farther, soaking the frayed edges of my cut-offs and wishing I’d thought to bring my swimsuit. 

Eventually, I get tired of dodging people and dig myself a little nook in a sand dune running just below the boardwalk. Ostensibly I’m reading, but in reality, the people-watching is too good to pass up. A guy with shimmering skin, a cooler full of Coors for sale, and eight pack abs swans past so quickly that by the time I can make out what he’s saying (“what is this, actual sex on the beach?” and “if you don’t drink you’ll die!”) he’s gone. 

I stay awhile longer, but I never quite manage to get into my book.

I’m missing someone I’m supposed to be getting over. I have been for a month straight, and it’s taking everything in me not to break and reach out. Every time I’m tempted, I remind myself that the thing keeping us from working isn’t mine to change. I can only pull myself out of the equation. Even though it means breaking my own heart right now. Even though the thought of never talking again guts me wide open. When I’m in one of these moods, focus never comes easily. When I feel this particular pull, I’m only satisfied if I’m moving. So I pack up my things and decide to wander around town. 

Half a mile down Rockaway Beach Boulevard, across from the Key Foods, a woman walking with her boyfriend says “you look gorgeous. Doesn’t she look gorgeous?” I smile and thank her and it occurs to me that these words are so rarely given freely like this, especially by strangers. I’m used to them as the opening lines of cat-calls or come-ons, coupled with prickling dread and a burst of adrenaline. A full-body memory of how quickly they can morph into contempt. I tuck her words away, glad to be seen by someone even when I’m in beat-up Wranglers and grandpa sandals, bare-faced and red from the sun. 

I make a left on Beach 87th Street and the bustle of the boulevard gives way to dilapidated houses and empty lots littered with old cars. But two blocks down, I find exactly what I’m looking for: Rockaway Surf Club, a little cluster of buildings pushed together so they form a shaded courtyard in the middle. In stark contrast to everything around it, the taco joint is buzzing and dotted with people lounging around its waxed wooden picnic tables. 

I chat up the guy who greets me at the door. He looks every part the Venice beach bum but when he opens his mouth his accent is all New York. And he keeps up with my deeply ingrained neuroticism in a way no one from California (or really, the midwest or the south or the west) ever does. 

The bartender is cut from the exact same cloth, and by the way he says “great choice” when I ask for mezcal—like he really means it, like it’s not a cheesy line at all—I know he makes every person who walks up to the bar feel like the only one in the room. I give it right back to him; I’ve missed the joy of harmless flirting with strangers. After so long in lockdown without this particular pleasure, I’m a little drunk off the sun and the banter before swallowing any of the frozen margarita he pours me.

I take a whole table for myself and spread out in the dappled shade while I wait for my fish tacos to be up. I shouldn’t have ordered them, since I can’t have gluten and now I’ll be up half the night with aches deep in my joints. But I can’t resist—they’re my favorite food and to skip fish tacos by the beach in July feels like utter blasphemy. 

My number is called and I find the red basket wedged between a fresh roll of brown paper towels and a signed portrait of Dr. Fauci (“Love, Anthony Fauci”), which is earnest and wholesome and endearing, especially because it’s the only non-surfing-themed decor in sight. 

I write for a good long while, trading off paragraphs and dipping big bites of taco into something thick, spicy, and red that appears to be a magical combination of salsa and hot sauce. Whole spoonfuls of guacamole and the juice from perfectly round, crisp radishes threaten to slip from the tortilla and drip down my arm, but they’re just right against the hot fish and slushy margarita. When was the last time I had something this fucking good? I can’t even remember.

Later, back on the A, watching the stilted houses and clear waters of the Jamaica Bay crawl past, I realize something. What I’ve missed most about traveling solo is not being alone at all—it’s the opposite. I’ve missed the very specific connection to people you’d otherwise never connect with, and likely never will again. The openness to something new that only comes when you’re completely attuned to the world around you.

This feeling always reminds me of Anthony Bourdain. There aren’t many celebrity deaths I truly mourn, but I still feel his loss acutely. What the Rockaways made me feel, what I’ve missed so dearly about travel, is exactly what he always advocated for. “I’m a big believer in winging it,” he once said. “I’m a big believer that you’re never going to find the perfect city travel experience or the perfect meal without a constant willingness to experience a bad one. Letting the happy accident happen.”

It’s possible, of course, to take these risks with a travel partner. Some of my favorite adventures have been just that (the whirlwind 24 hours G and I spent saying yes to every recommendation from locals in Vegas comes to mind) and there’s something uniquely wonderful about having someone to share that with. 

But I’ve missed this freedom most. The freedom that allows for making every decision on a whim, for not even saying it aloud or negotiating your way there. It’s such a joy, such a relief, to have this kind of togetherness back.