Each year, I ride the ferry out to Kismet on Fire Island. The bay’s murky water reeks of dead fish and pollution, and the ferryboat itself smells like old gasoline and old barnacles. The barking dogs and crying babies clash in volume with the roar of the boat pushing through the water and the loud cry of the foghorn.But despite the awful ride to the island, all I feel is as ready as Usain Bolt before a big race. My body is shaking in anticipation of the week ahead of me and I count down the seconds until we reach the shore.
Once I step off of the ferry onto the dock on the island, a rush of wind blows into my face and sweeps all anger and sadness right out of my body. Walking to our house is different than any other walk. There are no cars, and a “reckless driver” is the guy who lives next door and decides it’s a good idea to ride a segway at a high speed of twenty miles per hour down the middle of the road, pushing everyone else off to the side. As disruptive as it may feel out there, it would be a simple daily occurrence in life back on mainland.
The island is less than a quarter mile wide, so I feel the beach air from the dock on the bay. I could spend half the day fishing for giant stingrays in the ocean, and the other half catching small pufferfish in the bay. I could swim in the ocean, or take a jetski ride off into the bay. The houses are no more than ten feet apart from each other. The streets, narrow as normal sidewalks, are lined with little girls selling colored shells or hand-crafted necklaces. Each town is a bike ride away from the next, and the lighthouse’s fog light can be seen from any spot on the island.
Stepping onto the beaches what sets the week off. The warm, white sand massages my feet as I take my first steps and the tranquility of being in an area of so few people lets the ocean’s roar be heard at any point on the island. Once I step off of the splintered wood path, a gust of salty wind smacks me in the face. Even as the salt tingles my throat, the wind still draws me closer to the ocean.
My first year out on the island was a new beginning for me. We were buried in the sand on a daily basis by my dad, went on hourly trips to get ice cream at the market, and even had a water balloon fight in the middle of the beach. All of these things got my adrenaline going, but weren’t what made that summer truly special. The bonds I formed with my new friends showed off a different side of the island and its effect on me as a person. Before going off to Fire Island for the first time, I was the type of kid that would never go out of my way to talk to people I didn’t know. I always tried to find some sort of comfort zone in any new environment that involved putting forth the least amount of effort socially. The first two days, I kept my head down, always walked slowly to wherever I was going, and barely ever spoke.
But something changed that week. I started to converse with the other two kids my age who were staying in the house with my family. Common ground was harder than ever to come by considering they were girls and enjoyed making jewelry and reading more than throwing a baseball around or playing touch football. But somehow, we all got along perfectly. We taught each other different card games, played with the younger kids in the water, and spent almost every minute of every day together that week. The beach allowed for the three of us to have the time of our lives, but more importantly, to enjoy it and play together. All of us had this newfound freedom that could never be found on the mainland. We could go anywhere we wanted until 10 PM as ten year olds, and could take bike rides to the farthest point bikeable (about 5 miles) whenever we wanted with no question from our parents.
Each summer came and went, with one week in August set aside for going to Fire Island. Last year, as an incoming high school senior, I was out on the island for my eighth consecutive summer. And while certain traditions changed, new ones arose. Now instead of burying ourselves in the sand each day, we play a game of tackle football. But what never changes is the bond that was formed that first year. The three of us still go on daily trips to the market and play with the younger kids in the water, but create new traditions, such as hanging out with “natives” our age or going to play pool every night at the bar in town. The 10:00 curfew became midnight, and the water taxi could be used whenever we wanted to ensure that we could go wherever we wanted each night to enjoy ourselves.
Being in such a small area on a very secluded island, I had more of an opportunity to roam free at night without any parent or sibling interference. I was able to hang out with whomever I wanted, wherever I wanted, and for however long I wanted. Even my parents were more ambitious, going out dancing at the bar until 4:00 AM, five hours later than they ever come back home on the mainland. It’s like they put something in the water that makes everyone transform into a calmer, more adventurous person.
The one tradition that will never change is on the last night we all sit on the sand and watch the stars from sunset until midnight. Each time, all nine of the kids in our house take blankets and lie on the beach and just stare at the sky. The stars glisten brighter than anywhere I have been, and bring out a soothing aura from my body. It is in that moment that a sense of comfort sets in. The whole week was full of fun and laughter, but in that moment, I don’t want to move a muscle. I just want to lie down and gaze into the starry night.
Each year when we leave, it’s the saddest moment for all of us. We make the last trip to the candy store to grab smoothies, get our last game of pool in at the bar, and play until our bodies can’t play anymore. As we board the ferry to go back to the mainland, it is night. The lights of houses down the streets light up the beach and allow for a faint glimpse of the ocean on the other side of the island. The roar of waves crashing off in the distance is the faintest of sounds that can be heard, and the only lights are the lanterns that fill the night sky.