Far Rockaway

A short piece I wrote on Fort Tilden beach, NYC:

Grit in my bum and thigh-high tan marks – contrasts worthy of a Caravaggio. The beach is burning up. Dark shapes of big men stalk the periphery, gender neutral breasts in the heat haze. A real hurricane breeze coming off the foreshore now, smacking swell and smell. There’s even a tide-line ballet going on here – ‘tumble weed’ foam escapes, scuds, then implodes in the cartoon dune behind me. A couple of bearded nomads pass us by – from Brooklyn or Manhattan, or beyond - who knows where. Adam’s keeled over, like a bust boat, with beachcombing trophies strewn around his personal shipwreck, lost cargoes in the near Atlantic. We’re both turning British beetroot even with the max factor we got from Michelle's. 

My bladder’s synced with tidal surges and the urges - to urinate in the wash - are getting pretty strong. Just try and avoid vigilantes, cyclists - seaside scorn. The classic dash, the seminal plunge, the stroke and gasp and I’ll be out of reach. Serene. Sublime. Possibly pissing in a rip tide.

Banner trailing planes pass, advertising for oysters, and the coastguard are definitely out to lunch. Bye bye Americana. God bless.