No Barriers: Walking on the Edge

1. Getting there  I intentionally left Connecticut just after the morning rush hour on a Wednesday, assuming that this timing would afford me a leisurely trip to Brooklyn to complete the second leg of the first island, finishing off Coney Island. Most of the trip was smooth sailing. Then came the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway (AKA the BQE). My GPS suggested a shorter route that would save me a whopping 7 minutes. However, that involved heading in the direction of the George Washington Bridge (AKA the GWB). I’ve learned to steer clear of the GWB . . . ever. It is a trap. It’s never shorter when the GWB is involved. And that route would put me in Manhattan, only to have to cross the East River (via yet another bridge) into Brooklyn. No thank you. So from the Bronx, I took the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge, which I believe is mostly known as the Whitestone Bridge or maybe just the Whitestone because everyone knows it’s a bridge. Then came the BQE. To say it was crowded doesn’t really convey wh

1. First failure  It never occurred to me that going to Sea Gate, the exclusive neighborhood at the western end of Coney Island where I was start my barriers walk, might involve getting through actual gates. I figured that I could just park on a random street in the neighborhood, head to the Coney Island Lighthouse on Norton Point at the western tip, and continue in the southeasterly direction on the beach (ocean on the right) and cruise down to the boardwalk to the New York Aquarium before turning around (ocean on the left) to head back to my car. Check that off. First leg complete. Wrong.  The tipoff came on closer examination of Google maps for Sea Gate, which I now know is a gated community, true to its name. Ok, I’ll just park outside the gates and walk around and get into Sea Gate on the beach (as if no one else had ever thought of that). Nope. Fences. Serious fences. Chain-link fences right up to the shoreline and to the edge of the jetty, along with several no-nonsense "No

I've always hated going to “the beach.” For one thing, I have the kind of skin that the sun seems to find before anyone else’s, turning pink then deep red while others are still applying their first round of sunblock. I’ve never liked the crowds, the heat, or the pernicious sand that finds its way into all the wrong places of your swimsuit. But I’ve always loved the ocean. When I was growing up on Long Island’s South Shore, my parents would take us down to Jones or Tobay Beach for early-morning breakfast barbecues with my Uncle Ray’s family in summer. Or we’d go in the evening, after the masses had long packed up their coolers. And we’d go in winter. That’s the time I loved it most. No one cajoled you to go into the water, sunburn was little threat, and the ocean’s steady roar felt both wild and soothing. Feel the burn: circa 1973 at Montauk Point  And there are no crowds. I remember taking one of my friends with us to the beach one time in winter when we were little. “It snows