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