Rockaway is ugly, unless you like body drop off spots. Entire portions of it are populated by Irish cops who have cordoned their community off with miles of thorny thicket and installed gates at the beginning of every street. Then there are the parts of Rockaway look like the desolate, wind-swept, God-forsaken corner of Cape Cod where you awkwardly lost your virginity. The sections of the boardwalk yet to be re-built after Hurricane Sandy look like some post-apocalyptic Roman aqueducts, and they are. Then there’s the fact that everyone waxes poetically on its familiar exotica, like Columbus discovering his own navel. You can surf in New York City. Right off the subway. Oh my god.
But maybe there is something about that way you can check each jetty for a hundred streets and have each be its own delicate microcosm of sand distribution, swell and wind, like cataloguing the ways your lover sighs or complains that you didn’t fill the Brita up again after pouring yourself a glass of water. How everyone on the street, whether they surf or not, asks you, “Hey man, how are the waves?” and is proud but unsure of what, that way you’re sprinting towards their howling freezing ocean like something out of Antichrist. The young local girl checking the surf with her toddler sister during a hurricane swell, tells you she surfs and “Yo I’m saving up for a thicker suit.” People fishing in Jordans. Those planes constantly arriving from somewhere and nowhere. The tacos. The off-season bagels. Marinating in your own urine. Oh my god. There may be nothing as tiresome as human novelty, but it always feels good to get in the water.
For Monster Children online