Montauk. The location hasn't been a secret for some time, and supply-side economics have transformed its once mystical-sleepy-fishing-town atmosphere, at least partly, into something of a more homogenous commodity. Which is to say that hotel rooms are wildly overpriced, people who work there are outwardly resentful, and there's an unfortunate amount of garbage lying around. It's not an uncommon story these days. But the word still holds some cache for me: Montauk. It's the eastern most tip of Long Island and I've always appreciated the idea that, in order to get there, one could simply hop on a train, take it as far as it would go, and then get off. Montauk. Beneath the throngs of angry vacationers and vapid drunks, there is still a pulse, still something breathing, still something that refuses to be handled or shaped or reduced into a mere vacation spot. And for that, I love it. Montauk. I simply say the word and I'm transported there.
This year we took our second annual post-4th of July vacation to Montauk. On last year's trip, Reedu was pregnant, so it has special meaning for us to come back a year later with Mylo. I've also realized in my wise old-age that going on vacation just after a big holiday weekend (as opposed to going during the actual weekend) holds all sorts of terrific benefits-- among them, space on the beach, lighter traffic, and general peacefulness. All of which have become, in my cantankerous old age, increasingly important to me. So on the glorious 5th of July (sorry Founding Fathers), we packed up the family and headed out to Montauk.
Standing on the beach, I hold Mylo in my arms and point out at the great Atlantic. Mylo grasps my shoulder a little tighter and, with unusual seriousness, peers out at the vast expanse of space before us. The waves pound the beach so ferociously that, even from a distance, we feel their intensity and strength. A fine salt water mist slowly coats our faces. Reedu and I love the ocean, and we were eager to introduce Mylo for the first time. Nothing fosters such disparate senses of awe and calm as the ocean. Nothing creates such an immediate sense of humility. Or connection. And I have a hunch that, on some level, Mylo's eleven month old brain is processing all of that. Which is a beautiful thing to watch.
We set up an umbrella and lay our towels down in the sand. I attempt to build some sand castles with a bucket as Mylo shouts with joy and smashes them with his hands. Good fun. This goes on for some time and with each sand block destroyed I start to imagine the boy as a future force to be reckoned with, as a leader of men, a smasher of evil empires. I wonder if Ghandi ever smashed sand castles as a little boy? I'll bet he did. Before long, every inch of Mylo's body is covered with sand. And, for that matter, so is mine (observation: having sand in your shorts is not nearly as fun when you're 37, as it apparently is when you're 11 months old).
The next day we go to a section of Montauk called Ditch Plains, which is a little further east. It is probably my favorite part of Montauk, and when Reedu was pregnant last year, this is where we had some professional pictures taken. The waves break further out and are gentler on this beach, which makes it a popular surfing spot. We take Mylo into the water and he loves it. It's great to be back.
Later that evening, after we've showered, I walk Mylo up a large sand dune and, as a cool breeze blows through our hair and the sun goes down, we say goodnight to the ocean.
