I’ve had some hard core beach lust for the last month or so. I think part of it is my desire for context — I know I am near the ocean, so I want to see the ocean. I want to look out across the choppy Atlantic and know there is nothing between me and Portugal. (I just checked on Google Maps, and Portugal is my best guess, not allowing for the curvature of the Earth, tidal patterns or the Azores.)
Coney Island isn’t really the space for context, geographically or emotionally, but I’m glad I went. And I might have cured my beach lust if I had spent more time on the sand and less time in a biker bar, drinking Blue Moon and talking about young love and the nature of reality. But that’s exactly what I like about my neighbor Tobia — she’ll go to Coney Island with you AND debate the existence of your physical body, even when so much of your body is on display.
Existence aside, I thought the pier was the most interesting part of our day. Tobia quizzed one of the crab fishermen, who was throwing little metal boxes into the ocean, then pulling them back up.
“So what do you put in the boxes?” she asked.
“So you throw in a chicken and get back a crab?”
“Well, several crabs.”
What an interesting and direct energy exchange.