With beach season about to begin, I thought this FLASHBACK would be a fun post…

August 2004, Lonelyville, Fire Island:

I was sporting a new hip and indulging my newfound pleasure, writing. Three days of tablet and quill, my brain was fried. Armed with my newly replaced hip and one year of intense rehab, it was time to take a break. I got into my bathing suit. It was a snug fit after all the inactivity. I swam and splashed in the bay for an hour, showered and decided to shave. Not a razor in the house. The thought crossed my mind that if I did something with the writing, I could masquerade as a bard, “Papa Rider.”

I felt good after the swim and the outdoor shower and changed into my khaki shorts and a navy blue sports shirt. It was 4:30pm. I decided to pay a surprise visit to some friends, Pat and Sue Ross. I walked to the ocean and headed east to the next town over, Atlantique. The beach was still crowded, though many of the sun worshipers were packing up and ready to call it a day. My legs felt good. Atlantique was a twenty-five minute walk along the ocean, and I soon found myself cutting through the dunes and climbing the steps to the over-walk.

The Ross’ four-bedroom house was nestled behind the dunes, the second floor deck running the length of the house offered a beautiful view of the ocean and an ideal spot for the obligatory adult beverage or two at sunset. There they sat talking animatedly with another couple, totally oblivious to the impending arrival of their friend from the west.

For two decades, Pat and Sue had been our next-door neighbors during the off-season on mainland Long Island. In the years that we lived side by side, a close friendship developed between us, despite a disparate view of the political scene, Dorothy and I of the Elephants Up persuasion. A favorite hobby during election years was to sneak over in the dead of night to plant a GOP candidate’s yard sign on the Ross’ front lawn. Likewise, Pat and Sue liked to conduct midnight missions to post Democratic signs amid our daffodils. Lots of laughs, all in good fun.

Resting on a bench near their house, I brushed the sand from my bare feet, cupped my hands and hollered, “Are there any Republicans up there?’

“Are you kidding? You won’t find any here, but you can come up anyway.”

We had a great visit including a call to wife Dorothy on the mainland. One last Tanqueray and tonic, and the beginning of a spectacular sunset. Now, decision time. I could just go back to Lonelyville and go to bed, or I could venture further east — another half hour walk to Ocean Beach and the abundant nightlife that awaited. For once, my legs felt good, no doubt due to the lingering effects of the generous G&T’s. When I reached the beach, I turned automatically left away from home. The tide was out, the beach was firm, the walk was invigorating. The closer I got, the more the memories came tumbling back. I was an Ocean Beach lifeguard for five years during high school and college. The path to the bright lights was no stranger to me.

The long walk from the ocean over the dunes to Downtown afforded time for more flashbacks. Most of the houses hadn’t changed. That was Claire’s house. There, across the street, the Swedish babysitter held court, and so it went until I reached Main Street. It was teeming with tanned revelers, kids with ice cream cones, buzzing and electric.

Like a magnet drawing a pin, Goldie’s beckoned. Now called The Mermaid, in my day it was THE PLACE. Owner Lou Hawkins was one of the great jazz piano players of his time. Fifty years ago, I was lifeguard by day and occasional bouncer there by night. The lifeguard crew considered Goldie’s our base of operations. There were numerous other bars and eateries, but none with the appeal of Goldie’s.

On any given night and for their own amusement, customers might hear Vic Damone or Eddie Fisher, Georgia Gibbs or Ethel Merman sing with Goldie at the piano. Steve Allen often sat in for him.

The closer I got to Goldie’s, the quicker my pace. Any lingering twinge in my hip was lost in the anticipation. The swagger had returned.

The place had changed little inside. The piano was missing, but not the image of Goldie’s hands racing back and forth over the keyboard or the wondrous sounds he produced.

The other major difference was the bar. Although it was still in the same place on the north side, rolled-up garage-like doors had replaced the solid wall, allowing the bartender to service bar and restaurant customers and at the same time fill orders for those customers preferring outdoor dining and drinking.

The bartender was a human octopus. This early evening, I was the only one at the bar, seated in the middle, five empty stools on either side. The action was on the deck. The sun was dropping like an orange tinged balloon, into a bank of reddening cotton-candy clouds. The young blonde waitresses, their pony-tails bobbing, were darting from the kitchen to the deck and back and forth from the bar. It was quiet inside. Outside everyone else was talking at once. I longed for the sound of the piano and Goldie playing his signature arrangement of “Old Man River.” The canned music, just turned up, was no substitute.

My reverie was interrupted as one by one, sometimes in pairs, the stools began to fill. Before long, I counted 14 of the best looking, tanned and sunburned, shapely young girls — some standing, some seated — all ordering at once: exotic drinks or Coronas with a slice. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. I began to think that all of them coveted my company.

Of such occasions, my Grandfather used to say, well into his 80’s: “Bird oh bird in thy flight, make me a boy again just for tonight.”

Back when I was life-guarding, we would have been all over them. Instead, I engaged in polite conversations with the girls and told the bartender stories of the past in between his order-taking. It was no substitute, either.

Eleven o’clock and time for the long walk home. The running conversation with the bartender and the history lesson about Goldie’s past so fascinated him that he refused to give me a tab. Even better, he gave me a “Mermaid Champagne” glass as a memento. I’d have to hide it well from the family! Good-bye’s to the girls and the bartender. I made a command decision. No more walking on the beach, no more exercising for the day. I took the water taxi home.

IT DOESN’T HURT TO LOOK!
George S.K. Rider

P.S. To all other ex-lifeguards and current Fire Island fanatics, I’d like to print your stories too. Please email me at ridercrawford@gmail.com or give me a call 860-581-8199. See you at the beach!