Once Upon a Time…

“If I could wish something good for someone, I would wish for them an island with no address.” — Tove Jansson

The summer months, on New York’s Long Island, are a hive of buzzing outdoor activity — a veritable buffet of leisurely things from which to choose — boating, a day at the beach, gathering in backyards with family or friends in celebration of milestones, outdoor concerts at Jones Beach, or simply allowing yourself to exhale, to relax, and to melt into the season and be open to the possibilities that a day may bring.

One weekend, you may find yourself on the outer beach with friends; cooking hot dogs and hamburgers, discussing favorite foods, your children and your dreams, or the latest political conundrums before taking a break from it all in the endlessly blue and cooling ocean. That evening, you’ll be toasting marshmallows to golden perfection over a driftwood bonfire while the full moon rises — reflecting liquid silver light along the ocean’s surface.

On another weekend, there’s a camping trip to the easternmost tip of Long Island — to Montauk Point — staying up late into the night to watch the spiraling Milky Way, then falling asleep to the lapping water against the shore while the Montauk Lighthouse beams in the distance, shepherding weary sailors and fishermen to port.

If camping, beaching, surfing or boating isn’t a preferred choice, then dining al fresco on the morning’s catch at a seafood restaurant in the Hamptons is always an option; and there is always a real possibility of a glimpse of that Hollywood personality who was recently photographed in that same restaurant.

The choices are endless and all one has to do is to be open to the moment, to the day, to the evening. This small story that follows was one such summer day on Long Island — when being open to the possibilities of the day laid a foundation for a lifetime of memories…

It was a season of triple-digit temperatures and humidity, pop-up thunderstorms storms and Gulf Stream tropical waters. It was mid-August on Long Island and our mighty company of four — my brother and sister-in-law, my husband and myself — had set aside the day to take a new boat out into the open waters. We had no plans other than to be swept along with the currents and seeing what this new boat was capable of doing.

Our destination was called Little Gun Island, a small, if-you-blink-you’ll-miss-it island sometimes found in the Great South Bay — just adrift of the mainland and off the sandbar that New York State calls Smith Point Park. You’ll not find this tiny island on any navigation map. It’s one of those seemingly magical places that mysteriously appears and disappears at whim; and can only be found by those that are true sailors and explorers at heart.

“It’s not down on any map; true places never are” — Herman Melville

We set out from the cove that morning and slowly motored down the inlet aboard the new boat, passing 100-year-old homes with their old boathouses and docks, continued through the No Wake Zone until we passed the Long Island Coast Guard facility. Reaching the Great South Bay and heading starboard, toward Little Gun’s last known coordinates, my brother-in-law opened up his new boat; and soon we were skimming over the surface of the water. All of Long Island became a blurred landscape of inlets and marshes as saltwater spray and the wind from the ocean baptized the new boat. Our mighty crew of four, exhilarated with the simple joy of being alive in the moment, readied for any adventure that might come our way as we flew above the bay waves and seagulls parted before us.

It seemed like mere minutes and much too soon to be anchoring off of mysterious Little Gun. The four of us surveyed the tiny island of handed-down folklore and local legends of inexplicable disappearances. It was no more than twenty yards in any direction with wind-swept dunes and rampant salt-water vegetation. There wasn’t a single seagull, horseshoe crab or sandpiper on the eerily deserted beach. We began to wonder if we were going to be the island’s next victims.

Our perception of time seemed suspended as thoughts of Robinson Crusoe and the oh-so-frightening prospect that either time-warped head-hunting savages or plundering pirates could be waiting for this crew of unsuspecting beach-goers. Cautiously we waded ashore, keeping a vigilant eye out for any other signs of human habitation — a fire, a footprint, a gum wrapper — all the while tugging behind us an inflatable raft full of all the necessities that a shipwrecked crew might need for the day; a cooler full of food, iced drinks of choice, umbrellas, chairs, towels and a hope that someone remembered to pack the 75-plus sunscreen.

Armed with only a mighty, military-grade mosquito repellent, we explored the length and breadth of Little Gun, leaving no rock unturned, marsh unexplored nor mosquito alive. Except for it’s legendary ability to disappear at random, there was nothing remarkable about this spit of sand whose scrub oaks and pine tree branches bore water marks and the scars of having been twisted and ripped by hurricane winds. It was nothing more than a swish of a tail from one of the large sharks that bred in these waters; but it was brimming with very tangible magic.

We discovered priceless treasures buried in the sand; perfect moon seashells, a galaxy of starfish, turquoise beach glass and sand dollars… a lone sea turtle, a host of water fowl and what we hoped would be the only water snake around for many nautical miles.

Feeling enriched in our discoveries but exhausted and famished from our castaway ventures, a summer feast was pillaged from the coolers — grilled hot dogs, potato chips, green grapes and cut up watermelon, Oreos and a bottle of good champagne with which to claim this island as our own. The day was perfect… cloudless blue-blue skies, pristine sand and warm water to snorkel… and of course, those uninterrupted afternoon siestas.

Too soon, the August sun slid into the West, signaling an end to our day of magic. Hesitantly, we packed up the boat and headed back toward the inlet, back to the cove that awaited our docking. Through the No Wake Zone, my brother-in-law suggested that I takeover and pilot the boat where it was safe enough for a greenhorn like me — a beginner in the proper navigation of a boat. Admittedly as anxious as I was of hitting a channel marker, I loved every minute of this salt-water adrenaline-filled experience as I maneuvered his boat on the river, feeling somehow that I was “living on the edge” of something and moving toward an indescribable freedom that is only found on the water….

The four of us lingered over a glass (maybe two) of wine when we finally docked. Within a matter of minutes it was decided that we should end this remarkable day by staying the night on this very special boat — christened Gracious II, the most gracious of all boats that rescued this shipwrecked crew from the perilous fate of disappearing on Little Gun Island — and to fall asleep to its gentle rocking after such an adventurous day. We talked well into the evening, the wine flowed and our brilliant wits became more animated with hilarious stories of our children, fond memories of long-departed parents, close friends and what the future might hold for us. Then, one by one, we began to make our way into the cabin, to put lotion on sun-burnt bodies and to fall asleep cradled within the Gracious II.

Sometime during the evening, I woke as I began to feel closed in and much too warm from being sun and wind burned. Leaving the cabin, I went up top to the deck where the air was fresher and cooler on my skin. From my new bed on the aft platform padding, I could look up at the stars in their blackness, listen to the movement of the boat creaking against the dock and feel a peace and well-being that comes from a full day of outdoor activity. Time was irrelevant as there was no place I needed to be but where I was — on this boat, the open sky above me, and feeling very much alive and in the moment — alert to the sounds around me, the coolness of the night against my skin, and an overwhelming feeling that the skies had been opened and I could see galaxies many light years beyond the stars.

Lost in my night-sky reverie, I heard a sound like wind rushing through the trees. Refocusing my attention from far-away galaxies to the present, I saw a huge blue-black shadow flying toward the boat — its wingspan immense. A intense curiosity woke in me as this creature flew so close, I could literally count the feathers in the ambient light of the boat. If I had been brave, I might have touched the belly of the great blue shadow.

I recognized it as Great Blue Heron and felt the wind generated beneath its wingspan as it flew in a slow, graceful and deliberate course. It’s penetrating yellow eyes looked down from its flight; and I’d like to believe that it was as curious about me as I was about it — maybe in its bird’s mind within its bird’s skull the heron was wondering what was that rather large and odd-shaped cocoon. In a way, this beautiful, wild creature was acknowledging that we were sharing a very unique and quite startled but enchanted moment.

Silently, it flew on… over the marsh and disappeared into a night captivated by stars and an undeniable magic.

Great Blue Heron, Photo — National Geographic

This particular summer day on Long Island was a lifetime ago. In those intervening years, our families gathered for boating excursions and beach days… for Full Moon parties and al fresco dining in the Hamptons. We celebrated family milestones, births and weddings and many more years together before the waters became troubled by medical issues. Those concerns eventually led to the death of the one who taught me to pilot a boat and watch the channel markers. My brother-in-law, Gaspar Montalbano — who loved his wife, his children and grandchildren fervently, who threw wild and extravagant celebrations at his home — died of diabetic complications, 11 years after that most magical of nights.

When this small story began to take shape, it was time to find the words within the memories of salt water wind across a boat flying over the water’s surface; a time to revisit an unchartered island and rediscover the treasures that were found. It was also a time to reflect on those everyday celebrations in our own too short lives — the big ones and the little ones — the promotions, the new home, a grandchild’s first tooth and the loss of a loved one.

But even in that loss, the sting of death and the seemingly victory of the grave cannot truly claim those loved ones. Instead we celebrate their memories, the richly sewn tapestry of their lives with a certain knowing that we will see them again.

Once upon a time on an August day on Long Island, all the stars aligned to orchestrate a perfect day for a family — a day of extraordinary adventures — and a time when death wasn’t so near and life felt like it would and could go on forever.

”The island is ours. Here, in some way, we are young forever.” — E. Lockhart

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Dedicated to Gaspar Montalbano (June 28, 1951 — July 13, 2021), who patiently taught me to follow the channel markers, and l'amore incondizionato di Gaspar per la sua famiglia (Gep’s unconditional love for his family).