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6.26.4

Re-entry

Spent most of the day walking around the Strand, the narrow strip of land between Brooklyn and the Bronx. According to a plaque on the South shore (near a long beach that would have been perfect for a skinny-dipping* except for these little black things everywhere, like pieces of burnt driftwood?) the Strand is 55 feet wide at its widest point.

Despite that, it apparently once housed an entire ping-pong ball factory. The balls were removed by boat, and plans by the ping-pong industrialist, Billy Mitchum, to create a bridge spanning the 100 yards of water on the Bronx side never materialized. He died lonely, having never accomplished his dream.

Strangest of all, there was a man there, on the island, making crepes on a camp stove. Apparently there was to be a wedding party there later that day; he was setting up, and making crepes to feed his own hunger. He offered me one and, against my usual instincts, I accepted it. It was good.

*Note: I wouldn't dip skinny myself (my exhibitionism was limited to the confines of my ballet lessons at age twelve) but the isolation of the beach spoke for itself. I could imagine spending every morning there, with the City in the distance, and the brisk wind. Walking back to the rowboat, watching my feet as I walked, I came upon a dead cormorant, and then heard calls. Above me was a flock of them, flying low at the edge of the surf. They'd been silent while I entereed their midst—until I came upon their dead comrade.

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