Urban Adventure: on a quest to find where the subway ends

Urban Adventure is a biweekly series in which a writer travels to a far-flung New York destination and reports on his findings. Traveling the subway and riding his bike to places most Columbia students are too lazy or too overscheduled to go, David Vega-Barachowitz’s stories tempt students to spend their weekends exploring the city.

I’d never thought of the Rockaways as an actual place. In my mental geography, the word evoked a state of reverie—some place you’d dream of, having fallen asleep rocking back and forth in your mother’s lap.

In contrast to Coney Island, the Rockaways offer more than postcard nostalgia and the ruins of dreamscapes and playlands. A ride along the coast unveils a series of experiments in coastal living.

From the seaside town of Arverne to the Robert Moses-era towers rising amid fractured bungalow hamlets, to the abandoned military complex and bird-watching preserve of Ft. Tilden, the fluctuating landscape cannot be captured in a single essence.

Instead, it emerges as a series of distinct Rockaways—each Rockaway a singular vision of seaside splendor in itself. And past all these iterations, once beyond the spoil of human settlement, one finds the tranquility of Breezy Point, the end of New York.

Arverne-by-the-Sea

I begin my journey at Arverne-by-the-Sea, near the Beach 67th Street Station. For those acquainted with The Truman Show or Celebration, Florida, Arverne-by-the-Sea represents New York City’s most ardent foray into New Urbanism, which is characterized by high-density housing and an American Main Street vernacular. Advertisements for the seaside community employ a ’50s pastiche, complete with a handsome nuclear family and an oversized blaring sunset.

Strolling through the streets of Arverne-by-the-Sea feels like wandering onto some off-limits studio backlot. Villages called the Dunes, the Tides, the Breakers, and Ocean Breeze share in the seaside flare. (I can hardly fathom the shock if some sparkling new SoHa (South Harlem) development were named The Cliffs or, if they dared be thematic, the Grits.) In Arverne, I can’t help but feel I’m in South Florida.

Blight, Bungalows, and the Bourgeoisie

Leaving the peach- and yellow-hued village behind for grittier pastures, I begin my bike ride down the boardwalk. Arverne, like much of the Rockaways, was once littered by swaths of low summer bungalows rented by working class families during the summer months. In the ’60s, with destinations like the Rockaways and Coney Island on the decline, these bungalows fell under the umbrella of “blight” and most were razed to make way for the banal modern high-rises so adored by Robert Moses. (Look closely and you can still find some Bungalows, often altered or in a ramshackle state.)

Past Beach 90th Street, the beach acquires a grittier, urban atmosphere. The wooden boardwalk, treacherously crowded, supports a stretch of concession stands bearing comic dancing hot-dogs, while the blaring boom boxes near the surf drown out the soft ebb and flow of the sea. But soon, this Rockaway ends and another begins.

Beyond the congested, public portions of the beach, I find myself riding through the suburban idyll of Neponsit Belle Harbor. These are arguably the wealthiest neighborhoods on the peninsula and fit a traditional image of tree-lined suburbia. The homes here are stately, turn-of-the-century affairs. To stave off development and intrusion, these neighborhoods permit solely single-family detached houses. A pair of bikini-clad teenage girls ride by. Fearing a trap, I instinctually cross to the other side of the street.

The Workers Beach and the Soldiers Ground

Past the suburban enclave, I reach the stately art-deco bathhouse of Jacob Riis Park. A Depression-era Moses project intended for working class crowds, the beach hosts a clientele that would seem more at home in Chelsea or Williamsburg. Topless bathers are no uncommon sight here, and the crowd, especially on the unguarded beach further west, has a distinctly bohemian flare (i.e. skinny bikes, skinny jeans).

Just past Jacob Riis Park lies the abandoned Fort Tilden Military complex, today part of the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge (Gateway National Recreation Area). Sparse, wild, and beautifully barren, the duned-lined coast feels relatively empty and secluded, despite heavy summer crowds a mile away.

Hidden among the paths of the military base, decommissioned in the ’70s, are a massive concrete battery and cold war-era nuclear missile silos. The post-apocalyptic ruins seem an appropriate finale to the Rockaways—but alas, they are not finished.

The End of New York

Exhausted from the biking and the hot sun, I at long last reach the object of my pursuit—Breezy Point. Security gates discourage transients and explorers (of which I am both), but I pass through unnoticed, hiding my camera and securing a courtesy button on my shirt.

Past the firehouse and the ice cream shoppe, I finally come to the road’s end. There, I dismount from my bike and proceed down a narrow, sandy path. The end feels near, but the path continually winds, with little sign of civilization but for a secluded cabana village separated from me by barbed wire and weary glances.

Yet as I emerge from the tall grass, I see the others—no pygmies or sea-monsters, but real people in bathing suits collecting shells, small children chasing seagulls, and, far beyond, the breakers and the old men fishing at the horizon line.

A feeling of disappointment fleets over me, as if I have been cheated. I imagined the end of New York, that empty place I’ve seen as a blob on the subway map, to be a lonely, marvelous place, almost undiscovered, save maybe a colony of tiny, rare birds.

But there are people here, and so many seagulls, and at the end of breakers, the city can still be made out in a foggy distant shadow. Yet as I’ve imagined it or not, this is the end of New York—and as advertised, it is so breezy.