Young Man Traveling Solo - 1973 - Part III

Young Man Traveling Solo - 1973 - Part III

... continued from Part II

I headed over toward the ferry. A stream of cars rolled toward land, their noses dipping as they bounced across the dock. Another dozen or so cars, pointing in the opposite direction waited to fill the empty boat deck.

“How much to get on?” I asked the college kid working the ticket booth.

“Walkin?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said, a hint of adventure in my voice.

“Twenty-five cents,” he said.

“Is there a road over there that leads to the south shore,” I said. It was the first time I ever used the term south shore. I felt a bit more competent, like I was Walt Whitman on a journey from NYC to Boston, walking the old Boston Post Road. South shore – yeah, cool.

The waiting cars drifted onto the boat, which looked like a large oblong raft with a high telephone booth on the side middle. I paid my twenty-five cents and joined the crowd, feeling special. Out on the bay I began to feel even more special. I stood on the bow, a gentle breeze hitting my face and decided what I would do. I would walk across Long Island, north to south, to the Hamptons. Walking the whole distance, I calculated that I would arrive before dark. I felt, happy and safe for the first time. I wasn’t enough of a hippie outdoorsman to hike through the Adirondack wilderness, but - walk along Long Island roads in daylight – I could do that.  And didn’t it sound good? “I hiked across Long Island, north shore to south shore.”

The destination of this boat was Shelter Island which was an island in the middle of Long Island. That meant another ferry to the south shore. Fine with me. I’d heard of Shelter Island. Now I was about to walk it. The ferry slowed as it aimed for the Shelter Island dock. Chains unraveled clanking; a large wheel turned grinding, lowering the bulkhead flush with the boat deck until the ferry was locked snug with the dock.  I was first off when the boat gates opened, strolling southward. There was a purpose to my step.

Several hundred feet into the road I ducked into the woods and changed my long pants for cut-off jeans. This was the hip summer uniform of choice for hardy, adventurous young (aging) hippies – like me. Changing in the woods felt like a major accomplishment, like I was a legit outdoor guy able to live anywhere in the world. 

That done, I trotted out to the road and headed south. A small town came into view at the top of the next hill, a cluster of frame houses and a store or two. I passed a large home with a tennis court. A game was in progress, two men. The server looked surprisingly inept, barely connecting on his first serve. “Bad toss,” he offered. The second serve didn’t reach the net. His opponent looked more able, in all tennis whites, crouched pro-like and ready to receive.  

Forty – five the server announced. What? He was leading? Oh well, I chuckled to myself. And they even have their own court. Must be friends of the owner. Soon I was through the town and approaching the southern edge of Shelter Island. I made the four mile trek to the next ferry in one hour and ten minutes.

The boat was loading when I saw the shoreline come into view. I raced the last hundred yards or so and was gasping, plus more than a bit self-conscious when I finally stepped aboard. “Everyone saw you running down the road,” said the captain, “So we waited for you.”  I thanked him - skipper/captain - whatever. “How much?” I said. “A quarter,” he replied with a smile. I wondered – really? - why bother?

The ferry ride was about twenty minutes. I stood on the bow the whole trip next to two kids that peered into the water counting jellyfish. “One, two,” said one kid. “Five, six, seven,” said the other. “I counted that one,” said the first. Disputes continued the entire voyage. Intermittently they yelled the count back to their mom who forced a smile from a nearby car. I didn’t say anything but personally I doubted their count. I could not verify the sightings which I actually tried to do without being obvious. As we approached the dock they were yelling out numbers in the fifties while walking back to the car not even looking at the water. Oh well.

Off the boat now and back on the road a sign said Sag Harbor, 5 miles. A large highway bridge loomed ahead. I was relieved that the bridge had an ample sidewalk (fear of heights) and I looked down from the railing at the cool bay water below. It was too inviting to resist. I hopped over the rail (illegal, but hey, I was a daring adventure-man) and made my way down the bank of jagged ballast rocks to the water. I removed my shoes and shirt and walked out to knee depth where I set my hands into the water and did a couple of pushups submerging my face, lingering in the refreshing water. Wow!

Invigorated, I made my way back up the pointy rock hill and onto the bridge sidewalk and into Sag Harbor without looking down.  A tavern door faced me on the first street in the village and I decided I’d go in for a beer. The inside was dark and damp, that gave me the feeling of an old shore bar. Nice. There were a dozen or so customers, one woman and the rest men, some standing, some sitting and some half sitting. The bartender was an attractive woman. I judged her to be fiftyish and looking at her ready self-assured smile I imagined her to have a happy life. The same went for her customers, an especially jolly lot for 3:30 on a Tuesday afternoon. I was the youngest person in the room. I ordered a draft beer. “Glass or stein?” the bartender said. “Glass,” I said and she poured a small glass (8 oz.) from the tap and set it before me.  

Hard to say if this was the best beer I ever tasted, but it got my vote. Still I had just the one. I left three quarters change on the bar and walked out to the bright sun. Who was that hardy adventure-man? I took to the sidewalk this time because it felt easier on my legs which were beginning to stiffen on the front of my thighs. There was no pain, just the tightness, which actually felt good as long as it didn’t get worse.

Out of Sag Harbor the road was straight highway with little variation. My face was burning and I began feeling anxious to finish the journey. I decided to hitch-hike. After a half-dozen cars whizzed by without so much as a glance at me a guy in a truck pulled into an intersection just steps ahead of me. As I walked by I gave him such a pathetic look that he must have pitied me because he shouted that he was only going a mile or so but I could have a ride if I wanted. I hopped in grateful to be sitting. The ride was over in five minutes. I bid him farewell, feeling that I saved a half hour and happy for that.             

 

I stuck out my thumb again but had no luck, just indifference from car after car. I felt rejected – really - which wasn’t pleasant and it led me to begin a new technique. I decided to reject them before they rejected me. Here’s how that worked. When I saw that there was no slowdown as a car approached I quickly turned my back, dropped my outstretched arm and marched onward. Like I care! 

Finally I gave up all together, new technique and all. I tried to calculate my arrival time into the Hamptons if I walked it all. In the middle of my calculations a van pulled up alongside of me. 

“Do you want a lift?” said the woman in the passenger seat. I immediately went into my loner-outdoorsman-hiker-adventure-man mode for the benefit of the woman. I hesitated, as if I really wanted to hike - not ride. 

“Great,” I said like the thought of bumming a ride never occurred to me. I climbed in. There were five children in the back of the van, two women in the front seat. The women were attractive - very. They said that they would take me to the Hamptons and suggested the Sea Spay Inn as a spot to for me to stay. I wondered why the women offered me a ride. Perhaps they thought I actually was an interesting adventure-man type and perhaps they might like to meet me, maybe have a drink with me when we got to the Hamptons. The thought may have occurred to me but, any words, I kept to myself. 


... continued - Part IV