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The Ridgite in Coney Island Series is courtesy of Stas Holodnak.
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A Ridgite In Coney Island: Part 1 A Ridgite In Coney Island: Part 2 A Ridgite In Coney Island: Part 3For some time now, I have been looking to get back to Coney Island beach. Surprisingly, the young summer days have retained the spring freshness, and so has the water. “Yes, the water feels cold,” as my friend Lena says, “but once you begin to swim, you don’t want to leave!” I wanted to leave as soon as I got in since the sea felt so cold. Each swim lasted only for a few laps, followed by a hasty retreat.
A heat wave later, the water became inviting, and the beach life, as I know it, roared back. Very early in the morning lone swimmers converged. Most of them stayed within the safety of the jetties. They were swimming there before I got in and after I left. The beach demographics changed when I arrived after eight o’clock. The lone swimmers were gone, replaced by the elderly couples who came in for the full package — umbrellas, beach chairs, and a good time with friends. Some of them would say “Horosho, oy kak horosho!” as they dipped in the water. It felt wonderful indeed!
As I ventured beyond the jetties, the meditation-like relaxation induced by the ocean, described in my previous SwimSwam dispatches, did not return. Last year, we had a vicious shark attack on the Rockaways, which abuts Jamaica Bay. The city promised rescue and shark-watching drones and more lifeguards, but I didn’t see any drones watching out for sharks, so I am doing it myself. As for the lifeguards, many of the lifeguard chairs continue to double as open lockers for swimmers’ belongings. The lifeguards are only watching certain sections of the Coney Island beach.
One day, as I was ending my swim, something unexpected happened. I rounded the jetty and was heading for the shore when I noticed a barely visible line mere inches away from me. I followed it all the way back to the fishing rod that was anchored into the sand. Next to it, two men were standing together, glued to a smartphone, paying no heed to what was going on around them.
“Excuse me, I almost ran into your line,” I said to them. One of them glanced at me and stated, with a Russian accent, the obvious: “The line is not the problem. The hook is.”
The hook was the problem. A few weeks later, my friend warned me that his coworker had a scary incident. He was swimming around the jetties when suddenly he felt something latch onto his hand. It was a large hook. The hook was attached to a piece of the line that was trapped under rocks. The line did not let him go free. He felt himself being pulled down. Not yet ready to become fast-fish, he dove and cut the line with his teeth. As soon as he reached the shore, he checked into the Coney Island hospital, hook in hand. Scary sharks notwithstanding, we humans are by far the biggest hazard out there.
Not even once did I care that some people swam faster or had better swimming style — I was envious of those who knew how to dive into water head first because I couldn’t. As a kid I never got it right. Most kids who I swam with in the Ros River dived effortlessly. Some of them were diving from the scary-looking cliffs, while I refused every invitation to join them. Now, on vacation in Greece’s Aegean Sea, with the internet and ChatGPT on my side, I decided to check the diving box.
For practice I’ve used the inflatable obstacle course that happened to be on the beach premises. It had slides and trampolines but also flat platforms, some at the water level and some elevated. I dutifully progressed from leaping into the water to sitting, one knee down, squatting, and finally to a standing position. I learned to dive faster than I thought I would. What I didn’t anticipate was the awesome gliding momentum that overtakes and carries you through water. It reminded me of the instant glide of a sailboat freed from the mooring line — to some just another law of physics, to others a small miracle.
The Aegean Sea is pretty. It’s clear and blue. It lets you float on your back with your head well above water. It’s closer to the Dead Sea than to the Atlantic Ocean, and it taught me how to dive. Yet I can’t wait to get back to my Coney Island beach early morning swims.
About Stas Holodnak
The very first time Stas saw the sea was as a little boy. He saw it from a bus window at the end of a bumpy twelve-hour ride. The Black Sea appeared to him as blue as the sky itself only much crisper and within reach. Today, Stas lives in Brooklyn mere steps from the water. If he is not swimming or sailing – he is writing about it.
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