I love Coney Island. I took myself out there recently, and reveled in the the winter sea and the sand; the smell of the salt in the frigid air, the sight of a boardwalk with its boarded up summer businesses and the other wintertime revelers out and about, like me, bundled up in coats, hats, and scarves. And sunglasses. How great is that. Wearing sunglasses in the winter, because the sun cutting through the crystal clear sky is brutal and unforgiving, and magnified when it reflects off of the water. The air is cold but the sun is warm, and the water is rough and reminds me of other times when the air is warm and the ocean is full of people in bathing suits.

What a day. What a place. I’ll always be in love with it, and I always forget that when a significant period of time goes by between visits. When I was a child, Coney Island was such a mystery. I would see it in the distance, the parachute ride, the ferris wheel, and the top of the Cyclone (I’ve always had a thing for roller coasters) peeking out between the buildings on the Belt Parkway as I drove with my family to visit relatives in Brooklyn and Long Island. I asked about it every time, and couldn’t get enough of the stories of that crazy place, supposed to have fallen into disrepair and abandoned after its brief heyday. They would tell me stories of people getting stuck on the menacing looking parachute ride, people getting killed on the Cyclone. Maybe true, maybe urban legends, but in my mind they only heightened the appeal of that faraway wonderland.

The first time I made it out there, ten years ago probably, really was magical for me. Not just because it was the fulfillment of a destiny established in childhood, but also because of its stunning mixture of life and decay. Coney Island still is that for sure, but every time you go now there’s more life and less decay. Not that that’s a bad thing, but I’ll never forget that first time, those first impressions. And I can’t be there without thinking about that, and reflecting on those family members that came before me, reveling there under such different circumstances, and the legacy they’ve left behind.

Such is the power of the sun and the sand on a sunny winter’s day.