A woman from Brooklyn

We ran to the sea—to Fire Island. It was September 11, 2013, and the temperature was over 92°F (33°C). The heat was so intense that I couldn’t resist chasing the last breath of summer. The ocean, warmed all summer long, was still toasty. I ran along the beach, diving into the water and back out again, repeating it over and over. It felt like I was flying—so refreshing and free.

On a small hill near the shore stood a group of very elderly men, barely covered by what looked like camera cases—just enough to hide their privates. They crossed their arms and looked around, probably hoping to find a partner?
“Hi,” one middle-aged man greeted me.
I’d seen him earlier, but now he walked right up to me, completely naked and quite proudly on display.
“Hi,” I replied politely.
“Let’s sit and chat for a while,” he said in a flirty tone. I ignored him and just kept running.

I’d always thought this area was mostly for gay men to sunbathe nude, but apparently not—why me? And today, there seemed to be even more naked people than usual. Was everyone trying to hold on to the last bit of summer by shedding everything?

As I ran toward the far end of Fire Island, the crowd started thinning out. A woman running ahead of me turned around, so I followed her lead. But suddenly, the same guy from before stepped in front of me again.
“Let’s talk. Where are you from?”

Why me? I thought. There’s a tall woman right ahead of me—same race as him. Do Asians look like easy targets?

“I’m from Brooklyn. So what?”

Then I dashed off again.

“Where are you from?”—I always answer Brooklyn. I say it with attitude, hoping they’ll flinch and imagine I’m a tough girl from a rough neighborhood.

Health—that’s what I care about, not naked guys. I wasn’t even paying attention to my own husband, who had fallen asleep in the sand after flipping through a mountain of newspapers for his daily “study session.”

“The sand is super hot—lie down. It’s your favorite—just like a sauna,” he said.

While I’d been running, my husband had found a cozy, sunken spot in the dunes, where the sand had turned dark purple from soaking up the heat. It was protected from the wind and perfect for a nap. I lay down. No fancy spa needed—my tired body slowly melted into the warm sand.

“I must not be that old yet,” I joked.

“Three guys showed off their privates and tried to talk to me while I was jogging.”

“Come on,” my husband said. “Who in their right mind walks around naked at the beach on a Wednesday in September, when everyone else is working? They’re clearly not sane, so of course they’d hit on my wife.”

“Before the year’s over, if we get another day above 85°F, let’s come again,” I said.

“Hmm, wonder if there will be another day like this,” he replied.

I think he’s falling in love with the ocean too—just like me.