Passage IV

A Beach in Brooklyn

On the Fourth of July, my friend Jeremy and I rode the subway to the last stop: Coney Island. Jeremy's grandparents had loved to go there many years ago and when we wanted to see what the place was like today. As soon as we stepped off the subway into the sweltering, salty air—air so bright it glinted like chrome—and seeing the ancient amusement park rides looming in the distance, tall as water towers. (48)

On the boardwalk a woman is selling peeled mangoes for a dollar each. She served them doused with lemon and salt, and cut so expertly that plucking off the slices was easy. They tasted zingy and refreshing.

Jeremy wanted to ride the Cyclone—the famous roller coaster that plunges and loops, sketching infinity signs across the sky. "Please go alone." I said, watching the riders careen past, lifting their arms and shrieking in fear and delight.

Above all, we boarded the Wonder Wheel, a Ferris wheel, that looked as tall as a seven-story building. We ascended slowly upward, with the operator stopping the ride often to let people board. For a long time our caged bucket dangled at the top, rocking, as we took in the magnificent view: the Atlantic Ocean flinging itself onto the shore, the beach and surf dotted with people the size of letters in a newspaper. At last everyone was on board. The huge wheel rotated once, and then we were back on the ground and the door to our bucket opened. Jeremy laughed. Such a short ride! Still, for that splendid view, it was worth it.

[1] The place has certainly gotten smaller since those days. [2] The amusement area has shrunk from twenty blocks to just three, but it's still glorious, still perfect for a July expedition. [3] On the subway going home, I remembered photos I'd seen of Coney Island in the early 1900s—black-and-white images of strongmen in striped shirts, women were under parasols, and rides that looked rusty and treacherous even then. (60)