On a perfect weather weekend, when the first of the summer beach crowds are expected, we had miles of beach to ourselves. No buildings, rooftops, roads or cars were within sight or earshot. This was the ideal place to spend a day throwing a kite up in a 10 mile an hour wind and watch it fall to the ground a milli-second later. None of us had the faintest clue how to fly a kite nor to apply sunscreen.
An hour train ride from Flatbush Station, a mile walk, and a packed ferry deliver us to Davis, New York. We bought beers and strolled through the town. There are not many places in the States where one can have a beer beyond a confined space without a serious reprimand from authorities. This part of Fire Island now joins Montana and New Orleans as havens in our freely litigous society. 
We signed in at the Ranger Station and were warned about ticks and jumping sand vipers-both nasty little creatures. Our only instructions were to take a two mile hike east along the south shore of Fire Island to get to the wilderness camping area and dig at least a six inch hole for our waste. 
The dunes roll uninhibited along an east-west line parallel to Long Island. The horse-shoe crabs, sea gulls, and the piping plover are in abundance. There are remnants of development, some rusted and weathered foundation pilings. The only recent human footprint (other than actual footprints) on this end of the island is debri from campfires with some broken bottles around the fire rings. For the life of me, I still can't figure out why people do not pick up after themselves, whether on a city sidewalk or in this near pristine environment. Thankfully, most people are too scared to camp.
Using our camp stoves, we cooked rice, bean and cheese burritos, drank a bottle of wine and watched the sun set over the main land. We played some cards and slept under the stars. I awoke for few moments to catch the sunrise over the narrow strip of land to the east. The ocean and bay bounced the new day's light along both sides from where I sat. The only possible way to improve the moment is to be paddling on a sea kayak in these same waters.
After the almost completely fruitless kite flying effort of the day before. Shawn stumbled on the the technique. The motions turned out to be so simple and subtle, completely contrary to our jerking arm movments and then in desparation dragging the kite a half-mile down the beach. As is often the case, economy of motion and a little understanding of the mechanics - in this case aerodynamics - trumps brute strength.
The next step is to control the kite with our eyes close. With instruction in Hatteras, hopefully we can control a much larger kite, strap a board to our feet, and cruise along the water. 
