queersage: Fire Island

Arriving in Cherry Grove

This year we went out to Fire Island and stayed in Cherry Grove instead of the Pines because we were only coming for a few days and accommodations were somewhat less expensive there. Both communities have reputations as being gay, very gay. Historically, the Pines appealed to men and Cherry Grove to women. But while the Pines seems to still be largely a bastion of affluent gay men, Cherry Grove doesn’t fit a stereotype. It is much more democratic. As one of our friends from the Pines says, “honky-tonk.” Both communities were damaged by Hurricane Sandy, but somehow Cherry Grove, with its slapdash bohemian air, was already on the edge of disrepair. You feel like many of the wood structures are just one good wind away from blowing over. The Pines, on the other hand, with its manicured modernist homes, shows every scratch. The boardwalks in Cherry Grove are warped and uneven, and nobody seems to care. In the Pines, you know they are using a level.

Downtown Cherry Grove

An abandoned cabin in Cherry Grove

Honky Tonk retail

Our ramshackle guesthouse

Between the two communities lies a patch of national park commonly called the “Meat Rack.” The hostess at our guesthouse (hotel would be too generous) told us a story of two of her guests, a straight couple, wandering in there at night not knowing its reputation and the husband being chased by a man. “Who would chase after my husband?” the pregnant wife said. Which reminds you that there is somebody for everybody. The couple scared off their mistaken predator with the bright flashlight attached to the room key. We got lost in this stretch of nature during the daytime and got a nasty reprimand from a park policewoman for being in the wrong area. She was, like most police I’ve encountered, very mean. She certainly didn’t make us feel welcome, nor was she eager to help us find our way. I think she exists to intimidate gay folk, or like the NSA, all folk. It was like a return to the bad old days when the police would raid the Meat Rack. But as I told our friends over lunch, “Leave it to me to nearly get arrested for not having sex.” Paul didn’t find the humor in this, but he did use his British accent and innocent blue eyes to get us out of the jam. Like so many people in front of the police (especially marginalized folks), we just kept saying “I’m sorry.”

The (in)famous Belvedere Guest House

Houses inspired by the Belvedere's questionable architecture

Besides a few famous cruising spots, the Pines has a concentrated entertainment district around the harbor. Noted New York architecture firm HWKN has built a new Pines Pavilion to replace one that burned to the ground. Although not quite finished, it opened for business earlier this summer. The form and material seem to take some inspiration from Horace Gifford’s work, but updated in terms of structure and size. While Gifford’s work was drawn from Kahn, this is a modernist interpretation of Venturi’s “duck.” There is really one elevation that matters.

The view from the deck in Cherry Grove

View towards The Pines from Cherry Grove

Tasteful private pool in The Pines

New Pines Pavilion

In the Pines, people go to the beach, go to “tea,” and entertain at home. In Cherry Grove, it feels more like Carnaval at the Seashore. The houses and accommodations are generally much smaller and denser. Since folks in the Pines eat in more, the best restaurant we found was in Cherry Grove. But of course, the market in the Pines is far superior. Politically, I am more drawn to Cherry Grove, with its eclectic mix of incomes, gender preferences, short-short gold lamé shorts, tall-tall blonde wigs, and excessive tattoos. Aesthetically, I am drawn to the clean modern lines and private pools of the Pines. Different locale. Same old conflicts.

View from the dock at Cherry Grove

One thing I figured out about Fire Island right away: isolation costs more. A few short miles from Long Island, the sandbar known as Fire Island requires that any good consumed by a human being be brought in by ferry. That includes everything from fuel for hot water to chilled Bandol Rosé. This kind of glorious isolation can lead you to hit “empty,” a state that my fellow blogger Charlotte Moore talks about in a recent post (see http://thedailycure.wordpress.com/2012/08/06/day-9-the-heart-of-the-matter/). It will also empty your wallet. But for many of the summer inhabitants at the gay male end of Fire Island known as the Pines, the isolation leads to a desire for some of the action of home. Shed a few clothes, shed your inhibitions.

Our pool

There is one dusty, sandy, and sometimes (after a storm) muddy street called Fire Island Boulevard, used by access vehicles and the rare truck. Every other street is a narrow boardwalk winding through clusters of pine and bamboo. Housecleaners, repairmen, and delivery boys ride little Cushman scooters, but almost everybody walks at least a few miles a day on these endless planks that are always in a state of semi-disrepair. This is one of the greatest charms of the Pines. Just about every house feels like a secret compound.

As soon as you board the jitney at the Sayville Train Station to take you to the ferry, you know this is a summer camp of some kind. The wild-eyed driver sports swimming trunks, a tank top, flip-flops, and tattoos, and he doesn’t bother with a seat belt. He turns up the volume on the disco beat, and everybody is ready to roll.

After two days, most visitors to the island have been to all of the bars and hot spots. The restaurants are not memorable, but the Pines Pantry is surprisingly well stocked, given that it has a captive market. If you want to go out to dinner, you can catch a “water taxi” to Cherry Grove, which is similar to what we used to call an “E” ticket at Disneyland. After a few moments on the short journey, I was worried that our little boat would break into a thousand pieces.

On the way back, we heard stories of waves crashing over the captain. Cherry Grove does not have the same orderly, cedar-sided modern houses as the Pines. The retail area has honky-tonk, slapped-together ambiance. At Cherry’s on the Bay, a tree covered in red lights pierces the tent that serves as the disco/bar. Drag queen entertainer Hedda Lettuce points out that the tree is better dressed than she is. Everybody is talking about Liza Minnelli’s appearance at the Ice Palace disco and subsequent sightings. Unlike most folks, she gets her own Cushman/Popemobile or “Lizamobile.” One friend who attended her show observed that after her performance, she saw two drag queens dressed like more decrepit versions of her, and she uttered, “Dear God.” It must be hard to find yourself in Cherry Grove performing a few songs only to be confronted with poor male impersonations of your fading self. Joni Mitchell has fared so much better in this department. Hedda Lettuce referred to the weekend as “Lizapalooza.”

Liza Minelli in her "Lizamobile"

A day in the sun and the salt water makes guys out here randier than usual. Since Fire Island is so absurdly expensive, older men, who may be bald and chubby, are quite common and even welcome. (Although at the “shareathons” that take place each year in New York City, some people with a lease freely state that they don’t want “fatties.”) Younger men are willing to take 1/16th of a 1/8th share and share a room with somebody they barely know. Or they attach themselves to older prosperous men. The natural environs where men seek each other out have been described in great detail several times in queer literature of yore so I won’t go into that.

One topic of conversation was whether Grindr would kill the turf between Cherry Grove and The Pines. Seems unlikely. While all the testosterone informs a lot of fantasies and realities, there are also numerous couples and other folks who are just looking to find that quiet empty, the isolation that was the original draw. For them, discos, drugs, and multiple hook-ups are history. The area around the ferry landing does feel like a flashback to the late 1970s and early 1980s to us middle-aged folk. But then the weekend ends and the temperature drops. Even the waves got calmer.

For me, the “empty” has something to do with the temporal nature of the place. As soon as someone finishes a multimillion dollar house here, it begins to disintegrate. The salt, rain, and bugs devour these wood boardwalks and beautiful modernist homes. When everything is closed for the winter, the storms come and occasionally take a house or two away, and according to some reports, are taking the island itself away. Last winter, the famous Pavilion dance club burned to the ground. By next summer, a new one by architectural firm HWKN should be up, and there will be another place to celebrate “tea.” When everything quiets down, you hear the cicadas, birds, an occasional vehicle, a distant boat, and then a sound like trains on the track. But there is no train here. That sound is the bouncing of roller bags as somebody walks to the ferry to return home.