Long Island is 118 miles long and 20 miles at its widest. Its South Shore is home to some of the most beautiful, white sandy beaches in the world.  I grew up near Jones Beach State Park and the adjacent beaches, Tobay, Gilgo and Fire Island. Some of my fondest memories of parents, friends and youth will always be connected to these endless sands of time.

The first image, "The Marsh At Setauket", by Joseph Reboli, is a painting of a classic Long Island salt marsh. The second image is my photo of a salt marsh in Nissaquogue at sunset. The third picture shows a crowded beach day at Robert Moses State Park on Fire Island. The fourth image is of the Great South Bay. The fifth is of seagulls strolling on the beach in front of the East Bath House. The next two images show some of the beautiful sand dunes of Long Island. The eighth picture shows the surf rolling in on the beach. The ninth picture is the fruiting of the Beach Plum, Prunus maritima. The tenth photo shows a group of beach goers near the water tower at Jones Beach and the seventh is an aerial view of the park. The next photo shows the seemingly everblooming Portulacas along the walkways at the Jones Beach and the last image shows the historic Fire Island Lighthouse at sunset. I only wish people would respect and do a better job of protecting this very fragile ecosystem of beaches, dunes, estuaries and salt marshes.

                                                            

  

                Long Island Nostalgia

               Blue Ocean pounds pure shell-white Sand,
               Where dune-grassed Mounds, green Scrub Pines stand;
               'Round Point o'Woods, past Watch Hill grand,
               To Cherry Grove or Saltaire Strand;
               True coastal Scene; fair Fire Island.

               Though Ferries run, crisscross the Bay,
               Reach sun-bleached Shores, so Bathers play,
               With Portulacas on Display;
               No one's amiss; Beach Hideaway,
               Just Fun and Bliss each Seaside Day!

               Through Waves, foam-tossed, grayed Driftwood glides,
               Midst Flotsam lost, strayed Jetsam hides;
               Detritus churns, 'gainst Turf collides,
               Yet Breakers crash, sprayed Surf subsides;
               It's Time, alone, that turns the Tides!
 

 

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© Howard B. Eskin 1996