Sandy Beaches

Life is more interesting at its boundaries, and here both a boundary between the sea and the land and the sports field and the dunes. The redistribution of dune sand, nearly two years ago, was quite a blow to the shoreline ecosystem GNRA is intended to protect. Keeping people off the dunes is a full time job, so the Fed made the right decision when it put up a tall chain link fence instead of trying to police the summer hoards. Now, autumn brings quiet to the dunes and beach, so I took some time after tomato picking to check in on its recovery.

Virginia Creeper, Parthenocissus quinquefolia, growing across the dune.

Solidago sempervirens, the hardiest of Goldenrod, tolerating salt and wind, drought and flood, poor soil and nearly zero nutrients.

It is hardly considered a garden plant, but its structure, succulent leaves, yellow autumn flowers, and downy late autumn seeds are perfect for the garden.

And insects love it.

In fact, ecologists recognize Seaside Goldenrod for attracting native bees and predatory insects.

The dunes, prior to Sandy, were easily 8 feet above the concrete walkway.

These are now beginning to rebuild with the help of snow fencing and simply keeping off.

I'm always impressed with plants that colonize sandy beaches. Is this because I had the darnedest time trying to grow vegetables in our Long Island sand when I was a teenager?

Cakile edentula, (American) Sea Rocket.

Kali turgida, I think, creating its own dune.

When we leave Brooklyn for another place, one likely known for draining water, not containing it, I know I will miss the beach and tidal marshes, even the scent of muck, the most. Appreciate, respect, and protect it.

The Present Past

As we enter our tropical weather season (with our first named storm, Arthur, not very far from where I stay), I reflect on the damage caused by the meteorologically complicated storm Sandy, who's damage was largely due to its quirky turn made all the more likely by changes in atmospheric pressure caused by rising temperatures and melting ice sheets. 

This past Sunday, a hullabaloo in the name of art and healing with the likes of Patti Smith, Michael Stipe, of course, James Franco, and others took place in the buildings around the beach farm. Used as a promotional image was a photograph of the sand-swamped barracks with ocean and blue sky as backdrop. 

Below, some plantings (and self sowings) made after sand restoration along the Belt Parkway. 

Farm Camp

This was our farm camp, not far from the town of Montauk or the farm. We tried to keep things simple, after all, this was a work trip.

It's truly nice, however, when you have warm showers and toilets, cleaned every day, at your work camp.

And of course, there was also the ocean and sandy beach.

After the first night of camping it is inevitable that we will rise early, before sunrise, and jump at the chance to see the sights by first light.

To the west southwest.

To the east, north east.

Lathyrus japonicus, Beach Pea.

And of course, Beach Rose, Rosa rugosa, in abundance.


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Monday morning. The first task of the week was to find florists in the Hamptons who may be interested in our Allium Ampeloprasum (ahem, Elephant garlic) scapes. The garlic scape sales weren't too hot, so it was worth trying a non-culinary approach to selling these more robust flower stalks. We clipped a bunch, put them in a water jug, and drove from florist to florist. We made one sale, to a florist named Alejandra in East Hampton. I was somewhat surprised by rejection of these stems, especially at the florist with the spare, sculptural aesthetic who's main concern was stems smelling of garlic (they do not) in a hot room (well, maybe a little bit). We gave him our samples and called it a day because we had another task to tackle -find a barn in the area that we could rent to cure the garlic. That turned to out less successful than the our florist hunt. We did, however, get to introduce ourselves to many of the farmers in the area and that has value.

We made some lunch and headed to the Parrish Art Museum, of which I'd always known, yet had never visited when it was at the former site, and thought it was high time to do so.

The Birch and Aspen leaves tap dance in the constant breeze.

A storm brewed to our north. 

Which put on impressive clouds at the beach by the time of our return.

But it cleared up and we climbed into the tent just after sundown. 

Where The Sidewalk Ends

If you've ever made this approach to the beach at Ft. Tilden, you immediately sense what is wrong. Right, you would never have seen the ocean through the abandoned Cold War building.

To the east and to the west, the dunes which protected this barrier land from the strongest storms are completely washed away. Their sand washed across the peninsula or westward, deposited on Staten Island or Jersey shores. The old pilings used to encourage dunes are now visible. This shoreline is now ever more vulnerable to a winter's worth of nor'easter.

This sign, Unprotected Beach, had washed half way across the soccer fields. Unprotected. The most damage to the shore came at locations severely disturbed by human activity and it is no surprise that the wash over was complete around the dunes where thousands hang out in summer.

Inside this damaged structure a reminder of part of Gateway's mission. 

This location, mostly untouched by ocean waters, lies just to the east of the major pass through for beach goers.

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The textures caused by the rush of water are beautiful, despite the destruction they suggest.

Signs of life return on the untouched sand. 

The Jacob Reis beach held up to the storm, having lost some sand, but remaining largely intact. The Robert Moses built ocean-front structures have been built with storms in mind.

The golf course took on water and sand, making it hospitable for the many shore and migratory birds we saw on the greens and floating on new ponds.

The ocean pushed through the peninsula over the road that cuts between Reis and Ft. Tilden, waters ponding in the low spots of the park.

Bittersweet everywhere; their seeds dispersed by flood waters.

A chair, looking no worse for the wear, embedded lightly into the sand as the storm tide receded. 

Potential

Finally, there's little to do in the garden, but look around and wait. The weeding is low, the summer planting all done, spring's harvest complete. To eye the garden without a sense of work is a relief.

It has been a galloping year with the beginning of a distant, small farm, two solo painting exhibits, teaching, the day job, and somehow the notion that all this can be blogged. The beach farm an island, now, away from all those activities, its potential transferred from sea into air into mind at most a loping amplitude. 

So, we watch tomatoes.

Milano plum.

Speckled Roman.

San Marzano.

Indigo Rose (black, blacker, blackest. Ripe?)

Pineapple, Hillbilly, or Brandywine I cannot say.

Black Krim.

Black Russian.

Beam's Yellow Pear and yellow wilt.

Miniature White cucumbers.

Milkweed that survived the whack job.

Those that did not.

Foeniculum vulgare. The sweetest young greens you can imagine.

White eggplant.

Larry's leftovers broccoli (I can never take all that he has, but would if I could).

A small patch of Nantes carrots.

And our small patch of the ocean.

Balm

When you mix sand with abandoned military infrastructure, it automatically feels to me like the American Southwest.

A romantic spot, no?

Salidago sempervirens in seed.

Gulls.

Memento.

Memento mori.

Yes.

Again.

Betsy harvesting Oriental Bittersweet, Celastrus orbiculatus for wreath-making. It's a little past its prime, but  still worth a go. We easily imagine a park official or officious personality with less than optimal knowledge stemming this habit, so we cut with the engine running.

Beach

Two Sundays back the weather was perfect, we headed to the beach farm, and then to the beach. No one was out there, probably all stuck in traffic driving north for the colors. I've always loved the beach off season, not being much of a swimmer, but for the air, the rhythm, and all those objects softened by the sand and surf.

The jellyfish, neither jelly nor fish.

More like ice.

Glistening.

Wishing I could eat it, imagining it like a gummy bear or sea-flavored candy fruit.

Over the dunes

 Seaside Goldenrod and Northern Bayberry, Myrica pensylvanica.

Their waxy, spicy fruit are really abundant this year.