Like just about everywhere, I guess, there has been a proliferation of mega-mansions along the waterfronts of Skinny Island in recent years.  In most cases a perfectly acceptable, if smaller house, was bull-dozed to make way for a palatial monstrosity that, in size, design, and finish, looks like a Disney faux building.  Just three miles south of us begins a row of these overbuilt oceanfront eyesores, and again about fifteen miles north.  And just a half-mile west, virtually the entire Intra-coastal waterfront, for miles, has also been victimized, with new ones popping up every month.  Times are very good for a very few.  But two things have occurred along our little stretch of paradise that have kept and will continue to keep us low-key and funky, i.e mansion free, for a long time to come.

Both have to do with the presence of State Road A1A.  First, the way it was constructed those many years ago left the seaward land section too narrow for building on for some twenty-five miles.  You just can’t do it.  Everything is west of the road.  To be sure, there are a number of condos, but thanks to a strict building code, they can’t be taller than 5 floors along here, and the single-family houses that remain are generally small and simple.  And the second reason, of course is good old A1A herself.  Nobody with the money to put up a palace wants to have a funky old highway in their front yard, no matter how iconic.  Consequently, they’re all over on the Intra-coastal.  Ha!  Must gall them no end that they can’t be oceanfront.  We aren’t either of course, technically, but we can see the water well enough, the beach is ours, and every time I have to wait out a few cars to cross the road to get there, I remember that if the old road were configured just a little differently, this wouldn’t be the place it is, and we surely wouldn’t be here.

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Rough Atlantic under brisk on-shore winds this morning, but by early afternoon it had laid down a little, so I waxed up the old blue board and took ‘er out.  The winds were still on-shore but very light, and the swell had organized itself a little heading toward low tide, with some nice 3-4 foot sets breaking outside and some connecting in to the shore break.  A little more size and juice was noticeable on the way out than I’d encountered in my first immersion a few days ago, but I punched through and sat a while sizing things up. Kind of choppy and churning still, water a murky olive-green, and about sixty-three degrees.  A good set loomed and I lined up to catch the middle of the three waves.  Easy paddle in, nice stand and drop, and the thing opened up much better than I’d anticipated, with a long chest-high wall to work, and then a re-form I stayed with actually too long, a ride that took me some fifty yards from where I’d started.  Way inside again, I had to negotiate a long paddle back out, but this time a good deal more spent.  Got worked by several set waves on the way, which took a toll.  Caught a few more, but nothing as good as the first one.  Good work-out, though; slowly pulling it back together after the long lay-off.  More respect than ever for the power of that medium out there, realizing the loss of strength and stamina means I have to avoid mistakes, not take too many risks, and get out before fatigue sets in.  Not always easy when you’re having fun being seduced by something strange and beautiful.  The sense of being totally in the moment, devoid of thought, but intensely physically engaged, is unmatched in my experience.  And, like everything truly seductive, there’s an element of danger, which increases of course, with age, dammit.  There’s probably a line I shouldn’t cross out there, but I won’t know it until I’m over, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.  Game on.

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