Looping the Dock
And the allure of staring at water
“Let’s loop the dock!”
The paved dock in Bellport, NY juts out into the Great South Bay1 and is wide enough that you can drive the perimeter—past parking spots and the weathered building that holds the yacht club, past the small ferry that runs to Fire Island in the summer and the rows of boats that make up the marina. If you’re not from Bellport, you may wonder why one would bother to loop it at all.2
When my family lived there, we came up with all sorts of reasons to take a detour and loop the dock:
I wonder how high the waves are today.
Do you think there are any bufflehead out now?
Those look like storm clouds rolling in!
How many sailboats do you think are on the water?
Let’s just make sure the bay is still where it is supposed to be…
It was all an excuse to stare out at the water for a few moments.
Every so often, an article will pop up touting the health benefits of being near water—staring at it, listening to it, floating in it. For me, looking out over an expanse of water is like letting out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Larger is better, with the opposite shoreline ideally distant or invisible. Bays, lakes, and oceans are generally preferable to rivers, but a wild river beats out a developed lake. In a pinch, however, any water will do.
Since leaving Bellport, I’ve been lucky enough to always live within walking distance of Lake Michigan. Sometimes a long walk3, but still doable. I occasionally wonder if I am even capable of living on the plains or in the desert—how long would I last before jumping in my car to seek out the comfort of the nearest body of water? There are few things that improve my mood as quickly as sitting on a shore and matching my breaths to the cresting of gentle waves.
That’s not to say that all my memories of water have been pleasant ones. I remember, seven or so years old, hanging on white-knuckled to our small sailboat as a storm rolled in. I remember a beach day on Fire Island where I got caught under the crashing waves in the shallows of the surf zone, unable to stand up for what felt like an eternity, but was actually less than a minute. I remember standing in the swash zone and feeling myself get pulled towards the ocean, as if the wet sand beneath my feet had become a moving walkway.
I have a healthy fear of water, like the fear I have of a hot stove. Though they both improve my life, I still need to approach with caution. There’s both power and calm in water and that is part of the allure—it can be whatever I need in that moment. When I’m frustrated that my actions are only a small drop in an enormous bucket, I look out to see that when drops combine, they can change the landscape. When I’m stressed, the white noise of moving water and the pleasing visual gradient of blues, greens, and frothy whites are a soothing balm. Even the wrath of a stormy sea can invigorate me (when safely enjoyed from a distance).
Though I haven’t lived close enough to loop the dock in Bellport in over twenty years, that impulse has never left me. My kitchen and bathroom taps fulfill my survival needs, but nothing quite scratches the primordial urge to find a water source like watching waves lap up onto the shore.
Special thanks to my parents for the photo and video of the Bellport dock, taken on a (somewhat) recent visit.
While writing, I found the Wikipedia article for the Great South Bay, which claims the bay only extends as far west as Patchogue. Looking at a map, the water directly south of Bellport is apparently named Bellport Bay, but I don’t remember ever calling it that. Even the Village of Bellport’s website describes Mother’s Beach as being a “stretch of sandy beach on the Great South Bay [emphasis added].”
According to the Dock Policy page on the Village of Bellport’s website, both “hoop” and “loop” are acceptable verbs, but my preference is obvious.
For more about the distance from my various apartments to the bodies of water in Chicago:
Winter Solstice
Today we have gained back a few seconds of daylight. From now until June, the days will get longer, but these first weeks (and even months) after the winter solstice often feel darker than the days that led up to it. The memory of summertime sunshine that lasts late into the evening has become a fever dream and I long for the
I'd loop the dock.. every single time. Even though there is no comparison to the ocean l feel blessed I live in a state with lots of lakes, and get to live across the street from one.