The Voyage to Gilgo Beach

It was dark and stormy night…

Actually it was a dark and stormy afternoon and for once that’s relevant to the story. In fact, in this case it is the story. It was a cold Thursday in early December; early enough in December so that snow was still less likely than rain. The Cap Corps Volunteers were milling busily around the office preparing for a confirmation retreat in Patchogue the next day.

For those of you who have not extensively explored the strange and foreign hamlets of Long Island, Patchogue is not particularly close to Garrison, New York. Pull out a map. Find Queens. Go east, go further east, go out to the long end of Long Island and X marks the spot, there you’ll find Patchogue.

Fortunately for us, the Capuchins have a villa house on Gilgo Beach. Rather than leave for Long Island at 6 AM, we would leave on Thursday midday, drive to Gilgo Beach, spend the night there and have only a 30 minute drive in the morning to Patchogue. Brilliant!

But nothing is ever that simple…

We’d only been in the office an hour or two when Fr. Fred walked in with an announcement. “Ahoy, maties! There’s a storm a blowin'. The seas are rough and flooding the roads. We should be going soon. Get your stuff and we’ll leave after the third watch.” Thus our voyage began.

We had two ships in our fleet: Fr. Fred’s car and the CCV’s Impala. The men were quarantined for cooties and sent to Fr. Fred’s car while the ladies jumped into the Impala. Now by all standards, the Imapala drives like a boat. She doesn’t stop, she glides. She doesn’t turn unless you’ve first given the rudder time to respond to your command. Big and wide as she is, you feel like you’re sailing the Seven Seas as you ride down the Taconic Expressway. Yet though in outward appearance she seems to function like a boat, that doesn’t make her seaworthy.

Brave Captain Lindsay Gilbert piloted the Impala down the Long Island Expressway, dodging puddles the size of which could have hidden an angry sea serpent or a swamped Volkswagon. Her frightened crew said their prayers in the back seat. Then it hit: the Impala had run into a puddle and was hydroplaning at 70 miles per hour down the highway. Silence reigned but for the happy sound of a mariachi band playing over the radio as all stopped and all stared at the wall of water that engulfed the car. The ship was at the mercy of the water. Thank goodness St. Christopher loves them.

In the meantime, all was well in the mother ship. How do I know all was well? I was snoozing in the back. How could it be better? In my dreams there were no storms, no puddles to hydroplane on, no problems.

We stopped for provisions. We had enough supplies for lunch but we would have had to ration for dinner. So we hopped out of our cars and practically swam through the torrential downpour to get to the store. Fr. Fred and I went and got our Subway sandwiches while the rest got Chipotle. We were ready to go but the ladies insisted we get Dunkin’ Donuts. You’d almost think they were stressed or something. I couldn’t fathom why.

Our voyage resumed, as did the storm. Captain Gilbert resumed her place at the helm and continued to navigate treacherous waters. But trouble was brewing. This time, it did not come from the wind or the waves but from the ship herself. The captain looked down to see at what speed she was cruising. The dial told her she wasn’t. Indeed, the speedometer claimed she was going 0 miles per hour. Unless the world was turning backwards, there seemed to be a minor discrepancy.

The overpass to the beach at Gilgo Beach. I walked through
that in the dark. It was creepy.

I awoke in the other car to the sound of a ringing cell phone. The first mate answered. “Hi, this is James. Ummm, yeah, we’re going about 70 miles an hour right now. Why do you ask? Oh. What happened to your speedometer?” I shrugged my shoulders and went back to sleep.

The journey was almost complete. Only the last leg remained. In the Impala, there was much rejoicing. “We’re here!” the captain called. They could see the beach, they could see the road on which the beach house stood. She turned the ship left and stopped. “Are you kidding me?!” They beheld in front of them a puddle deep and wide, the likes of which would easily engulf their little ship. They would have turned back, but they could see their destination up ahead. With a brave cry, Captain Gilbert drove on into the sea. The Impala survived. They were finally safe at port.

Our ultimate destination: St. Joseph's Church, East Patchogue

That night the rain let up and I took a walk along the shore. Coming from Maine, the smell of the salt air, the crash of the waves made me feel at home. What a wonderful trip this was! I felt so refreshed by it all. The rest of the CCVs were grumbling about what a stressful trip this was, but I knew something they didn't: when mortal peril threatens and there's not a darn thing you can do about it, it's always best to take a siesta in the back seat. You'll be much happier for it.