Starting when I was a kid, summer meant leaving the sweltering, nasty confines of 1970s New York City for Fire Island, a nearby spit of sand, 32 miles long, wedged between a bay and the wild waves of the Atlantic Ocean. Yes, a vacation on the beach! My mom, my sister, and sometimes my dad would head to Bayshore, Long Island, and then skedaddle to the Zeeline Ferry, a fleet of sky-blue boats that would slog along for 45 minutes and deposit us in a car-free paradise.

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There, sandy paths and boardwalks awaited, fringed with wind-warped pines and rustling reeds. The town we stayed in was exactly two little blocks wide. On the bayside, the shore was covered with seaweed and crabs skittering around; at the ocean, there was endless soft-sand beach with intimidating waves. And in between? The ancestors of today’s micro-homes: little shingled wood cottages, often with goofy names. The only mode of transportation were our feet, trikes, and bikes. The only engines belonged to the local police’s fleet of dune buggies, which they’d drive down the beach.

Old-School Summer Pleasures

A summer of absolute idleness would unfurl. My mother would camp by the Atlantic with her book, and my sister and I, as grade-schoolers, were totally off the leash. We’d run around to different houses, somehow finding a network of like-aged kids. One house perched right over the ocean had a huge deck holding four waterbeds, arranged in a grid. We’d leap from waterbed to waterbed, shrieking, experiencing a physical freedom unlike anything we knew in our apartment back home. Then we’d take turns flinging ourselves off the top of the dune steps, the wooden staircase that led from the top of the sweet-pea-covered sand hills to the beach below. If we were lucky, there’d be a stop at Warren’s house later, with its trampoline out back (no supervising adults around, ever), and we’d practice doing seat drops and swivel hips. How accomplished we felt mastering these moves!

We kids were totally off the leash, running around solo to different houses, somehow finding a network of like-aged kids.

Afternoons were spent eating Now and Laters and trading Archie comics that we’d bought on our parent-less treks into town, which consisted of a hardware store with a huge penny-candy section, and a couple of other businesses. As the sun crept toward the horizon, we’d head home for dinner, card games, and more comics.

The unsmoggy blue skies and silent setting provided a stark and treasured counterpoint to daily life in the city. Which is why I was so curious about going back as an adult: Could I recapture that aimless feeling of that wonderland awash in the pine-y smell of juniper bushes and the sound of seagulls cawing?

Let’s Do It Again!

I found out a number of years ago when my husband and I spent a brief window of time there. It was my doing; I was craving a couple of golden, unstructured days, and Airbnb was happy to provide.

First things first: The ferries were the same shade of blue. The sandy paths and the spicy scent of juniper were still there! No cars, no traffic, just us on this strip of sand. I was in my own little Gilligan’s Island-esque paradise. We hightailed it to the beach, as awesome as ever, with waves thundering; one of the most primal and perfect spots you could ask for. We got our toes wet, and I marveled how little young me used to wade into the ocean, past where the waves broke, to bob up and down in the surf. (This was pre-Jaws, obviously.)

Walking along the beach, I felt that same delicious, faraway vibe as I loved when I was a child. There was just the sound of the surf, the salty air ruffling your hair, and, every few feet, a new natural wonder—washed-up shells and carcasses of sea life, hinting at the world aquatic, hidden from our view.

We hightailed it to the beach, as awesome as ever, with waves thundering: one of the most primal and perfect spots you could ask for.

But taking a closer look, how things had changed! Mother Nature isn’t easy on barrier islands, and over the last few decades, superstorms had swept many of Fire Island‘s beachfront houses (including the one with the waterbed deck) out to sea. What’s more, the little beach shacks had matured into McMansion castles, added onto right to the lot line. Deer and privacy fences were everywhere. Kids can’t free-range their way through adjacent sandy yards anymore. An alarming number of people were zipping around in golf carts, unheard of back in the day, and tweens on skateboards and scooters had me constantly looking over my shoulder to see what was bearing down on us.

That Was Then, This Is Now

As we headed into town, I discovered that what was “basic,” as the young folk say, in my childhood had become “extra.” The hardware store that used to have a dazzling array of candy and comics was now doing brisk business in fancy, fat-tire bicycles. A few doors down, sunburned vacationers queued up for artisanal ice cream at lofty prices.

It was still fun to stroll around and reminisce about what stayed the same vs. what was different, but as time passed, I realized it wasn’t just Fire Island that had done some changing.

The hardware store that used to have a dazzling array of candy and comics was now doing brisk business in fancy, fat-tire bicycles.

The adult in me woke up from her reverie. Time to check my phone…my work emails. Check in on the (grown) kids. I could never really recapture that carefree-child moment again, of wandering, lollygagging, and listening to Neil Young and Crazy Horse on a transistor radio. Those days were all about youth, being on summer vacation, and having a parent who made sure we were fed, gave us a dollar for spending, and put calamine lotion on our bug bites.

Can You Every Really Feel Like a Kid Again?

But now, I’m the adult, and my brain was churning with a million and one must-do’s and responsibilities. The kid who used to fritter away the hours was gone, replaced by a “gotta get things done” grown-up.

While you can get back to your childhood place physically, getting there psychically is a whole other story.

And that made me mopey! When our couple of days ended, I felt a bit of relief to get back on that ferry and rejoin my adult life, which is my current comfort zone. The moral of the story for me was to treasure the memories of a childhood summer place, not try to recreate them. Because while you can get there physically, getting there psychically is a whole other story. Adulthood deposits us a world away.

Next time I need a beach break, I think it has to be somewhere new, where nostalgia won’t kick in. A place to scope out fresh landscapes, adventures, and rituals—looking forward, not back.