On the Ocean Shore

Summer retreats of Yankees. – On the ocean shore. – Wonders of construction. – The centennial tower and the iron restaurant. – A Cuban and a Haitian. – Sea bathing. – Public amusements. – A black man’s head instead of a target. – A night on the island. – A night excursion over the ocean.

There are sometimes moments in human life when existence itself becomes an unbearable burden. Such a moment in the capital of the New World is the entire summer. The heat is infernal; the sun from above and the red-hot pavement from below seem to pierce you through with flame, and the very leaves of the chestnut trees, with which the sidewalks are abundantly planted, instead of coolness waft a suffocating heat. Fortunately, grandfather ocean lies right next door, and so everyone who has any possibility at all of tearing themselves away for a moment from the murderous machine of “money-making” rushes out of the city to summer retreats, scattered in multitude over the islands along the ocean shore. The most popular and beloved summer retreat at present is Coney Island, and its description can serve as an interesting picture of the summer life of Americans.

On one of the hottest days, when the thermometer boldly threatened to cross over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, I, fearing to be roasted alive, set out for Coney Island. Three-story masses of floating palace-steamships one after another departed from the dock on the Hudson River, carrying masses of tormented, perspiring people. In the Hudson River, not only in the vicinity of New York, but for fifty miles above, the water is salty from the constant ocean tides, and therefore on the very step aboard the steamship one feels the cooling breath of the sea breeze. The magnificent floating palace “Leonora” began its journey. From the front platform of the upper deck an enchanting view opened up of the entire panorama of the Hudson estuary. On the right side, on an elevated shore, rise the spires of the capital of the neighboring state of New Jersey; on the left, pressed against the shore, cluster the beautiful and chocolate-colored masses of New York; in the distance the gates to the ocean are visible, and below swirls a thick mass of all sorts of vessels and steamships, which somehow miraculously escape the grandly-moving palace. On deck everyone breathes in the fresh sea air with redoubled effort, and the inevitable orchestra boldly struck up a popular song: “Oh, Emma, what a dilemma you have put me in!” Meanwhile the steamer had already entered New York Bay, passed by the gloomy little island where General Hancock dwelt awaiting relocation to the White House—if only the Democrats could manage to support him—and now it is at the gates leading to the open ocean. An ocean ship from Hamburg slowly made its way toward the entrance to the New World, as though exhausted from a two-week unbroken journey, and masses of European emigrants gazed in amazement at the American floating palace. Nearby, a huge bark moved smoothly by its sails, overflowing with people. The people were in terrible excitement, pressed toward the bow, and continuous desperate “hurrah!” rang out over the ocean. Taking binoculars, I saw before the bark two heads on the water surface, struggling intensely with the wave, and I guessed what was going on. This was a swimmers’ competition, which, as I learned later, was for a prize of 2,000 dollars and they had to swim twenty-five miles. On the bark there were more than a thousand people with an admission fee of five dollars, and with an obligation to drink entire barrels of beer, carefully stocked by the organizers of the competition. And the palace continues to move further into the ocean—and now ahead of it no land is visible: one boundless expanse of water, on which white sails of lone ships occasionally appear and black streaks of seagulls are carried in the blue air. A wondrous sight! But the steamer, as though suddenly recollecting itself and taking fright at this boundless distance, turns to the left, and soon the famous Coney Island opens before you.

If one looks at the shore line of the island from a distance, one can doubt one’s own sense of sight. On the gleaming white sand, as if by magic, rise magnificent palaces with towers, sparkling roofs, terraces, columns, and all sorts of irregularities and ornaments. One can think this is a deceptive mirage, a magical fata morgana, rather than reality. And yet this is real American reality, though not without a mixture of magic. Only about five years ago this island was a sandy desert in which rabbits lived peacefully and hopped about, and on the shores here and there huddled the wretched hovels of fishermen. Its location, however, was so advantageous as a forward post on the path from Europe to America that the government of the New York state decided to build a tower to commemorate the centennial anniversary of independence, celebrated in 1876. And so from that time all eyes turned to the island, it began to become more fashionable, and magnificent summer hotels grew out of the sand like mushrooms after rain. At present, already 20,000,000 dollars have been spent on coastal construction, and each year they expand and are further beautified. The constructions stretch along the shore for about ten miles and provide accommodations for tens of thousands of permanent summer residents, while casual visitors number in the hundreds of thousands daily. On Sundays nearly half the city moves to the island—to rest from a week’s labor. As I approached the island, the sandy shore had blackened from the masses of people moving along the shore line between rows of palaces and the ocean splash.

The steamer stopped at the so-called “Iron Pier.” This is the first marvel. The pier extends into the open ocean for 150 fathoms, and is entirely built of iron and is supported over the water by tubular iron columns. It consists of three stories. The upper serves as a place for promenade: here a large orchestra plays and in all directions opens a wonderful view of both the ocean and the line of palaces. You go down to the middle floor, and there is arranged a rich restaurant with thousands of tables and place settings. The lower floor is occupied by bathing rooms and right under the pier itself is a place for bathing. Upon examination of this marvel of architectural art a foreigner cannot help but be amazed at the demonic inventiveness of the American mind. Only a demon with the help of the dollar could have invented and created such a magical water palace. The entire structure is extremely tall, and even the strongest wave of the ocean does not reach even the first floor and only angrily roars among the iron columns.

Upon leaving the “water palace” onto the sandy shore, the first thing that draws special attention is the tower, a monument to the centennial anniversary. In its structure it resembles the “Iron Pier,” only it goes not into the ocean but to the sky. It is built of iron and represents a huge latticed transparent column. The Americans assert that this is the highest building in the world made by human hands. If one subtracts a portion of this measurement for the sake of American braggadocio, from which they are far from free, the tower would still be a very grand building. Two elevators are constantly working, raising enthusiasts to the very top platform of the tower. The beauty of the panorama that opens out from there far surpasses the fifteen-cent fee for the ascent. At the height one’s breath is taken away on the tower, and you do not immediately dare to look down; and there the two-legged worm crawls and creeps over the sand, and you even become frightened lest the ocean sweep away this tiny rational worm with its wave. The perspective of the ocean stretches away into infinite distance, where white sails appear like clouds. The magical distance of the ocean enchants you, and you cannot tear your eyes from it. The thought soars into this distance and you seem to see the shores of your native continent—but a bell, announcing the arrival of a new elevator, brings you from oblivion, and you hurry to look about in all directions for your fifteen kopecks. The western side of the perspective, revealing a magnificent view of the capital of the New World with the neighboring cities surrounding it—New Jersey, Brooklyn, Hoboken, Williamsburg, and others—completes the charm of the picture, and you descend with completely satisfied feelings. For those who love heights there is another means nearby—to vanish completely into the blue heights. On a rope 1,000 feet long is attached a huge air balloon, which by a certain mechanism is alternately drawn toward the earth and then again released into the heavenly heights. For a few cents you can also experience this pleasure of ballooning, and lovers are usually so numerous that the balloon rises toward the sky always overflowing with human cargo. I did not have the courage to venture on such a flight, especially since I had previously read in the newspapers a very unpleasant incident from the history of ballooning. In Cincinnati, a similar aerostat on a rope had been set up, and thousands of lovers had successfully made aerial excursions in it. One fine day a pair of enamored country lovers, who had come to the city to purchase wedding supplies, wanted to experience the sensation of love in the blue sky. With merry laughter they sat down in the balloon’s car; the machine thundered and the balloon rapidly soared into the enchanting blue of the heavens. Suddenly something cracked, the rope fell, and the balloon, already on the wings of wild freedom, soared into boundless heights—never to return. A cry of despair was heard from the unfortunate passengers, but there was no possibility of helping them; soon the balloon disappeared from sight—and I did not afterward read of the tragic conclusion of this dreadful excursion.

Instead of the risky air flight I preferred to go to the “Eastern” restaurant and ordered myself a beefsteak and porter. There I met two of my West Indian friends—a Frenchman from the island of Haiti and a Spaniard from the island of Cuba. The talkative Haitian, who even on this remote island had preserved all the boisterousness of Parisian blood, according to custom and for the hundredth time was asking the same questions about St. Petersburg, its customs and pleasures, assured me that everyone there speaks French and is extremely fond of Frenchmen in general, and finally, at the conclusion of his endless chatter, swore by the independence and glory of his republic that he would certainly visit our Northern Palmyra. – “You are most welcome!” – I answered him and was greatly relieved when he quickly turned around, bowed and rushed off somewhere—probably seeking a new victim for his chatter. Looking after this fluttering citizen of the great Haitian republic, I made clear to myself why on the island of Haiti, which constitutes an independent state, almost every year there are about two revolutions, and its citizens now chase out the president and put an emperor on the throne, then overthrow the emperor and again restore the president—until the next change of scenery. The Cuban is quite a different sort. He is a young man with long black mustaches and curly hair; his eyes burn with tropical fire, but he is extremely calm and even somewhat melancholic.

– Well, how are things, Señor Roncillo?

– So-so, – he answers reluctantly.

– And how is General Garcia?

– A fool he is, not a general! – the Cuban suddenly flared up, and his eyes gleamed with the fire of indignant despair. – They told him a thousand times that it was too early to begin, that not everything was prepared yet, that he would certainly fall into the trap like a rat. No, he would not listen, he wanted sooner to become president of the Cuban republic, and now he presides in a Spanish prison, if he is not already swinging on the gallows. I was just at his family, but there, naturally, there are tears, and I soon left…

The Cuban twisted his black mustaches and angrily tapped his cane on the table, calling for a glass of cheerful sherry to dispel his sadness. He speaks of the well-known leader of the Cuban insurgents, who last spring departed from New York to Cuba to raise an uprising against the Spanish government and after several unsuccessful skirmishes with Spanish troops was captured with his main detachment. – As a true Cuban, he is keenly interested in the fate of his homeland and constantly dreams of the island’s liberation from Spanish rule. The son of a wealthy planter on Cuba, he had been preparing in medical college for the profession of physician; but when ten years ago an uprising broke out on Cuba, he along with a dozen of his companions abandoned the college and rushed onto the battlefield. For three years he, hungry and half-naked, lived in the mountains and forests, fighting the Spanish. But when at last the uprising began to lose all chances of success, and its participants faced inevitable capture, he along with several of his companions in a simple small boat rushed into the open ocean, and after three days of sailing successfully reached the island of Haiti, from which he then moved to New York, where he is now engaged in the preparation of Havana cigars.

Meanwhile, in the opposite pavilion, the orchestra struck up a Turkish march extraordinarily beloved by the Americans. Its wildly sensual tones stirred the masses, who swayed and rushed toward the benches and chairs in front of the pavilion. Behind the pavilion, Grandfather Ocean tirelessly continued playing his monotonous wild song on the sandy harp. And this noisy splash of mighty waters had a more captivating power for me than even the refined melodies of art. I walked along the sandy shore, as the ocean waves in measured rows kept surging and surging onto the sand, and some were eager to grab your legs if you were not sufficiently careful. Nearby, just above the water, stood a station of the “sea railroad” running along the coast before the front of the buildings. For five cents I bought a ticket, and the train rushed along the very shore. It was a wonderful ride. Looking from the carriage window and seeing before you only the boundless expanse of water, you even forget that you are moving along the land, and it seems to you that some monstrous force with terrible speed is carrying you into the unreturnable distance of the ocean. After several minutes the train stops, and you see before you another part of the island. Here are the same palaces with towers and terraces, but this part has more facilities for sea bathing. And indeed, the entire shore is covered with bathers in their strange fantastic costumes. Men and women bathe together, and from the water comes the sound of various voices—now the shrill cries of timid maidens, now the booming laughter of gentlemen. Opposite the bathing area stands a magnificent terrace for spectators, and under the terrace are thousands of dressing rooms for bathing. The ticket for bathing and costume costs 25 cents. It is hard to imagine anything more pleasant than ocean bathing after the suffocating heat. You swim on the waves easily and freely, and in the enjoyment of healthy coolness you completely forget the agony just endured from the scorching heat. And the waves, one after another, carry you along, and some will actually throw you onto the soft sand. The waves come unevenly, and you cannot keep up with them unless you carefully watch the series of water ridges advancing from afar. Among a series of waves that merely wash your knees, suddenly appears such a wave that unexpectedly covers you entirely. Such waves are sometimes dangerous. The Austrian general consul was recently severely injured. At his summer cottage he sat on a low rocky shore of the ocean “fishing” for fish, enjoying mostly the melodious splash of the waves. His German soul was completely absorbed in contemplating the beauties of nature, when suddenly an enormous wave unexpectedly rushed in, caught the consul, and hurled him down onto the rocky ground, breaking his knee. To prevent cases of being swept away by a wave, the bathing place here is surrounded by a line of lifeboats. Recently rumors circulated that sharks had begun to appear here with a great appetite for human flesh, and among the bathing enthusiasts there was considerable panic; but these rumors proved to be unfounded and were spread by rival speculators who wanted to undermine this bathing establishment.