Driving west along 25A in Stony Brook, or maybe it was Village of the Head of the Harbor at this point, a glance to my right and I am struck by this beautiful, voluminous orange orb receding into my horizon. I try not to veer off the road, but try even harder to follow the sinking sun. If I could drive through all of the towering trees and mansions instead of meandering down the 25 miles-per-hour no-parking-allowed Head of the Harbor road, I'd have spotted my sun in no time. However, I cannot find a place that would truly put me on par with the horizon to view my spontaneously desired sunset.
After fuel from Cool Beanz in St. James and a couple of inspirational words from William Least Heat-Moon, I could not let my desire for the horizon simply fade with the setting sun. I set back out on 25A heading east this time into Stony Brook Village and drive to the marina at the harbor in hopes of viewing the orb disappear into the horizon. My sun, however, is gone, but its remnants remain in the hues of orange, purple, and grey that streak the darkening blue sky. Other than the bugs--gnats, a suitable monosyllabic moniker for an insect not worthy of anything more--and the birds cacophonously croaking their hymns across the channel at their sanctuary, I am joined by some other sunset seekers:
-An Asian woman and her daughter, both wearing different shades of purple, taking a dip in the harbor water cordoned off for those wanting a late night swim.
-A bald man in jeans and red polo shirt sitting contemplatively on the sand apparently not minding getting his socks dirty to get a view of the natural sunset with me, the Asian woman, her daughter, and the birds in the distance.
-A couple perched atop the lifeguard stand, who presumably belong to the car in the parking lot with the Ward Melville High School 2009 sticker. I wonder if they are going to college, where, and if they will try to stick it out for their freshman year.
Trying to avoid the bugs (unsuccessfully, of course), I move closer to the water where I observe in the distance a small vessel, a dinghy or small power boat, coming into the harbor with the last minutes of daylight fresh on its tail. The boat is called Master Craft and clearly they do not need the light of the setting sun to master what they do.
Do any of us need light to be masters of our crafts, I wonder? I never sit fully in the dark; I do not think it possible to be productive in the dark. Light, therefore, is of utmost importance, and I set out to find what happens in Stony Brook when the light of daytime slips away into the night.
Instead of taking notes in my phone while I am walking the half mile or so into town, I decide to stop and write in the first few pages of the book I am currently reading by the aforementioned William Least Heat-Moon, Blue Highways. Still at the marina, I pass:
-An Asian man reading, possibly studying, while looking out onto the harbor.
-A balding man by himself fishing.
-A man in a red shirt with his daughter and son, also fishing.
I pass the Stony Brook Yacht Club, and the old-fashioned lampposts leading up to it, which are lit up and have an eagle on top of them. Gnats pestering me still, I pass by the Three Village Inn and its country cottages, towards the moon, which looks almost full. I guess I missed out on the full moon last night, I wonder as I head into the Village Center of Stony Brook, which could be the Village Center of Jackson Hole, Wyoming or Bozeman, Montana for its remoteness and sparsity. It is not yet 8:30 and everything seems closed. An American flag stands next to a garbage can that reads "I like to see a man proud of the place in which he lives" - Abraham Lincoln. This garbage can quotation and American flag juxtaposition resonates with me.
I wonder where a person goes for a drink in the village of Stony Brook at 8:30 on Monday night. There is a barren answer of "nowhere", as I wonder to myself, looking at the flags in the dark store windows. The restaurant Pentimento is closed on Monday, evidenced by the lone person inside painting the walls, surrounded other than his hallspace in complete darkness.
Wandering this village is strange with nothing and no one around. I notice in one of the store windows that Conor, a 3rd grader at a nearby elementary school, drew a picture representing the Stony Brook Fire Department's 100th anniversary. I pass by the fire department, erected of course in 1909, which is dormant as well. Coming to the end of the Village Center, I decide to head back to my car.
On the way back, past the chairs set up for a wedding at the Three Village Inn, I see the sandy-socked, red-shirted bald man walking with the purplish Asian woman and her purplish child holding a beach ball. He was as quiet as I on the beach, having no interaction with them while we were both sitting on the beach, observing the horizon. I would have never guessed them to be together. What was he thinking about? Was he wondering why I was pounding at my small keyboard, looking at him, his wife, and daughter?
As I get back to my car, I see Master Craft still waiting to dock and the man and his kids arguing about what they didn't catch that night at the Stony Brook harbor marina. I need to talk to someone here to find out what it's really like.
In search of a bar, I make my way back to 25A and to Stony Brook's The Bench Bar & Grill (nee The Park Bench), where I drink my Blue Point RastafaRye alongside a dozen guys watching the Mets-Braves game and a girl playing Kings of Leon on the jukebox.
I like the feel of this place, The Bench. It's dark and reminds me of an old-school joint, lots of signs and knick-knacks on the walls to stare at and read when you're tired of observing the guys watching the Mets lose. I am inclined to taste the bartender-recommended beer, Long Ireland, which is a delicious dark beer with sweet vanilla flavor hiding behind caramel-coated hops. I find out that it's brewed by the guys sitting next to me, Greg and Dan, who travel from Bridgeport, Connecticut, on the ferry everyday to promote their craft brewing company gem. I talk to Greg and Dan about the light effect on beer, how in a few years craft beers will be seen in cans because light coming in through the bottles slowly makes the beer lose its flavor, in a sense, "skunking" the beer. I learn here in The Bench that light is not always such a positive thing; however, I suppose my following the light of the sun tonight led me to this realization.
On my way home from Stony Brook, driving south on Nicolls Road, it's a beautiful night for the windows down, progressive rock radio of WEHM turned on, blasting "Laid" by James and "Great Gig in the Sky" by Pink Floyd, and I think that nighttime and darkness are alright sometimes. As I pull into my driveway, the song "Somewhere Only We Know" by Keane comes onto the station, and, listening to the lyrics, I determine my goal for the next month: I will find out the ins and outs of the place I live, Suffolk County, Long Island, someplace only I know.
I walked across an empty land
I knew the pathway like the back of my hand
I felt the earth beneath my feet
Sat by the river and it made me complete
Oh simple thing where have you gone
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on
So tell me when you're gonna let me in
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin
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