Trip 46 — Long Island Walk

Day 12: Montauk to Bridgehampton
Monday, 17 November 2025

Today: 50475 steps/38.71 km/24.05 mi/6h 52m
Total: 540437 steps/419.75 km/260.82 mi/73h 15m

There's a buffet's worth of leftovers from the past few days. Most of it is in the refrigerator, but it wouldn't have mattered, given how cold the room is at the Royal Atlantic Beach Resort.

I eat most of it before heading out: half a banana from the Sag Harbor Inn's breakfast, the Greek salad from Montauk Point, Liz's pasta puttanesca from Sag Harbor, our lobster linguine from Montauk, the last crumbles of the peanut-butter cookie from Springs. A quarter of the Cuban sandwich and half a cod sandwich from Montauk Point go in my bag. There are still a few sips of a can of hard iced tea from the 7-Eleven, and those, as they say, get left for the gods.

I have some business to attend to and don't leave until almost noon. But it's a moderate-length day, or at least it's supposed to be, and I'll get most of it in before dark. It also looks to be the coldest day of the week, so I do my two-T-shirts-plus-a-thick-long-sleeve-shirt trick. It's partly sunny and it doesn't seem as cold as advertised.

When people say they like long walks on the beach, they probably don't mean 17 miles in a blustery wind. But that's my afternoon, step after deep step. Sand walking is difficult, and I try to find the most hard-packed surface. It's usually an area with a black top, but committing to it involves zigzagging, and occasionally it isn't there at all. Sometimes the easiest surface isn't level, and my left leg is lower than my right.

Still, I make good progress for the terrain, keeping it under 11 minutes per kilometer and usually under 10. I walk one kilometer facing backwards, partly to see how it feels (fine but it slows me down) and partly to try to get out of the wind for a phone call (it doesn't work).

I see very few people, and most of those have dogs running around on the beach. The day is brightened when a golden retriever approaches with the expectation of being petted, and of course I oblige. It's taken as encouragement, and the animal jumps up on me and licks my face.

"Sorry," the owner says.

"I love it," I answer, "but I understand not everyone does."

"Some do and some don't."

It's only 2:00 but the hues of sunset are already starting to show, even though I still have two and a half hours left of daylight. When I pass through Hither Hills State Park and Napeague State Park, it's just me and the dunes. I know I'm out of each park when I start seeing beachfront houses again, some of them grand, with private stairs down to the sand. There are a few resorts as well, facing the ocean; their views might not be appreciated again until the spring.

My plan is to make it past Georgica Pond and then leave the beach via Town Line Road, which will take me up to Townline BBQ for a meal, which isn't far from my lodging.

The sun is setting, and a couple of people are fishing from the shore — a poetic scene blemished by their giant pickup trucks on the beach. At the East Hampton Main Beach, vehicles are lined up in the lot, their occupants ready to exit for a quick viewing of the sunset before returning to the heated comfort of their cars. Ahead, maybe five miles and maybe 25, is the flashing of a lighthouse — or maybe it's just a car on the sand.

Georgica Pond, according to Google Maps, is separated from the ocean by a narrow but obvious stretch of sand. I approach the little connector just after sunset, but with enough light to go the extra kilometer after it before hitting Town Line Road. There's a car waiting here, too.

The ocean curls in a bit toward the pond. And then I see that it curls in a lot. And then I realize that the pond isn't a pond but a cove, and the connector isn't a connector but a stream.

"Really?" I say into the wind. "I have to try it."

Liz and I had walked out onto the beach a couple of days ago, also around sunset. The beach had seemed especially wide then. It must have been low tide. If the water is up over the connector here, surely it can't be very deep, even though the current is moderate.

I remove my shoes and socks. It's a short distance across, like crossing a street. The water is going to be frigid, but it's only a few steps.

I take one step in and start to slide down.

"Damn!"

I look at the map. It's going to cost me a half-hour to retrace my steps along the beach and wend my way through the neighborhood up to the Montauk Highway. I can't be deterred by this pesky stream, but it's also almost dark and I have no idea how deep it is.

I go through the routine of removing my phone and wallet and securing their places in my bag, wrapped up. I hike up my pants. I take two steps in. It's like walking off a building.

"What the...?"

The current is stronger than it looks, and I have to grip the wall of sand to stay put, making sure I don't let my shoes get carried away or my bag get submerged. The shoes get wet, but everything else is safe and I'm back on higher ground.

The car is gone, but I wonder whether the driver saw me go down to the stream. Barefoot, I walk over to a log and sit down. My feet are freezing.

I dig fresh socks out of my bag and pull out a shirt to dry my feet. The left sock and shoe go on normally. I can't figure out the angle of the right sock, and I don't care. My hands are too cold to tie the laces properly; I manage a bow on the left but leave the right one tied with just a knot.

It's now fully dark, and I need my phone's flashlight for the kilometer back to the beach road. I'm guided by tire marks, but they make for uneven walking. I need the light to walk through the Apaquogue neighborhood as well. I startle a deer and it races across the road ahead of me.

"It's OK, sweetie," I tell the animal. "You're OK. We're going to be OK."

It's dark enough to feel like midnight, but the presence of an Amazon Prime truck reminds me that it's only around 5:30. This is another neighborhood where the houses are behind electronic gates; I don't know it, but I've stepped into one of the world's most exclusive communities. Steven Spielberg, Martha Stewart, and Calvin Klein have all made Georgica Pond their homes. The estate at 107 Georgica Road has its own Web site and is currently offered through Sotheby's for $28 million.

A pickup truck stops. "Hey, buddy, are you all right?" the driver asks. It's notably not phrased as an offer of a ride.

"I'm OK, thanks," I answer. He leaves and I see a sign ahead. "That had better not say 'Dead end'....Oh, 'Speed bump.' Well, I'm not going that fast."

I find the Montauk Highway and turn left. There's a wide walking area, and the traffic is moderate but with some long gaps that give me a chance to appreciate the stars and the looming trees.

Another car stops. "Do you need a ride?"

"No, thanks. I don't have far to go." Three more kilometers — everything is relative.

I come into Townline BBQ by the little-used highway-side door — most people enter via the parking lot in back. The pool table is immediately in front of me and I've just interrupted a guy preparing to shoot. I look away until he executes it and then head over to the bar. There's a spicy-margarita special on tap, and I'm ready for it.

"Sorry, it's been a weird day. I just need to settle for a minute."

The bartender noticed that I came in through the front. "You walked? It's freezing out!"

"It's part of a walking project. I started in Montauk today, and then I got to...do you know Georgica Pond?"

"Oh, yes. They just cut a trench through there a few days ago."

My jaw drops like the stock market on Black Tuesday. "You mean...if I'd gotten here a week ago, I could have walked through?"

Yes, but it's not like it had been walkable for centuries and I missed it by a week. The pond's water level naturally rises, and they cut the trench twice a year to prevent flooding; the connector naturally comes back. This habit is a matter of contention, as too little water makes the pond brackish and smelly. It also affects the residents' ability to perform activities such as sailing. A couple of times in recent history, rogue residents have opened the waterway ahead of schedule when the pond got too high for their liking.

I've earned a full rack of ribs and that's what I'm having, damn it, plus collard greens. The food comes about 50 seconds after I place my order.

"Whoa!" I tell the bartender (and you, largely to emphasize that, contrary to overwhelmingly popular belief, that is still the correct spelling).

To my disappointment, the ribs are already stacked up in two rows. I'd wanted the experience of eyeing a plate with ribs stretching from here to Riverhead, much as I had to see that 16-ounce lobster roll back on PEI. But I'm indoors, and that alone suppresses any expression that I'm not totally content.

To my right, friends of the bartender are discussing which bars would be hard to get kicked out of (around here it's the North Sea Tavern and the Station in Hampton Bays). To my left, the bartender's brother is boasting about his two-guess Wordle score (he always starts with "claim" and "dough" — I point out that it's like what you do when you win the lottery). At the end of the bar, others are revealing what infractions got them pulled over.

I still have 45 minutes to reach the Bridgewater Inn, and I groan as I hurry while digesting margaritas and all but three of the ribs. Safely inside, I take my socks off and put the heat up to 75 degrees. It's an old-school dial thermostat, and it works.

Go on to day 13