Surfing in New York City. Yes, surfing, the water kind. Rockaway Beach feels like a hoppin’ little surfer community right here in NYC. Waaaaaay the hell out at the edge of Queens, it’s on a long, narrow spit of land with an enormous beach facing the Atlantic, the other side on Jamaica Bay, and it’s only an A train away. My lovely assistant Colleen and I spent a long day there last month, eating, drinking and sunning our way across a hunk of New York we’d never seen before.

That’s part of what’s so fun about this book project (Great Good Places of New York, to be published by Rizzoli in 2018): the exploration. It’s renewing our enthusiasm for our city, every neighborhood like visiting a new city in itself. It’s almost like going to Baltimore, Chicago, Philly or Boston, and just a $2.75 train ride away. Hey, explore your own city or town or village. Really dig in, do your homework and boldly go where you’ve never gone before, Kirk-style. Or à la Picard, if you go that way. It’ll embiggen your life and increase your connection with (and love for) your hometown.

Exploring Rockaway Beach

It took about an hour to get out there, so after the A train we were good and ready ready for chow. We hopped on our bikes (I highly recommend wheels if you head out there) and made for the Rockaway Beach Surf Club. It’s a concrete-floored beachy dive, with a hell of a fine patio and taco shack out back, Tacoway Beach. A tan, bubbly crowd, sunshine, cold beer, bright murals, red drinks, picnic tables, no-shirt-no-problem, flip flops, and cool beach reggae at moderate volume. Longish line for food, but that’s okay. In about 20 minutes we were eating guac & chips, a spicy mango-cucumber salad and fish tacos. Met a cute local yoga instructor who hipped us to a couple other Rockaway faves that we hit later in the day. I’m going back to the RBSC/TB. It’s a perfect place to start a beach day.

We rode the length of the sprawling, post-Hurricane Sandy boardwalk and hit the beach. And after a day at the beach, what do you do? If you’re me, you go enjoy a snack and a cool beverage at a waterfront bar, of course. We rode to 116th, hung a left and found a little slice o’ heaven, unexpectedly tucked behind a plain old Sunoco station.

The Wharf is a rarity in New York City: a boater bar. It’s right on the southern edge of Jamaica Bay with an all-windows restaurant and a sprawling deck with a bay view of the city. Thirsty, red people in polo shirts and shorts tie up at the dock and pop in for dinner and drinks. The Wharf feels a little like The Oar on Block Island RI, or for that matter every such place from San Diego to Portland, Maine. And I love that. We destroyed some steamed shrimp and onion rings then perched at the bar with Jeanie the bartender, daughter of one of the owners. The sun set over Brooklyn and Manhattan across the bay. Ruppert Holmes’s “Escape (The Piña Colada Song)” bubbled up from the beachy playlist, heavy on 1970s/80s mellowness. We felt like we had indeed escaped from New York, if only for a long afternoon. I’ll be back to The Wharf.

From there we biked over to Connolly’s, a Rockaways landmark recommended to me by Larry Kirwan of the Irish punk band Black 47. Connolly’s is a favorite of locals and visitors alike, and roared that Saturday night, packed like St. Patty’s Day. Smoking 20-somethings spilled out front and the whole thing reminded me of a college house party. I had enough of that scene 20 years ago, but I know a good place when I see it, and Connolly’s is one. Busy as it was, the bartender served us with a smile. A Guinness for me (go figure) and their signature frozen Piña Colada for Wifey, which she described as “Quite good — creamy, rich and coconutty.” I’d like to go back, maybe on a weekday happy hour or a Saturday afternoon in the fall, when it’s less frenzied.

From there we pedaled off to Whit’s End, a wacky little wood-fired pizza place a few blocks away. The yoga instructor we’d met earlier that day had told us about it. She’d dated the owner, Whitney, and though they were kaput, she couldn’t deny the joint’s excellence and Whitney’s kitchen skills. She was right. It was a madhouse, swirling with Saturday night post-beach energy. We copped two seats at the bar/pizza counter where we could see the oven. Place had that punky, rock’n’roll hipster feel to it, like a lot of new breed pizza joints, and they served up cold beer and fine pie. You just have to be in the mood for a scene like that, so we leaned into it, enjoyed the ride, then hopped on our bikes, heading to the A train and home.

By the time we got back we felt like we’d just returned from a beach weekend — sandy, sunkissed, and wrung out from travel. But also happy. It takes time and effort to get all the way out to Rockaway Beach, but don’t all vacations take effort? I can get edgy before a vacation, kind of wimpy when it comes to leaving the nest. The planning, the packing and the mad hustle before taking off can drive me a little batty, but it’s always worth it. Colleen reminds me of that. Travel, even in your own hometown, keeps you on your toes, enriches your life and expands your worldview. I’m glad we made the effort and finally visited Rockaway Beach.

We’ll do it again, definitely before summer’s over, and in the fall, too, when things cool off, quiet down, and every beach town slips into that sweet post-summer lull, the delicious interregnum between seasons. It’s the front porch of the year; not inside yet and not quite outside, but in between, and I’m looking forward to seeing how Rockaway Beach feels then. We still have a few places on our list to check out. Folks have a lot of love (and suggestions) for the Rockaways, and I’ll admit it does feel special out there. The Rockaways have bounced back from 2012’s Hurricane Sandy, which wiped them out, and I’m looking forward to future vacations there, at the far edge of Queens.