As the last warmth of summer fades, Riis Beach—a hidden queer oasis behind a decaying hospital—faces a new reality.
This is 99% invisible.
I'm Swan real.
Every year around this time in New York City, when the weather starts getting colder and the world starts to slow down a bit, I think about the summer that slipped away and I always have the same thought.
God, I wish I had gone to the beach more.
And not just any beach, but this one beach in particular.
The People's beach at Jacob Riis park, also known simply as Reese.
My first time at Reeves was July 4, 2017.
This is artist, producer and dear friend Jasmine J.T.
green.
I was seven months into living in Brooklyn after a move from Chicago.
The ocean was never part of my landlocked life in the Midwest.
But after a crew of new friends invited me to a group chat titled beach with two Sun Emojis, I knew that my Lake Michigan kissed toes would soon touch the Atlantic.
When I first got to Reeves, it first appeared to be a larger version of my Midwestern beach.
Past a cute bazaar of food, sunburnt shoulders, and that summer's generic Drake song playing from many a speaker.
But as I wondered where the six of us would land for our afternoon of escapism, everyone except myself seemed to already know where to head.
We were walking to the eastern edge of the beach, 20 minutes from the parking lot, past a playground and food carts and public bathrooms.
Eventually, we landed on a patch of sand that was partially shaded by an abandoned building separate from the beach by a metal fence.
For decades, this large graffiti covered structure loomed behind the sliver of Reeves Beach.
It formed a kind of U shape facing the shore.
This abandoned building was called the Neponset Beach Hospital.