One Day She Saw It From Above

When I was eighteen years old and had never had the experience of flying in an airplane, my boyfriend Richie arranged for us to go on a half-hour cruise above Long Island in a small private Cessna. If I remember correctly, the pilot was not yet fully certified and was trying to accumulate additional flight hours, so this frivolous little expedition was a good excuse for him to practice. We met him at the airport, gave him some money, and climbed on board.  I was quite nervous, but for some reason it seemed essential that I finally take wing, and Richie was proud of having facilitated things.

We sped along the runway and were suddenly airborne. We stayed low and local, cruising above the Great South Bay, the sandy strip of Fire Island, the white fringe of surf with endless sea beyond, then veering back towards the land, dark green with trees...so green.

It was the 1960s, a time of astonishing growth and development in the suburbs of metropolitan New York, but from the air Long Island still seemed rustic. Its tiny highways curved like silver ribbons through large wooded areas, and the new housing developments appeared as islands of orderly objects set among the arboreal expanses.I had been aware of the Connetquot River, of course, but now I saw how it meandered from the north, flowing leisurely into Nicoll Bay. And I recognized my neighborhood, sometimes known as North Great River.

We circled twice above my family’s house on Connetquot Avenue. I could see it in perfect dollhouse detail, the peak of its roof, the two tall pine trees at the front entrance, the oak that stood outside my bedroom window, the long concrete walkway I knew was bordered by hydrangea bushes and a mountain laurel shrub with flowers like pink and white parasols. I wondered if anyone was at home and if they heard the airplane buzzing above them, never suspecting that I was in it looking upon them like a god. It was odd how everything became a storybook with distance, hard to believe all the drama and sadness that went on in that charming little house. I noticed from my vantage point in the sky that the house sat on the property at a funny angle to the street.

“It’s askew,” I thought, as though that explained something.

There is nothing for me to visit there but graves now. Even the house is gone, burned to the ground years ago, even the oak tree outside my bedroom window beneath which I once sat and daydreamed. 

But when I was eighteen and flying in that little Cessna, I owned the Island in a way I never had. I understood it, saw how its parts all fit together, saw how small it was. I saw, too, that it was gorgeous...oh, it was a truly beautiful place.

But I knew that I would leave. I can't explain it, but I definitely knew.