I’d lost my phone. To be more specific, I drank too much tequila, went to a party I didn’t like, drank more tequila, and, somewhere between an Uber and the front steps of my apartment, lost my new iPhone. The next morning, hung-over and depressed, I make my way to Jacob Riis beach with one of my first queer friends in New York, a bag of White Claws in hand, hoping it would somehow make everything better.
Riis is the city’s most democratically queer beach, named in 1914 after the muckraking journalist (then recently deceased) who campaigned (using language that admittedly can seem a bit questionable today) to improve the lives of the city’s immigrant communities. It’s not as easy to get to by subway as, say, Coney Island or even the beaches at the other end of the Rockaways. Instead, you need to take a bus or the ferry, or ride your bicycle, or splurge on a Lyft, or track down that one friend of yours whose partner has a car. The journey is made more tolerable by good company.
The vibe is like nightlife but with sunblock, or a block party with bodysurfing. Vendors sell weed and rum punch (“Ice cold! Ice cold!”), and before I can find a vacant spot to lie down, I notice several people I know from going out and hooking up: a boy I want to sleep with, a boy I almost slept with, and another boy I definitely slept with a few too many times. The last one is popping about from group to group in a tiny blue Speedo. Later, I remember his Grindr bio is “As seen on Riis Beach.”
On the towel beside us are three topless gorgeous Black women — a couple with their favorite third — surrounded by the remnants of their fun: empty bottles, burnt roaches, and a half-eaten burrito. When I ask why they come here, they all giggle before one of them tells me, “The gays.” They’re all New Yorkers and have been coming here since high school. It’s where they learned to be comfortable topless and where they brought their first-ever girlfriends to make out by the water. “Queers always exist at the margins,” one of them says wryly; the gay part of the beach technically lies at the eastern edge of Riis Park, in front of the ruins of a tuberculosis sanatorium.
Probably someone would say that every summer is the summer of Riis, but for those of us without the wherewithal to pay for a share on Fire Island, or much desire to consort with the kind of people who can, or who have been working from home (if we’re working at all) in a locked-down city, it’s been more of a lifeline than ever these past couple of years — probably busier, more diverse, and sexier than at any time in its history. It’s become the center of its own world. “It feels like a gem in the sense that I don’t particularly think the beach is the prettiest, but I think the people are,” says Abi Benitez, co-founder of Gayletter and a frequent visitor. “Every time I go, I bump into at least 20 to 30 people I know: close friends, former colleagues, and old flings that I try to avoid,” says Kile Atwater, an artist who lives in Brooklyn and is among the people we met when we took this portfolio one weekend this summer. They add, “At Jacob Riis, I feel an overwhelming sense of self-love for being Black, queer, and free.” And there aren’t enough places like that.
We can credit the seeds of this to, of all people, the racist Robert Moses, who in the first half of the 20th century brutally demolished what he saw as “slums” and isolated a lot of Black and brown neighborhoods with highways but also had a thing for swimming. In 1932, the city built Riis Park’s first bathing pavilion by the ocean, but as Robert Caro wrote in The Power Broker, the “beach at Jacob Riis Park in the Rockaways was used only sparsely, but there was reason: there was no way for a family without a car to reach it.” Moses later added a mile-long boardwalk and parking. A bridge came in 1937.
And who came traipsing across? The queers. According to the NYC LGBT Historic Sites Project, it soon became a cruising spot. By 1963, the New York Times was recognizing Riis as a place “the New York homosexual” could find friends of “his kind,” and a local guidebook was calling it “one of the best Gay Rivieras in the world … so crowded, nudes go unnoticed.” Before the Stonewall riots set off an explosion of queer organizing across the country, the Daughters of Bilitis, a lesbian-rights group, was hosting meetups at Riis. One flyer from 1968, with an illustration of two skinny swimsuit-clad women with bobbed hair, gives a directive for an upcoming ladies’ beach day: “La Femmes and others are to bring box lunches and all sorts of goodies [to auction off] … The highest bidder gets to share the lunch with the femme who brought it.” After Stonewall, Riis became a site of political participation where gay activists could hold voter-registration drives on the sand.
The thing about Riis is everybody is there to look cute, but the definition of cute is not strictly enforced. Surgery scars are as nonchalantly on display as tattoos. You’d be hard-pressed to find a bar in the city at which the diverse set of queer people of all body types and gender presentations would party together. It’s a horny place, but as Benitez puts it, “it’s more powerful than sexual.”
Over the years, there have been periodic police crackdowns on public sex and nudity. Friends who go often tell me the police presence had quieted down during quarantine, but I arrived to find several cops zigzagging furiously through the little islands of -people. At the back of the beach, there’s a tall chain-link fence where people go to pee with their backs to the water. Though I watch dozens of men use the fence, the officers suddenly hound a built Black guy in a black Speedo and fine him for urinating in public. Seemingly every group on the beach has brought along some booze, but the same officers target a blonde with a shaved head and a rattail, booty shorts that read STALIN, and a doe-eyed Chihuahua and force her to pour out her beers and take the dog off the beach. Feet away sit several more dogs. Before she heads back to Bushwick, the Chihuahua owner tells me she heard about a weed dealer getting arrested on the beach the day before. When an NYPD chopper flies over, a cop leans out and waves. Half the beach gives him the bird.
And then back to the party. Balding gay guys with matching potbellies eat guacamole under a circle of Life Is Good umbrellas; others throw back tall boys under a shady tent. There are dance parties playing Latin music and other dance parties playing back-to-back Cher and Gaga. On our towel, my friend and I light up a spliff. I giggle at older men who seem like they could be my dad, if he had lived a different life, and really laugh when I watch a boy we were ogling smoke his joint like he’s smoking a flute. I guffaw at a flag that is half–Pride flag, half–Old Glory and then, when I lean back, on this cloudy, rainless day, I see a damned rainbow in the sky. —Brock Colyar
Patrick “Plush” Arias, photographer, Hamilton Beach
Before I head over, I roll at least four spliffs, pack my pink Telfar, make myself a hearty breakfast, and text my friends to wake up so we can get a good spot on the beach. It’s the essential venue for everyone in NYC’s queer nightlife scene. It’s inspiring. If the dance floor and stage is the altar where we worship, Riis is our after-church picnic.
Serena Tea, drag artist, Bedford-Stuyvesant
I try to go at least three times a month. I make a bomb playlist and blast it on my speaker while I bike. There was one day when literally all of my friends were there. I remember lying back, just taking it all in, and I looked out into the water to see all my friends swinging their undies in a circle and screaming with laughter. It caught the attention of the whole beach, and I realized then that I have a pretty special group of queers in my life.
Kile Atwater, artist, Clinton Hill, and Jason Ford, actor, Washington Heights
J.F.: The great thing about Riis Beach is that it really is a place where people feel free and not just because it’s clothing optional. In fact, many people come and bring more clothes just to have different looks to walk in. The last days of the summer are always pretty magical. The sun hits you in the right way, the music is great, and no one has a care in the world.
Marwa Eltahir, writer, and Mikelina Belaineh, criminal-justice advocate, Bedford-Stuyvesant
M.B.: Things have been heavy lately, so I’m trying to be out every hot weekend. I feel like a fish out of water most of the time, so getting to the water is a priority.
Juaynita Mikele, Philadelphia
This summer was my first at Riis. I found myself out at the far point of the jetty, with my headphones in, letting the music take me.
Ralph Hopkins, retired chef, Clinton Hill
I am 73 years old, and people are so surprised when I tell them my age. I’ve always loved the beach, especially Riis. I’ve been coming here since the late ’60s. I saw it when it was nude in the ’70s. I threw beach parties with fashion shows in the ’90s. At that time, I think I was the only one to give a fashion show with DJs and food. That’s why I know so many people on the beach. They call me the Mayor of Riis Beach. I love the sun and the people. I go as much as I can — at least three times a week.
Stone Tsao, poet, Bedford-Stuyvesant
I have been going for 11 years — I started going before I even knew “trans” was possible — and I have been so many different selves here. A year before the pandemic, I started biking to Riis, and that experience has been life-changing. I would bike here and confront my feelings of insecurity and anxiety. Then when the pandemic hit, Riis became a sanctuary. I would bike here with my mask on at least two or three times a week just to stare at the ocean. By June, I would go early in the day, camp out, and float in the water.
Nichelle Cox, artist, Pelham Parkway
Since I live in the North Bronx, it’s hard to get out to Riis. But I have a ton of Brooklyn and Queens friends and got introduced over a decade ago to the vibe. Now I’m hooked. My brother put it perfectly: “Just folks in their bodies having a good-ass time.” The standouts for the day have been seeing an old boss and resisting the urge to cuss him out since he was with his child and I already paid for parking. I had only planned to be in the water ankle to knee at most, because I don’t swim and #blackhair, but the sea had other plans.
Jacob Michael Rutledge, Ridgewood
I try to hit the beach at least once a week from late June to the first weekend of September. My normal spot is near the rocky shore all the way down. Riis feels like an appropriate environment for Pride + BLM “blacktivities” with friends. Funny enough, I always see my agent every time I go.
Penda N’diaye, Bedford-Stuyvesant
I am Senegalese-American and take such pride in my dark skin. Riis is my spot to get some quality baking time in and get “Blue Black”! That’s when I feel most beautiful — when my melanin and the sun meet. I try to get to the beach once a week. I’m a biker and will do solo morning trips or camp out all day. I was with my close friends who also wanted some sort of liberation from bras and cat-calling. I’m pretty bold when it comes to nudity, but to share moments of freedom with friends who are learning to embrace their bodies is magical.
Luis Corrales, Bushwick
Patrick “Plush” Arias, photographer, Hamilton Beach
Before I head over, I roll at least four spliffs, pack my pink Telfar, make myself a hearty breakfast, and text my friends to wake up so we can get a good spot on the beach. It’s the essential venue for everyone in NYC’s queer nightlife scene. It’s inspiring. If the dance floor and stage is the altar where we worship, Riis is our after-church picnic.
Serena Tea, drag artist, Bedford-Stuyvesant
I try to go at least three times a month. I make a bomb playlist and blast it on my speaker while I bike. There was one day when literally all of my friends were there. I remember lying back, just taking it all in, and I looked out into the water to see all my friends swinging their undies in a circle and screaming with laughter. It caught the attention of the whole beach, and I realized then that I have a pretty special group of queers in my life.
Kile Atwater, artist, Clinton Hill, and Jason Ford, actor, Washington Heights
J.F.: The great thing about Riis Beach is that it really is a place where people feel free and not just because it’s clothing optional. In fact, many people come and bring more clothes just to have different looks to walk in. The last days of the summer are always pretty magical. The sun hits you in the right way, the music is great, and no one has a care in the world.
Marwa Eltahir, writer, and Mikelina Belaineh, criminal-justice advocate, Bedford-Stuyvesant
M.B.: Things have been heavy lately, so I’m trying to be out every hot weekend. I feel like a fish out of water most of the time, so getting to the water is a priority.
Juaynita Mikele, Philadelphia
This summer was my first at Riis. I found myself out at the far point of the jetty, with my headphones in, letting the music take me.
Ralph Hopkins, retired chef, Clinton Hill
I am 73 years old, and people are so surprised when I tell them my age. I’ve always loved the beach, especially Riis. I’ve been coming here since the late ’60s. I saw it when it was nude in the ’70s. I threw beach parties with fashion shows in the ’90s. At that time, I think I was the only one to give a fashion show with DJs and food. That’s why I know so many people on the beach. They call me the Mayor of Riis Beach. I love the sun and the people. I go as much as I can — at least three times a week.
Stone Tsao, poet, Bedford-Stuyvesant
I have been going for 11 years — I started going before I even knew “trans” was possible — and I have been so many different selves here. A year before the pandemic, I started biking to Riis, and that experience has been life-changing. I would bike here and confront my feelings of insecurity and anxiety. Then when the pandemic hit, Riis became a sanctuary. I would bike here with my mask on at least two or three times a week just to stare at the ocean. By June, I would go early in the day, camp out, and float in the water.
Nichelle Cox, artist, Pelham Parkway
Since I live in the North Bronx, it’s hard to get out to Riis. But I have a ton of Brooklyn and Queens friends and got introduced over a decade ago to the vibe. Now I’m hooked. My brother put it perfectly: “Just folks in their bodies having a good-ass time.” The standouts for the day have been seeing an old boss and resisting the urge to cuss him out since he was with his child and I already paid for parking. I had only planned to be in the water ankle to knee at most, because I don’t swim and #blackhair, but the sea had other plans.
Jacob Michael Rutledge, Ridgewood
I try to hit the beach at least once a week from late June to the first weekend of September. My normal spot is near the rocky shore all the way down. Riis feels like an appropriate environment for Pride + BLM “blacktivities” with friends. Funny enough, I always see my agent every time I go.
Penda N’diaye, Bedford-Stuyvesant
I am Senegalese-American and take such pride in my dark skin. Riis is my spot to get some quality baking time in and get “Blue Black”! That’s when I feel most beautiful — when my melanin and the sun meet. I try to get to the beach once a week. I’m a biker and will do solo morning trips or camp out all day. I was with my close friends who also wanted some sort of liberation from bras and cat-calling. I’m pretty bold when it comes to nudity, but to share moments of freedom with friends who are learning to embrace their bodies is magical.
Luis Corrales, Bushwick
Interviews by Andrew Nguyen
